A Study In Apprehension

Turning into the laneway
My six year old mind
Is once again filled with anxiety.
What shall I learn today?
More to the point
What will I not understand?.
Almost there now,
Past the red bricks
And the four stone slit windows
Then sharp turn left
I'm on the final leg of my journey.

To my left
The red brick building
Beckons to its charges,
The solitary cross on its rooftop
Portraying a false sense of holiness.
No going back now,
Mother's tight handgrip
Preventing all chance of escape.
Greying snow crunches
Beneath my sensible school shoes.


© Ann Brien 2009





The above sentences describe my anxiety which I felt each morning as I headed off to school with my mother. I have a vivid memory of walking past the red brick secondary school then turning left into the final laneway which took me to the side gate of my school. Always hoping for any excuse not to go, Winter-time usually granted my wish in the form of burst water pipes caused by the severe frost we encountered back then. I can still see and hear the semi-frozen snow crunching beneath my strong shoes.

The top image, taken by me last Summer, shows the first laneway before turning onto the next which I'm delighted to report hasn't changed at all over the years. Everything is exactly as it was.

The second image, taken by me two years ago, shows the final laneway to the school. Again, the only changes here are where the road has been re-surfaced and to the left, the area where once stood a small row of cottages now houses an exercise area.

Thought I'd share these memories with you.

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My Dad - A Soldier To The End

Recently I've been thinking a lot about my Dad who passed away just over nine years ago. Although he wasn't my natural father he was my adoptive Dad and I loved him very much. The one thing that makes me sad is that he didn't live to see his grandchildren graduate from college and grow into adulthood, I know he would have loved to have had real man-to-man conversations with them and would have been so proud of them too. I feel sad for them also that they no longer have elderly family members except for one paternal grand aunt who has now reached the great age of ninty three. (Above image: Dad on my wedding day).

I remember when I was about ten or twelve Dad telling me he'd been a soldier in the Irish Army and that he rode a horse and carried a rifle! To me that was amazing and I probably bored the socks off everyone telling them about my brave Dad and his military adventures. He even had the nickname of "Gunner". Of course he never fought in a war but knowing me I most likely invented some gruesome stories about his bloody battle days! (Above image: Dad in uniform, 1930's?).

The early life of this brave soldier was tinged with so many sad events. A few years following his death I wrote: "My adoptive father also had more than his fair share of sadness to contend with. As a baby he lost his parents and sister to illness and a tragic accident and as a result he and his siblings were raised by his grandmother. Not a great start to life.

I gather times weren't too bad during his adolescence and early adulthood although he did leave school at ten years of age. His marriage, which should have brought him the long-awaited happiness he deserved, ended in tragedy. His wife died thirty six weeks into her pregnancy from a "retroperitoneal haemorrhage" according to the death certificate. Of course, the baby died along with her.

Two years later he married my adoptive mother who sadly was not able to give him any children either. So, given all the sad and traumatic events in his life, it sure doesn't take a degree in psychology to figure out where his hurt was coming from. Still, for the most part, he was a good father to me and a loving husband to my mother...."

"....one of my happiest memories as a child was when my father, on our way home from Mass on Sunday, would buy me the Beano and Dandy comics and read them to me before dinner. It's those kind of moments that I hold dear and despite everything they were the best parents I could ever have hoped for. In some ways, they were as innocent as children themselves".

After my adoptive mother died Dad's own health slowly went downhill. Although he had a heart condition for years it was his wheezy chest that was always his problem. Still, that didn't stop him attending all of the activities that were arranged for the senior citizens in his area and even going on holidays around the country with them. He lived life to the full and was loved by one and all. At just over eighty years of age he got his first passport and flew to Lourdes telling everyone that the flight was just like a car journey!

I'm so happy that he lived into the twenty first century even if it was for only six months. His death was a total shock as he'd gone into hospital for a bronchoscopy and was expected to be discharged within a few days. Unfortunately, following the test he had some bleeding which at first didn't seem too serious. He continued going about his business as usual, watching tele and playing cards with his fellow patients in the day room. Exactly one week following the test just as he had returned from a card game in the day room and was getting ready for bed he had a massive haemorrhage which took his life within minutes. At the hospital that night I was told by the nurse that he whispered my name as he was dying. I was also told he didn't suffer and that makes me extremely thankful to God.

These days when I remember all the wonderful times we shared I consider myself so privileged to have known this man and even happier that he was my Dad. May he Rest In Eternal Peace.

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Michael Jackson - One More Soul To Grieve For

I clearly remember what I was doing when the news came through of Elvis Presley's death - I was in bed listening to Radio Luxembourg. The shock and disbelief I felt that night in August 1977 was comparable to that which I experienced last Thursday when Sky News announced the death of Michael Jackson. I ask the question: What is it that arouses in us a grieving process similar to what we would feel at the death of a close friend?

After all, we do not personally know these people. We feel we know them through their music, films, reality shows etc but for most of us we've never actually met them let alone had a close physical or social relationship with them. Yet when they are taken from us, especially before their time, e.g. short illness or tragic accident, we are devastated by their passing. Perhaps mass hysteria plays a small role but I suspect it is something that goes much deeper than hysterics, something other than not being able to see or hear them again.

What was it that drew us to them in the first place? I can only speak for myself. In the case of Elvis it was definitely his music and good looks certainly in the early years because in the fifties and sixties I was too young to have any interest or indeed understanding of his personal problems. It wasn't until the early seventies when I became aware of his drink and drug habits and how he sought solice in food that I began to see that here was a real person with real sadness in his life. While I continued to love his music it was his emotional pain that reached out to me. It made his dying all the more sad in that nobody was able to save him from himself.

I was in my kitchen ironing when my son alerted me to the Breaking News on Sky that Princess Diana had tragically died in a car crash in Paris. The month was again August but this time twenty years on. Again it was not just her great beauty or the fact that both her sons were each born a year earlier than my own two boys that made me feel close to her, no in her case it was her intense lack of self confidence, the images of her looking so alone, her battle with bulimia that made me wish I could be her friend. Her death was so shocking there are still times when I find it difficult to believe she is no longer with us.

While Jade Goody's death was not exactly sudden, we had known for about two months beforehand that her fight for life would soon be lost it was nonetheless also shocking. At just twenty seven years of age and a mother of two young children she had everything to live for. (I have written my tributes to Jade in two posts, one of them prior to her death, Jade Goody - A Shining Star Whose Light Is Slowly Fading and Jade, The Brightest Star In The Sky).

For me it was not what Jade achieved in life that attracted me to her although I was delighted at her success, it was her dreadful childhood circumstances and everything that went with it that made me feel connected to her. Out of all that suffering grew a strong, independent young woman who lived life to the full and had so much love to give to those around her. Her untimely death is still very difficult to accept and painful when I do acknowledge it.

Now the world has had to endure yet another painful loss, that of the great singer/song writer and dance artist, Michael Jackson. Over the decades Michael has consistently entertained us with his unique songs and later his music videos. I was never what you would call one of his die-hard fans but I do love his songs especially the ballads but also the strong beat one like "Beat It". His "Earth Song" really tears at the heart strings.

Like so many people I always felt that Michael had a kind nature always giving of himself to those in need. So when the dreadful allegations of child sexual abuse started coming out I felt deep in my heart that he was totally innocent and would be cleared of the charges against him. Watching him having to endure that five month trial was heartbreaking. A man who sought only to bring joy into the lives of these poor children to be accused of such crimes must have felt that he had been dealt life's cruelest blow. How could you ever recover from that? It is my belief that that whole episode was the beginning of his downfall.

So what is it then that endears these people to us? Their ability to entertain us certainly plays its part but it's when their souls are laid bare before us and we witness their suffering that we really begin to connect. It's an inborn thing I guess, our need to comfort our fellow human beings in their time of need. We open our hearts to them and in doing so become so drawn into their lives to the extent that we need to know their every move, how they're coping etc. These days, twenty four hour news channels satisfy that hunger.

I once heard it referred to as "grieving by proxy" but call it what you may, it is a very real experience for some people and can be every bit as traumatic as losing a close friend. After all, isn't there a universal bond that ties each and every one of us? Perhaps there lies our answer.

May Michael rest in eternal peace and God give strength to his family and friends at this very difficult time.

Michael Jackson image: www.contactmusic.com
Elvis Presley image: www.photobucket.com
Princess Diana image: www.telegraph.co.uk
Jade Goody image: blogs.conventrytelegraph.net

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Adventure At Sea Inspired By Enid Blyton!

(Left image taken by me in 1968 shows the white structure in the centre which was earlier the concrete foundation slabs that our boat rowed over).

Summer in Ringsend, Dublin during the late 1950's and early 60's was pure magic. For me it was something to do with the sounds of summer. Living so close to the sea, my most cherished memory of summer was listening to the dredger cleaning the bottom of the river on a warm sunny day, that sound always signified summer holidays! The other sound was of course the cry of the gulls. These magic moments I've written about in a previous post called A Touch Of Nostalgia. It was during those childhood years that my imagination was probably at its wildest.

(Left image taken by me in 2001 shows Ringsend Library).

I was about twelve years old when I joined the local library. Books like the Richmal Crompton "Just William" series and other suchlike stories where the central character could always be trusted to get into some sort of mischief by the end of the day were my favourites. Later I began reading the good old spy stories set in the then Cold War era not to mention the wonderful crime novels in which the Chief Inspector nearly always had marriage problems which he dealt with by consuming vast amounts of bourbon and smoking cheap cigars while at the same time managing to solve the many varied mysteries his daily work presented him with. Heavy stuff for a young teenager but it all went over my head.

It wasn't until I began reading Enid Blyton's "The Famous Five" series that my imagination really took flight. For those not familiar with the stories each book, twenty one in all, told of the adventures of four children and their dog. The children were two brothers, Julian and Dick, their sister, Anne and Georgina, their cousin, or George as she preferred to be called along with George's dog, Timothy. To make a long story short every adventure the children had involved them at some point heading off in George's rowing boat to either Kirrin Island (George's island!) or some castle in search of horrid gansters who they (the children) would round up with the help of Timothy and hand over to the local police for locking up. Each story always had its happy ending.

(Image, Enid Blyton sourced at Wiki).

A few years later with my imagination still fuelled by these fantastic escapades I decided one summer evening to have my own exciting experience. As my friends consisted of two sisters, their brother and their dog we seemed the perfect combination for our own Famous Five team.

Less than a five minute walk from my house and literally just across the road from my friends' house was the slip-way where small boats including rowing boats would rest against the sea wall until their next venture out onto the ocean waves. On this particular evening a young neighbour of my friends whose family was very much involved with the sea happened to be in the vicinity and the fact that one of the rowing boats was conveniently lying by plus he was an excellent rower was enough to make me persuade him to take us out for an evening cruise. Bearing in mind that this young chap was only about fourteen or fifteen at the time and I was the eldest at sixteen made this venture an extremely dangerous one. In the end only one of the sisters and her brother, plus a couple of very young children, the boy who owned the boat and myself set sail. The dog had more sense and remained on the slip-way.

The boat owner and myself took the oars and with a little coaching from him I managed to row without spinning the boat around or horror of horrors, dropping the oar into the water. After a while we were really on our way out to sea and I was beginning to pretend that we were heading into our own Famous Five adventure. By now the clouds had begun to darken and brave as I had been earlier I was now quite scared as were the younger kiddies. We decided to turn back. While on our return journey we noticed waves bubbling around the boat and wondered where they could have come from. Just then I looked up and saw in the distance a giant passenger ship heading straight for us! Definitely one of those times when your life flashes before your eyes.

(Right image taken by me in May 1969 shows to the left, after the bus-stop, the slip-way. You can just about see one of the rowing boats).

With shouts from the boat owner of "Row, row", I worked the oar with all the strength my little arms could muster. In our state of terror we'd completely forgotton about the enormous concrete foundation slabs barely visible beneath the water (these were the beginnings of what would later become the massive re-development of our Docklands) so the scraping sound of the boat's bottom (sorry I don't know the terminology) against those stone monsters sent us into hysterics.

As we approached land we could see that the tide was going out and that we would have to walk the short distance across to the slip-way. We didn't really care as we were so relieved we'd made it in one piece. I was able to walk across carrying the smallest child on my back with the boat owner having to make several return trips for each of the other passengers! If we thought that was bad worse was still to come as our parents stood anxiously waiting for our return. I got into the most trouble simply because I was the eldest and was repeatedly told I should have had more sense. The fact that only two of the people in the boat could swim didn't seem to deter us in the least.

I should at this stage point out that I do not ever recommend anyone, children or adults alike, to go out into the water without proper safety measures in place.

Oh! well, looking back it was one of the greatest adventures I ever undertook but also one of the most dangerous, well maybe not. There was the time I convinced my friends to accompany me on an underground journey through sewer tunnels that possibly led out under the sea. Lighted candles were used! Maybe for the next post!

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Ireland's Shame - Someone Should Have Spoken Out

As an Irish citizen and Roman Catholic I feel compelled to voice my overwhelming anger at the horrific atrocities carried out in our Industrial and Reformatory Schools across Ireland over a period of nearly sixty years. The perpetrators of these evil acts of mental and physical torture were not WW2 concentration camp guards but men and women of God, namely priests, nuns and Christian Brothers. Those were the people supposedly responsible for the welfare of these vulnerable children some of whom were placed in the institutions simply because a parent had died. What God in Heaven could have allowed this to happen? I never thought I'd hear myself ask that question.

The very houses set up in the mid-nineteenth century as places of refuge were to become akin to prisoner of war camps, their staff inflicting such appalling abuse to their young charges that words fail to describe. Punishments is not the term I'd use in this case as the children did no wrong but the acts of violence include; rape, horrific beatings, starvation, not allowed a drink of water from mid-day onwards so forced to drink from toilets, humiliation. The list is endless and far too harrowing to describe in detail.

Although the physical scars may have long since healed the horrendous emotional abuse these unfortunate children suffered at the hands of those bastards will surely have left them with scars no amount of counselling may ever heal. For them, the recent so-called heartfelt apologies by the representatives of both the clergy and state must have served to drive the dagger even deeper into their wounds. Words are cheap. Justice is what these people need in the form of acknowledgement of and apology for the wrong doings directly, where possible, by those personally responsible followed up by appropriate financial assistance from the religious orders concerned. The men and women who carried out these atrocious acts should be named, shamed and brought to justice regardless of their seniority.

What also disturbs me is the fact that our State has no plans to clear the "criminal" records of those youngsters sent to Reformatory Schools whose only crime was petty theft. What kind of mentality could continue to impose such cruelty on these unfortunate individuals? Has their suffering not served many times over as their sentences?

I feel I should point out that there were also acts of kindness by members of staff towards the children. One woman recalls being given a sweet once a week by a nurse. These kind souls it appears were also terrified of their evil colleagues as the gestures were made in secret.

My heartfelt admiration goes to Christine Buckley and all the other victims of abuse who have so courageously brought this litany of evil into the public domain where it is now in a five-volume Report, evidence that their stories are real, they were not imagined as some people cruelly insinuated.

For all those who suffered in the dark I pray their stories will light the way towards a brighter and safer world for our children and those yet to be born.

Should you wish to read the Report it can be viewed here The Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse

Above image sourced at http://www.childabusecommission.com

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Connemara Revisited!

Our arrival (hubby and I) a little over a week ago in Spiddal, Connemara, County Galway was greeted by warm sunshine along with a gentle breeze blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed summer had finally arrived on Ireland's West Coast.

(Above: View over Spiddal Quay, Connemara, County Galway)

Not too much has changed in Spiddal since our first visit exactly thirty seven years ago when we, along with a group of friends (most of whom we still meet up with fairly regularly for a few scoops) arrived in Spiddal in the lashings of rain looking for a suitable field to pitch our tents. Oh! those were the days when slogging it was the only way we knew for none of us even had the price of B&B accommodation let alone possessed a car!

(Above: Sunrise over Spiddal Quay, Connemara, County Galway)

Another area we visited was Carraroe. In 1972 we spent a wonderful week there with friends this time in more upwardly mobile accommodation, a caravan!

(Above: Coral Beach, Carraroe, Connemara, County Galway)

(Above: Rugged Landscape, Carna, Connemara, County Galway)

Of all the locations we visited the one place I was really eager to see again was Clifden, Connemara's largest town. Again, back in 1972, we spent a week there long before the developers were given the go-ahead by greedy politicians to build structures not in keeping with the surrounding landscape.

Walking down Clifden's main street brought back the memories of all those years ago but something was not quite the same. It didn't take too long to realise that what was ruining the street was the car parking on both sides. Every inch of road space was packed with high-sided SUVS and vans making it impossible to enjoy what is left of a one-time beautiful, easy-going thoroughfare.
[Above: Main Street, Clifden, Connemara (www.travelireland.org)]

Times change and populations increase but that's no reason to forfeit the beauty of an area when all that is needed is some good common sense planning. I was heartbroken to discover that the holiday chalets (where we spent that wonderful week in 1972) with the remains of the old railway station building in the background have all been replaced by a shopping complex and apartments. If I had been in charge of planning my main requirement would have been that all those buildings be just two storey in height with similiar brickwork. I'm amazed the Galway County Council didn't insist on it but then I'm no expert on such things.

(Above: Holiday Chalets/Railway Station Building in background, Clifden 1972)

(Above: Beach Road towards Clifden, August 1972)


(Above: Another view from Beach Road towards Clifden, August 1972)

Overall, development disasters apart, we had a most enjoyable holiday in one of Ireland's most scenic locations and to add to the joy we were blessed with five continuous days of glorious sunshine, almost unheard of in these parts. Hopefully we won't wait another thirty seven years to return.

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"Atishoo, Atishoo We All......."

In recent days I've been remembering my adoptive father telling me about the 1918 Spanish Flu to which, as an infant, he lost his mother then one week later his sister.

His grandmother, who later reared him following the death of his father in an accident in Wales, told him that his sister was actually the first in the family to contract the virus. As her mother would have been her sole carer it's not surprising that she too would eventually succumb to the infection given that hygiene conditions back then would not have been at their best. What I find amazing is that none of the other family members were infected.

As a youngster it was quite frightening listening to Dad talk about what sounded like a deathly plague from the Middle Ages so last week when I first heard the news reports of a possible flu pandemic it immediately sent a familiar shiver down my spine.

My feeling is I don't think we have to panic just yet, if at all, because this time around we not only have the treatments but thanks to modern technology and twenty four hour TV channels we now have up-to-the-minute information on how the virus is being transmitted, whether those affected are coming from Mexico or person-to-person plus simple hygiene precautions to prevent its spread.

The 1918 flu pandemic claimed up to fifty million lives, I hope and pray that those statistics remain well and truly confined to the history books.

I thought this link might be of help to anyone wishing to read up on Swine Flu: NHS Swine Flu Q&A

*The above image, sourced from Wikimedia, shows American Red Cross nurses tending to 1918 flu patients in temporary wards set up inside Oakland Municipal Auditorium.

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