My mother died
eleven years ago. Her few possessions,
amassed over a lifetime which stretched over 89 years, were shared out amongst
her four sons. It fell to me, for no
other reason than the fact that I lived nearest the old family home, to collect
up in boxes and bags the lifetime ephemera which, like all of us, she had
accumulated in drawers, boxes or wherever such keepsakes are put aside. And put aside they are. I know, for I indulge in the same habit,
putting aside pieces of paper, press cuttings, sometimes letters and bits and
pieces, deemed at the time to be important or useful, but whose importance or
usefulness seldom seem to be justified.
Which is why
eleven years ago I emptied the presses and drawers of those things which my
mother had put aside, because they were important or deemed of some special
value or meaning in her lifetime. I
promised myself to go through them as soon as possible but it was only last
Saturday that I got around to the job.
It was a sad task because amongst those bags and boxes were the only
visible reminder of her journey through a life of almost nine decades.
Her original birth
certificate showing the name of Catherine O’Regan of Ballykilleen was one of
the first items I found. It’s contents
were a surprise because throughout her life she used the name Kathleen and sure
enough her Marriage Certificate shows her name as Kathleen O’Regan. When and why the metamorphosis from Catherine
to Kathleen I wonder? Her parents were
named on the Birth Certificate as Ann O’Regan, formerly Conneely and Anthony
O’Regan, the latter marked with an X rather than a signature. I looked at my father’s Birth Certificate and
find his father described, as was Anthony O’Regan, as a farmer and also showing
a mark instead of a signature. The
obvious conclusion is that neither could write yet amongst my mother’s papers
is an obviously much treasured letter written to her by her father in the
1950’s. I wonder was the Registrar of
one hundred years ago simply taking the easy way out when the father of the
child did not attend on the registration of the birth.
The wedding of my
parents on 8th September 1932 is duly recorded in a Marriage
Certificate which came with the date of issue marked over a one penny stamp as
10th October 1932. The
thirty-two year old civic guard and the twenty-six year old spinster were
embarking together on a life’s journey which would see them end up in
Athy. Keeping receipts seems to have
been a lifetime habit for people born in hard times. I remember well the receipt holder where
every receipt was pushed onto a wire before the holder was carefully put back
on its shelf. It had disappeared in
latter years, perhaps an indication of the ease with which an older generation
had come to grips with the fast moving economy of the seventies and
eighties. However, amongst the few
receipts I did find was one which issued from G.W. Monson, furniture
manufacturers of Market Street, Sligo on 13th April 1933. Guard Taaffe of George Street had purchased a
three piece suite, one oak sideboard, one bedroom suite, four chairs, one oak
pullout table and a mirror which, after discount, came to £44, £20 of which was
paid, the rest presumably followed in instalments. Those pieces of furniture were with my parents
throughout their married life and were in the Offaly Street home when my mother
died.
The difficult time
which faced everybody but the well off up to the 1960’s, is for me typified by
a transaction which I can remember my father entering into sometime in the mid
1950’s. He was buying an electric razor
and to do so he entered into a hire purchase agreement to pay for it over a
number of months. Even the smallest
electrical item was beyond the purchasing power of a man who had what could
only be described as a very responsible job.
He was a local Garda Sergeant, what his pay was I don’t know but it must
have been particularly small given that he neither smoked nor drank and yet
could not afford to purchase even the smallest electrical item without the
benefit of hire purchase. It was
probably an indication of the impoverished state of the Irish economy at the
time which is now difficult to grasp and understand in this day of economic
overdrive.
Certainly
financial frugality was the order of the day and County Council scholarships to
help with school fees were eagerly sought.
Candidates for the few scholarships available had to undergo a written
competitive examination and the successful candidates could in 1949 get a
scholarship of £30, presumably to cover secondary education for the following
five years. My parents kept letters
relating to the various Taaffe boys successful foray in scholarship
examinations and as you can probably guess my name does not figure amongst
them. I was a failure in that regard and
so a financial burden on my parents as I went through secondary school. However, viewed in the light of today’s
values, it was a relatively easy burden made particularly so by the kindness
and generosity of the Christian Brothers.
I see receipts from the Christian Brothers for term fees of £5, not a
huge figure but I suppose an additional charge, and if I had got a scholarship
quite an unnecessary one, on a weekly wage which allowed for no luxuries.
It was probably
the improvidence associated with the Garda pay which prompted my father to seek
out for his sons jobs which would offer better financial rewards than he had
ever obtained. I can still remember the
reverence with which my father spoke of job opportunities in what were once
regarded as the “trinity” of job creation in Ireland in the 1950’s - the
E.S.B., Bord na Bona and C.I.E. To that
list was later added County Councils, while the status symbols of a job with
the banks or with Guinness’s were never to be dreamed of in those days by Catholic
youngsters of lowly backgrounds such as ourselves. My parents kept letters of job offers from
Bord na Mona, the County Councils and surprisingly a letter from the local
Labour T.D., Bill Norton responding to my father’s request to have one of his
son’s applications for a job with the E.S.B. looked upon favourably. He did not get the job but the letter
probably confirms my father’s political allegiances and raises the issue of the
deep rooted system of jobbery in this country of ours which would prompt an
intelligent man such as my father, in desperation or otherwise, to seek a
politicians help to get his son a job in a semi-state organisation.
One cannot go
through life unscathed, especially if your work requires you to bring other
people into situations they don’t desire and so amongst my mother’s papers I
found two very interesting documents.
One was an unsigned typed letter of complaint to the Chief
Superintendent of the Gardai about Sergeant Taaffe “lately arrived from Castlecomer” (he arrived in Athy in 1945) who
was “paying too much attention to the
local public houses”. The other was
a newspaper report of a criminal case in which he was the principal prosecuting
witness and where the defendant eventually got off. Reading the yellowing newspaper of over fifty
years ago I could not but feel a slight jolt of familiarity, now that I am on
the other side of the trial process, as I read the defence counsel’s searching
questions which he put to my father.
Figuring large
amongst the reminders of the years past were the memoriam cards of family,
friends and acquaintances of my parents.
The little photographs reproduced on these cards brought back to me once
familiar faces which were part of the fast fading background of my young
days. Ernest Herterich who died
thirty-nine years ago, Julia Meehan who died a year later and Bill Cash who
died, aged fifty-six years in 1970. Joe
Murphy who died in 1968 and his wife Kitty who passed away nineteen years
later, just three years after another neighbour, Tom Moore, had gone to his
maker. A face I cannot remember but a
name well known to me was that of Brigid Blanchfield who died aged fifty-five
years in 1969. Their memoriam cards
stacked up as death reaped its harvest amongst young and old alike. Neighbour Leopold Kelly, ordained in 1965
died two years later, his father James died in 1977 and his mother Marie died
in 1983. Other neighbours whose cards
were found amongst my mother’s papers were Michael Tuohy who died in 1972 and
Bob Webster who died eleven years later.
The once familiar faces included Kathleen Clare who died aged
fifty-eight in 1975 and Tom Meany who died a relatively young sixty-four years
in 1973, but not as young as Dominic Ward who was just twenty-three years old
when he died in the summer of 1961.
They were just
some of the many memoriam cards which my mother put away so carefully over the
years. They provided for her a gallery
of memories of neighbours and other locals who once were part of her life and
part of the life of the town of Athy.
I completed the
task of examining the accumulations of my mother’s long life by gathering
together some treasured reminders of her life and put them aside to be added to
my own collection of favourite things.
It will in time fall to another generation of my family to undertake a
similar task and in doing so someone will come across mementos of grandparents
whose life together started in County Mayo and ended after many side trips at
the Ford of Ae in the Barrow valley.
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