Craic-ing tales from great characters

I HAVE been spending a lot of time around older people this past while and I’m never disappointed with their company, their humour nor their ability to embrace the modern times that are in it. I was down at the Shamrock Lunch Club in St Columbkille’s before Christmas and the craic was great. A grand lunch of homemade soup, sandwiches and all the cakes and pastries you could eat, some good music, dancing, and best of all, storytelling.

My backside was barely on a seat when a woman regaled me with a story about driving down to St Francis in the Gorbals for Mass and Confession. When she drove she wore the oldest, shabbiest pair of shoes she possessed—basically because her feet were sore and the old shoes were comfortable. But she forgot to change into her good shoes before going into the chapel, and so she found herself, not inside the confessional box like she normally would, but face to face with the priest, and her with the aul driving shoes still on her feet. She was mortified.

He heard her Confession, gave her a penance and proceeded to ask: “Tell me this, do you have a family?’

“I do,” she said. “I have eight children Father.”

“Well,’ he said. “You may go home now and tell them that I said they must club together and buy you a decent pair of shoes.”

The whole table was in stitches, but more than that they were desperate to know who the culprit priest was that had the cheek to say such a thing.

Another lady told us about her aunt who went to Confession. She went into the box, rattled off her sins and promptly left, only to meet the priest coming down the aisle towards her.

He said: “You do realise I wasn’t in the confessional? You must go back in now and confess your sins.’

“No Father, it’s fine. The man upstairs has heard it all, so I’ve no need to be repeating myself all over again to you.” She promptly left.

Didn’t she do well to get away... and without a penance too.

I once heard the story of a man who took his pet lamb into the confessional. He’d had it lying in under the range in the kitchen to keep it incubated. He feared it would die and was too scared to leave it for any length of time so he did what he thought was right and took it along with him. As he finished his prayers the lamb let out a bleat.

“What was that?” the priest asked.

“The lamb of God.” the man replied. “Who takes away my sins and the sins of the world.”

Even the priest let out a roar of laugher!

An eye-opening meeting

On the topic of sheep, I have another funny story. When I lived in Donegal I worked on a project for Inishowen Community Radio where I went around collecting stories and memories from many of the older generation within the community, recording them on a little dictaphone. It was a joy I tell you, but also an eye opener.

I entered the home of an old bachelor who lived alone with just a few sheep—who he named by the way—for company grazing (above) outside his cottage. He often allowed them to wander into the house and I was told by a reliable source that he was once seen dancing with ‘Dolly’ the sheep. True story.

He was a real character who lived in the house he grew up in in a place they call the Far Glen overlooking Kinnego Bay. His home was typical of many old Irish homes, when you opened the door you were right in the heart of the kitchen, with a range, a mantle, a press, a table and a couple of chairs. What I noticed immediately was the slope in the stone floor. You could see it clearly and feel it too. Even when I sat down I felt as though I was tipping to the side. He clocked me looking and was quick to inform me.

“The house was built that way to make it easier for cleaning. Lots of Irish kitchens were designed deliberately this way in case an animal had to be slaughtered in the kitchen, it meant the blood would run towards the door, then after the floor was scrubbed the water naturally drained away.”

My own blood ran cold but I couldn’t help but agree with how clever this was. What I didn’t see coming was him casually chucking out the remainder of his tea across the floor like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The same boy had newspapers laid out on his kitchen table like a makeshift table cloth and he’d simply scrunch them up at the end of the day and throw them in the fire. Had I not seen him doing this with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.

He sat in an old armchair that’d seen better days, his dog by his side and his right foot immersed in a basin of salted water bathing a sore toe. When he took his foot out of the basin the dog licked it like it was a delicious piece of bone marrow. He said there was a cure in the dog’s tongue. Well, you can imagine my face, but I didn’t question whether or not there was any evidence attached to this so I had no choice but to take him at his word. I put it down to another old Irish wives tale. God knows they have some odd ones.

Love thy neighbour?

I visited a local woman who told me her life story. She’d given birth to 12 weans in all—two died at birth. Incidentally, when she had just three children she was told by the parish priest that she should be having more. Her face seemed ploughed in prayer with years of angst and worry. They had very little money when they were rearing their family and her husband relied on the few punts he got from the dole. In the 1950s the social welfare system in rural areas was ineffective and notoriously difficult to obtain, as it was based on an outdated ‘rateable valuation’ system. There were even seasonal restrictions in place and some men were disqualified from receiving unemployment assistance from June to October, based on the assumption that agricultural work was available.

They kept a few sheep and a couple of cows. One day they got a visit from the local dole officer who had heard through the grapevine that they had sold one of the cows, which was true, they had. The dole man said they obviously had enough money to feed their family so his dole money was cut. The harsh thing was they knew this man. He was a neighbour. I could see the weight of it still affected her deeply even after all those years. So much for love thy neighbour eh?

Picture this

This final wee tale is a more upbeat one. Hubby had an interest in repairing old photographs and returning them to their original state. So people would bring him photos that were damaged, torn and faded and he was able to delete tear lines or enhance the darkness of them using his PC.

One day a lady came to him with a picture of her, her parents and siblings. It was one of those pictures taken typically at the front door of their home when one of the family was emigrating to another country for work. The photo didn’t appear damaged in any way, so when hubby asked what she wanted him to do she said: “Oh I just want you to lift daddy’s head up, because he’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at the ground.”

It took a some amount of self-control for both of us not to collapse into a fit of laughter right there in front of her. He was good at what he did and could fix many things, but this one would require a miracle altogether! We still talk about the incident to this day and it still gives us a right good laugh!

L J Sexton, mum of four, returned to university to pursue her passion for the written word. She achieved her Honours Degree in English Literature and Creative Writing and hasn't stopped writing since. Lyn is born of Irish parents and lived in Donegal for eight years. She is also the press officer for Irish Minstrels CCÉ music group based in St Roch’s Secondary School

PIC: BEN TODELA