Pig Dreaming Again

 

I was going to write a post about unreliable memories but it turns out I am too tired. Instead here is a recycled post about dreaming and remembering that is, I think, mostly true...

I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a nice respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother who brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. The Hannas are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

Pig Dream

I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a very nice and respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the very first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother and she brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. They are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

Throughother

A long time ago I had a friend whose home was in total disarray. Phyll was a single woman with four children and, at that time, her youngest was only a baby. Her house was always extremely untidy and cluttered and that made it very hard to clean up. Most days she did her best. Four children made for a lot of laundry and that alone took up most of her day. Like myself she could not afford an automatic washing machine or dryer so she depended on an old fashioned twin tub and washing lines and dryers. So - what with the laundry and the cooking and looking after the baby she had little time for anything else.

My sister and I persuaded Phyll to take a holiday. We thought it would do her good. It was early summer and she and the baby went to stay with another friend in the west of Ireland. While she was away I was to look after the her children.

As usual my friend left her house in a big mess – filthy kitchen, mountains of laundry, untidy bedrooms and dirty floors. I had plenty of free time during the day while all the children were at school so decided to tackle her washing pile. The weather was fine and perfect for outside drying. I started carrying loads of washing over to my house . It was easy enough to run them through my twin tub but soon I ran out of washing line space. My next door neighbour noticed how much laundry I was doing and jokingly enquired if I was taking it in. I told her that was exactly what I was doing. She kindly offered me the use of her line and when Jean, my other neighbour, saw me hanging laundry on Dorothy's line she offered me the use of her line as well.. By this time the kids were home from school and we had quite an assembly line going. They'd haul the laundry to me in baskets – I’d wash it and peg it out on my three lines and we'd all help to fold the stuff when it dried.

When that was done we became enthused and decided to clean the entire house. For the next couple of days we cleaned, decluttered and polished. Everyone helped, even the youngest boy who was only about five or six. I even fixed the broken down refrigerator. All that it needed was a new fuse.

Beds were changed, everything was polished and on the day that Phyll was due to return I’d lit a fire and filled the living room with flowers from my garden. She was to be back late so the children were spending a last night with me. Phyll had enjoyed the break. And instead of going over to her shining house (I hadn't told her) she sat chatting and drinking cup after cup of tea. I was enjoying our chat but itching for her to see her house and hoping that the fire wasn't out. At last she decided to go home and I walked over with her. Her delight when she saw what we'd done was wonderful. She couldn't believe it! She literally jumped for joy!

I sometimes recall the joy I felt at Phyll's pleasure. Soon afterwards, she fell out with me and, despite our eventually making up, our friendship was never the same again. But even that doesn't dim my happy memory. nor does it spoil it when I remember that within days Phyll's house was well on the way back to its usual disorderly state.

With the help of her children and some friends we cleaned her house. She was more than pleased, it gave me a lot of happiness. That's enough.

Not So Shabby Shit

You know by the time I’ve driven Matty on this errand and that errand I could have taken her to Dublin and back. Today I would have liked to take her for a trip to the coast but, as always, she had different ideas.

First trip was to her new GP in Kells & Connor. I chatted her into changing because of the interminable long waits at her previous surgery. An hour and a half’s wait to see the doc was not uncommon at her old place, the car park was tiny and the wait for an appointment far too long.

Before we left for Kells Matty said,

Are you planning on going into Antrim?

No. Are you planning on going into Antrim?

Well it’s just that I’ve got these bags of coins….

Oh bloody hell! Not more bags of coins. Why don’t you just spend the money instead of bagging it up and trailing it into the bank? Sure the bank people hate seeing wee grannies coming with their bloody bags of coins.

Well if you don’t want to go to Antrim I could always get a taxi* and…

Oh I’ll take you to Antrim if you must but I’d far rather take you to Carnlough

So after the docs we went to Antrim. I dropped her off and went to visit Daddy’s grave where I deadheaded Ganching’s pansies and got all emotional.

Then I gathered up Matty again and suggested a coffee. But where? She says brightly,

Randalstown?

OK. Randalstown it is.

On the way to Randalstown we had this conversation,

It’s our Claire’s birthday today. It’s her 70th.

Is it? It’s a wonder you didn’t want to go down and see her.

Well I had a card and present for her on the kitchen table but you were that crabbit I was scared to ask you.

I cringe at this. I’m a Bad Daughter. We get to Randalstown and I swing straight back to the home parish to collect Claire’s card and present. Then back to Randalstown, then up to Claire’s house. She’s out. Probably being treated to a birthday lunch so I leave card and present on her windowsill and we go to The Forge for coffee.

After coffee we go to a little knick-knack cum antique shop that is only recently opened. Matty buys some pretty padded dress hangers. Back in the car I say to Matty,

Nice place that. You know you’d call that sort of style shabby chic.

Shabby shit? D’ye think so?

Hanging out with the hard of hearing does have its amusing moments.

Then we went to visit Matty’s neighbour who is really ill. They are a lovely family and we’ve always been close to them. Now they are going through a similar experience to what we were going through 12 months ago.

Afterwards the oldest daughter asked us up to her house to peer into the nest of Wagtails on her front doorstep. Last year during Daddy’s wake I remember watching a group of young Wagtails cavorting in the stream at the bottom of this house’s garden. There are so many memories coming back to me and I could cry for any reason. Even this lovely warm weather is making me feel sad.

Grey Wagtail

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I could always get a taxi* The taxi company that Matty frequently threatens to use is called Guilt Trip Cabs. This taxi is always mentioned when anyone (it’s usually me) shows any reluctance to drive her wherever she wants to go.