The Worst Year of the Conflict

In terms of people killed during the north of Ireland conflict, 1972 was the worst year for fatalities. There were 497 people killed over half of which were what is termed as civilians, people who were not part of the security forces or proscribed armed groups.

I was 18 years old for the most of 1972 and one of those people, as yet, living in an area relatively untouched by the troubles. The first casualty of that year (I refer to Lost Lives) was an 18-year-old English soldier. No doubt his death was announced on the evening news. I don't recall. The news on the 30th of January, exactly fifty years ago was much more dramatic. Thirteen men and boys were shot dead on the streets of Derry by British soldiers. This atrocity came to be known as Bloody Sunday. I remember it but, to be honest, at the time it didn't sink in. 

I had a friend from Derry, her name was Marian, a student nurse at Musgrave Park Hospital. Marian was a goth before goths were even a thing. My Daddy used to call her the wee black crow. She was always staying at our house and this one time she invited me to come to her house in Derry. She lived in Irish Street which I found odd as it was a loyalist area. But Marian was no loyalist. She socialised across the bridge and on that particular night she took me to a republican club. Marian told me that it was a 'Stickies' club and I had not a clue what that meant. Later on, I came to realise that the Stickies were the Official IRA which would be superseded by the Provisional IRA. It was all a mystery to me.

Back then I didn't even know that fifty years earlier my own Granda had been in the IRA. For some reason, it was not something openly discussed in our family. I knew my Granny was always ranting talking about the Easter Rising, the perfidy of the British and the tragedy of the Irish martyrs. I remember her shaking her stick at me in a rage because I didn't know who James Connolly was. So, suffice to say, I was a total ignoramus when it came to Irish history - even though I was living through it.

The day we took the bus to her city Marian brought home to me what Bloody Sunday meant to the people of Derry. She opened her bag and took out a handful of Mass cards. Showed them to me, pictures of wee fellows, some of them younger than me. she'd say about one, I went out with his brother. About another, I was at school with his sister. Another, my ma was friends with his ma. These were her people.

Years later and not long after the findings of the Savile enquiry, Bert and I went to the Museum of Free Derry. It was heart-rending. The man at the desk was one of the relatives and he told us that to hear that the enquiry had found all 14 victims innocent of all accusations originally used against them was a wonderful moment. I saw him on the news this evening. He is still fighting for justice.

 

TW3

Only oldsters and media studies grads will 'get' the title of this post. Checking out the link on Wikipedia myself, I'm surprised I even remember it seeing as I was barely a teenager when it aired.

My own TW3 has been rather uneventful. We started watching that David Tennant thing Around The World in 80 Days. Enjoyable enough, and very much Sunday night TV.

Obviously, Bert has been glued to all televisual things historical and WW2 related. It has been Holocaust Remembrance Week. I lit a candle last night knowing that no one would see it. 

Enjoyed very much seeing on our family WhatsApp the first pictures of my extremely new great-nephew Seánaí. Kerry Sister and I are the only ones in the family who have just one great-nephew. All the other sibs have two. We are a family that is light on boys so are excited when we get one. Our parents Seamus and Martha have (so far) 25 descendants of which eighteen have been girls. 

Other news. Three positive Covid cases in our inner circle. One family, two friends. All mild cases so far. Bert and I are still testing negative.

By far the most exciting event of the past seven days was the Scruffy Hen capturing and eating a young rat. All the other hens were extremely envious and tried to steal it but Scruffy won the day. 

 Much excitement again tonight as I took myself off on a solitary date for one to see Belfast at the local cinema - the first time I've been to the 'pictures' in ages. I'd forgotten how annoying one's fellow cinema-goers can be. Crunching crisps, slurping drinks, kicking seats and then the one reprobate whose phone started ringing during a particularly poignant scene. Despite these annoyances, I enjoyed the film. Maybe a wee bit heavy on the Van Morrison tunes (there are other Irish musicians y'know) and Judi Dench was wonderful. She reminded me of several McAnespie matriarchs, especially Clare and Josephine. And now I'm home, sipping a glass of wine and catching up on my neglected blog.

Oh! One other thing - I was eleven years retired this past week and still love waking up in the morning not having to go to work.

A Local Hero

Two Sundays ago I bumped into an old friend from primary school and she told me that her brother was gravely ill. Only six days later I heard he was dead.

Joe was a few years older than me and at school, I thought of him as one of 'big boys'. I remember him teasing me because new to television, I thought that different makes of TV sets showed different programmes.

I have another memory of Joe when he was a teenager. I was going to my Granny's shop on an errand and he was on the other side of the road swiping the heads of dandelions with a stick. Why this stays in my mind I do not know. There was something fierce about him that unnerved me.

Joe left Tannaghmore when he was a very young man and I rarely saw him after that. Until I went to work for a homeless organisation. This organisation was new to Northern Ireland and there was to be a convention in Belfast. A lot of people would be coming over from London, Liverpool and the South of England. My manager, Anne Henderson, mentioned that one of the people from London, the chair of the organisation, hailed from my neck of the woods. His name was Joe McGarry.

Joe's story was extraordinary. He came to England in 1971 and worked for more than 20 years working as a labourer, often sleeping rough and eventually falling into alcoholism.

My own brother left Ireland for London when he was in his teens and did the same sort of labouring work as Joe. He told me stories of daily hirings and the lure of the pub at the end of the day. Eamon said there were middle-aged men, staying in stinking digs and the pub was a home from home for them. It was there that the site foremen paid out the wages. Little wonder that so many of them stayed there, in the warm, in familiar company, spending those wages rather than go back to their dank lodgings.   

My brother was lucky in that he had sisters living and working in London who provided emotional support and, occasionally when times were tough, a place to stay.  Joe was not so fortunate. In his own words in Ireland's Forgotten Generation (23 minutes in) he was seven years homeless, sleeping rough or in derelict buildings and still got up in the morning and went to work.

Eventually, Joe moved into Arlington House in Camden Town. He was still drinking but eventually, his life turned around. He became involved in the Aisling Project and after a trip to Co. Donegal in 1995 he found the inspiration to quit alcohol. 

I didn't know any of this when we met in Belfast. Anne and I gave Joe a lift back to Tannaghmore and we stopped at the Ramble Inn for something to eat. He spoke about his alcoholism. He was so articulate and well-spoken and came across as such a thoroughly decent man.

Afterwards, I followed his career. He went on to found Novas Ireland and set up projects in Limerick, Tralee and other Irish cities. I'm going to link to Joe's friend Alex McDonnell who'll tell the story better that I ever could. Alex also gave a great eulogy yesterday at Joe's funeral. 

Joe McGarry was a truly remarkable man. I'm glad I met him.

The Weird and Wonderful

There was an article in the Guardian recently by Rowan Moore, writing about his love for weird and wonderful objects that don't fit in with current ideas of good taste. Moore wrote,

I’m drawn to things that show a desire, a dream or a belief, where you can get a sense of connection with the maker.

I was reading this one early morning, upstairs drinking coffee and I glanced down at the weird and wonderful quilt covering my bed.

I found it on eBay a long time ago. It's hard to know how I was drawn. The good description probably, the quilt carefully folded so that only the best bits are shown. I might not have been so keen on it if I'd noticed that chintz edging. 

The figures, flora and fauna are appliqued on coarse unbleached cotton. The stitching is not exquisite. The fabric used for appliqueing is vintage so maybe the quilt is decades old. I've had it for at least fifteen years and am guessing most of the fabric pieces are from the sixties/seventies.

At first, I thought the scenes depicted on the quilt were biblical but now I'm not so sure.

That creature must be a unicorn. There are no unicorns in the bible. 

This might be a dog, probably an Afghan hound although I'm not sure about the feet. I think I had a smock top in that brown fabric when I was about seventeen. Which was fifty years ago. Scary.

 These fabrics are actually rather fabulous. 

Aren't they?

Sprigged cotton juxtaposed with snippets of mid-century atomic. What's not to love about this creation. How great it would be if the person who made it (or her descendants) could know that it fell into good hands and that I love it and would not part with it for any money. That's my connection with its maker.

PS. I was working on a blog about death but did this instead.

In A Funk

 Maybe because it's post-Christmas and the weather isn't right but I've been in a funk this past week. It was too mild over Christmas, the bloody wallflowers are in bloom and then we had snow.

 

And then it all melted away and it was mild again.

Yesterday I felt so grotty on waking that I took a rapid Covid test (my very first). It was negative which made me feel slightly better. If it's not Covid I'm worrying about it's something else. I have this weird pain at the side of my head. Of course, I imagine it to be the worst possible thing but it is probably because I keep clenching my jaw.

Tomorrow I am going to town to spend my book token and buy Bert some special ingredients for a black-eyed bean curry that he wants to try. I hope it lifts me out of this funk.

I will not buy wine. I will not buy wine. I will not...

Litter Louts

Driving into Ballymena this morning I saw the driver of a beat-up old car throw litter from the window. I thought it disgraceful behaviour. Minutes later, driving through the town I witnessed the driver of a small van throw something out the window. Two litter louts in one morning? Disgusting. 

I was on my way to Antrim to meet Jazzer and because it was icy I was taking the dual carriageway rather than the back roads. Just off the Ballee roundabout, I was overtaken by a bright green BMW and happened to notice the well-coiffed blonde in the passenger seat. The next thing I saw was litter flying out of the driver's window. Enough was enough! I flashed the car. Moments later rubbish was simultaneously thrown from passenger and driver windows. I flashed the headlights again. The BMW sped up and I lost sight of it...

...until the approach to the Dunsilly roundabout. They were in the Belfast lane and I was heading towards Antrim. I drew level and glanced at the driver, a well-dressed man not that far away from my own age. He looked straight ahead. This man and his woman friend did themselves and their ilk no favour this morning for, as from now on, should I see a signal green BMW I am going to assume that the person driving it is a complete arse.

And just so y'all know that I know, flashing one's headlights in such circumstances is, according to the Highway Code, inadvisable as it may confuse other drivers. Yet I will do it at times - at fellow van drivers if there is a mobile speed-trap parked on the outskirts of Cullybackey and often to allow large vehicles such as lorries or buses to get through tight parts of town and village traffic. I particularly love it when the lorry drivers give me a blast of the air horn in acknowledgement. Even a friendly wave can make my day.

LP - Halo (Beyonce Cover) [Live]

Treasure Hunting

There was great sadness on Thursday. Maya, Zoe's older dog had been put to sleep the previous evening after it was discovered she had inoperable lung cancer. Her family put her next to her companion Gracie who died 13 months ago. They were quite the pair. Evie made the grave marker. It should really have been Gracie * Maya as Gracie was the elder but if we'd put Maya on the other side she would have been too close to the beehive. And, speaking of bees, Evie told them that Maya had died and a number of them appeared at her burial.

It's actually scary how mild this Christmas weather has been.

The girls stayed over that day and we watched a terrible movie, Home Alone 2 which was horribly violent. I had to tell them that the brutality afflicted on Joe Pesci and friend by young Culkin would have resulted in their deaths twenty times over. It really wasn't a suitable show for Grannies, never mind pre-teens.

So much lounging about, snacking and watching endless telly is not the best way to live one's life, even at Christmas so next day Hannah and I encouraged the girls outside to seek buried treasure.

Martha refused to change out of her pyjamas as they were so warm and comfortable. A certain Aunt might be pleased to know that Evie was also wearing her Christmas pyjamas under her day clothes. 

Evie was the more enthusiastic treasure hunter. At break time Martha headed to her bedroom to continue reading a new book, bought with the token gifted by Granda Bert.

The dogs just didn't get it.  Humans digging? And not burying bones. Or unearthing them.

 A picture of interesting fungi. Much more interesting than the 'treasure' we found which was -

A triangular piece of rusted iron.

Several beer cans.

The innards of a spent firework.

Two trays from an abandoned electric oven. These were buried DEEP and Evie and I put a lot of effort into digging them up.

Afterwards I had to lie down for half an hour. It was worth it.