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Published by GALWAY ACADEMIC PRESS, 2018-11-20 14:49:25

Doc - Mary' s Book A5 - 20 Nov- last edit

Doc - Mary' s Book A5 - 20 Nov- last edit

Lights along the way

By
Mary Concannon

Published by Galway Academic Press

Copyright © Mary Concannon 2018

& Galway Academic Press

First published in Ireland

Galway Academic Press
Galway, Ireland
Reg No: 488084
Email:[email protected]
www.galwayacademicpress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means-electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise - without
written permission from the publisher or the author,
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in
a review.

Design by Aisling Lyons, NUIG
Printed by Clódóirí CL Print
Published by Galway Academic Press

ISBN 978-9928-04-422-9

A CIP catalogue number for this publication is available
from The British Library

2

Lights along the way

By
Mary Concannon

3

4

This book is dedicated to my beautiful
grandniece Niamh W. Navarro, Manilla,
Philippines.

5

6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Memories of Primary School Days
Struggles of a Writer
Memories from Teenage Years
Lifetime Bonuses
Raspberry Jam
Two sides of the same story
A Favourite Garment
Christmas with a difference
A Mysterious Feather
The Copybook
Terror in the Lift
A Love Story
Shattering News
Learning by Experience
Changes through time
Loneliness

7

The Legendary Mayo Man
An Unexpected Side Effect
Through Darkness into Light
Travelling on...
Nora’s Park
Free range nuns!
Witches
Betsy’s Wolfhound
The Magic of Light......A Child’s Story
Trip to Inis Oirr
Winter Gardens
Ireland’s New Spirituality
A Chance Meeting
Uninvited Guests
Spies
Profile of a Serial Killer
Trip to the Philippines 2015
Unsettled and depressed

8

New Age Values
The girl in the garden
Family together
The strange relative
An Ancient Abbey
My 70th Birthday 2007
October
Health Alarm!
Dreams and Dreamers
My last request to a dear friend
Sunsets
Dreams and Dreamers
My 70th Birthday in 2007

9

10

Memories of Primary School Days

My primary school days were mostly in the 1940’s.
It is now 2018, so I have to dig deep to search for the
outstanding memories I have of that period in my
life. I can’t remember my first day at school, but the
memory of my first teacher is very vivid in my mind.
She was an elderly woman, quiet spoken and loving.
She was like a ‘mother hen’ who would draw us up
close to her when she was teaching the things that
baby infants are taught during their first weeks in
school. One hilarious memory is of the whole class
holding hands and playing Ring–a-Ring of Roses
with the teacher standing in the centre. As we all fell
down we took it in turns to peep under the teacher’s
skirt to find out what colour underwear she wore.
After I satisfied my curiosity something inside me
said “never do that again” and from then on I was
deprived of the fun and laughter that my friends
enjoyed at the expense of Miss Flynn.

At the end of my first three years in school I got a
beautiful doll as a prize for full attendance in school.
The lotto could not compare with this prize. This doll
was in an oblong cardboard box and when the lid
was opened there was an extra dress and hat inside so
that this doll could have a different outfit every other
day. This was really exciting and I remember running
the entire way home with the prize of a lifetime
under my arm. It was during this time too that I
received my first holy communion. The highlight of
the day was breakfast in Miss Flynn’s house. I

11

remember it well, one slice of loaf bread and a boiled
egg and one lemon sweet each as we left to go home.
Shortly afterwards the elderly Miss Flynn got a
stroke and she died before the end of the school year.
She was sorely missed by all who knew her and
especially by her pupils who believed she knew more
than God... May she rest in Peace.

The teacher who succeeded Miss Flynn made a lot of
unrealistic demands on small children. She expected
the second class to learn a whole paragraph of the
Irish comhra and on Friday we would have the task
of writing it into our penny jotter and she would
correct it there and then. One particular week I was
out of school for a day or two and when Friday came
around I hadn’t a clue how to do this. I took my
friend’s jotter and copied it word for word and then
walked up to the teacher to have it corrected. She
just glanced at it, marked it and to my surprise wrote
“go maith” at the end. There had to be a guilty look
on my face as I returned to my seat.

The worst feature of our school was the toilet
facilities. There was one outdoor toilet at the end of
the school yard. Inside were two dry toilets, having
no doors. When a child was in the toilet another
child would stand in the doorway and keep shouting,
“Don’t look, don’t look” Needless to say that only
reminded everybody not only to look, but to stand
and stare. I can hardly imagine it, but there was no
water to flush toilets or for hand washing, and yet we
survived in spite of our unhygienic circumstances.

12

The Board of Health had little or no worries about
healthy lifestyles in our school in the 1940’s!

At the end of second class we graduated into the
Master’s room. This was a daunting change. The
new third class sat in the front benches while the 4th,
5th and 6th were in rows behind us. I remember we
had a “dictation” test on a Friday. The master would
read a bit of English and we had to write it from
memory into our copies as fast as we could. I found
this extremely difficult in the beginning, and I would
be exhausted and stressed out trying to write fast.
It’s true, practice makes perfect and how proud I was
when I succeeded to write the whole paragraph
without one mistake. There wasn’t a lot of positive
affirmation from the master, except to let me know
he would expect it like this every other Friday. What
a pressure that was?

Our teacher put a lot of emphasis on learning by rote
every catechism question in the book. The
confirmation was a nightmare. It was catechism and
catechism notes for a whole six weeks beforehand
and even after seventy years I can remember how
uncomfortable the following question left me. The
question was asked…Are we obliged to love our
enemies? The answer went something like this.
Most certainly we are obliged to love our enemies.
Love your enemies, says Christ, do good to them that
hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for
them that persecute and calumniate you. This is what
I learned off when I was eleven years old and even to

13

day I am a little dubious about the wholehearted
practice of this teaching for most of us.

When I was in fourth class my teacher handed me the
Capuchin Annual and asked me to read a paragraph
for the rest of the class. This was a book for adults
and I was probably stuttering and stammering as I
proceeded to read for him. He took the book from me
and passed it to another girl whom I thought was
‘useless’ at reading and then he said the bit that
really stuck with me…..”I thought you were better
than that” There and then he managed to take me
down a peg! I realise now that a child has a long
memory and as a teacher myself I wonder did I
inadvertently or otherwise cause hurt by a simple
remark.

I remember too when our school was closed for three
months because major maintenance work had to be
done on it. I was sent to another school in the Parish
where my cousins were. I absolutely hated this
school. I had no friends and the teacher had no
reason to pay attention to a ‘blow-in’ who would be
leaving again before the end of the year. Being a
‘nobody’ in a new school was very difficult for me.
Because I had this experience I always made a point
of welcoming the new comers into my class and
giving them special attention until they were well
integrated into the school. I wonder if they have a
memory of this.

14

There was one boy in the school who stood out more
than the rest of us. He was rather mischievous and
got into trouble every day he came to school. I
remember when we were walking home from school
there was a delivery van parked outside the local
shop. Tommie opened the door and grabbed a big
box of what he thought was chocolate. We all ran
like hares up the road and when Tommie tore open
the box he discovered he had at least twelve dozen
brand new pencils. He was very generous and gave
each of us about ten each. When I went home I set
into paring them one after another. I was so proud of
my case of pencils until my mother came along and I
had to tell her how I got them. That was nothing until
we went into school next day. The Master had heard
the story of the robbery. He gathered up all the
pencils and gave us a long lecture on honestly. The
chief culprit, Tommie, was at home and I don’t
believe he came back to school for a long time.

Last summer I met my two school companions for
the first time since we were in primary school
together. They are both Grandmothers and widowed,
so we decided to enjoy the rest of our golden years
and to celebrate every chance we got.

15

Struggles of a Writer

I have a very clear memory of my earliest experience
of ‘writing time’ in Primary school. The teacher
wrote a headline on the Blackboard and the task was
to copy it correctly and well. With a scratchy nib-
pen, ink from an inkwell and a piece of blotting
paper to dry the messy black blob that accidentally
got there, I laboriously proceeded to copy such lines
as ‘A stitch in time saves nine’…. ‘too many cooks
spoil the broth’….‘A bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush’ or one of the many other proverbs that are
hidden away in my memory from almost a hundred
years ago! Without fail the teacher checked after
copying the headline three times and she either
commended or scolded you according as she
perceived the writing to be good or bad that day.
There wasn’t anything very creative, imaginative or
soul building in this exercise for a child, but we did
master the skill of good penmanship. “Practice
makes perfect” the teacher would say over and over
again, and that’s how I learned to write.
As I progressed up the classes I often longed for an
opportunity to compose and write a creative piece of
my own. ’Writing time’ was never easy for me.
Some days we had a Transcription-Exercise when we
copied a paragraph from the class reader. That was
easy enough except for the children with poor
eyesight. The dreaded ‘writing time’ for me was on
Friday when we had a Dictation Exercise. The
Master would read sentences from a book and he
gave us two or three minutes to write down what we

16

heard. In the beginning this was a very difficult for
me. I would have several mistakes and all I saw
afterwards was a red pencil line under each mistake.
I often cried, but all I heard was ‘try again and do
better next week, practice makes perfect, you know.”
One Friday our teacher surprised us by reading a
funny story from the Far East Magazine. We were in
howls of laughter when he suddenly shouted “Take
out your pencils and write that story for me”. We
never expected that and were almost fixated in fear
as we started to write. As I got into writing the story I
was enjoying the funny bits and in no time I had my
page finished. Then there was another shout
“pencils on the desk” and he slowly picked up the
pages and read each one aloud. He even smiled
while he was reading mine and then he said, “I
couldn’t do better myself” and he gave me a three
penny bit. That was my first success story in
creative writing.
As a Primary school teacher I tried to introduce
children to spontaneous writing as early as possible.
It was fun time when pupils competed to have three
new words for their news item each morning. It was
amusing and often revealing how many family
secrets could be aired in that page of news. For me it
was like finding the soul of a child on paper…secret
feelings and worries that had to be respected and held
in a safe place until she poured out her thoughts
again in the next issue of “My News”.
Tracy was one of these pupils who wrote “I am not
sure if my teacher likes me or not”. My reply was “
Of course I do, I am mad about you Tracy” Next

17

day Tracy wrote “My teacher is mad at me and I
don’t know why” A reassuring hug fixed that fear as
she smiled and tripped back to her desk to finish the
end of her news for that morning.

Letter writing was part and parcel of my job during
my years as the school principal. They were never
the kind of letters that a person might enjoy writing
at Christmas and other special occasions. No, they
were formal letters, outlining the disadvantaged
status of our school and demanding our needs and
rights in no uncertain terms from the Department of
Education. It was almost impossible to convince a
Dublin based civil servant that disadvantage stood
side by side with the four and five star hotels that
made our locality a Paradise for well heeled holiday
makers, and the many Irish politicians who owned
holiday homes right beside a well known Golf
Course. To my credit such letters did bear fruit and
what a joy it was when the unit for Special Children
was sanctioned and built in the 1990’s.

It’s true, “Time changes everything.” I am now
retired from official work and I have plenty of time
to write, but occasionally I act as if have ‘writer’s
block’. It has been pointed out to me that when the
body turns up to the page at the same time and place
every day, eventually the mind will do the same.
Graham Greene famously wrote 500 words, and only
five hundred every morning. Five hundred words is
about one page, but with these mere five hundred

18

words per day, Greene wrote and published thirty
books.
Being a member of a Writers Club helps me to write
something from week to week. I get enormous
satisfaction when I am graced to put pen to paper
whenever I am tempted to say “ Don’t ask me to
write, I have nothing to write about” or “Let the
good writers do that.” I know I am not a Graham
Greene, but I can share thoughts and experiences
with others and invite more writers to do the same.

19

Memories from Teenage Years

It is so long ago since I was a teenager that I scarcely
remember a whole lot. Starting secondary is vivid
enough. It was both a change and a challenge to go
from a small school and join the town’s girls in St.
Josephs School in Ballyhaunis. I felt small and timid
in this big class of thirty girls. Up to then I was sort
of a leader in a small class of three girls and two
boys.
I remember the first essay I got to write in secondary
school. It was entitled ‘The nicest house I ever saw.’
I had one in mind so I waffled on for a few pages.
When the teacher gave it back I was rather
disappointed at the number of red pencil marks all
through it, with an added remark ‘Fair effort. I’ll
expect fewer mistakes next week’ A child has a long
memory, they say! Happily, I made good progress
and by Christmas I had caught up on the well taught
town-girls.
When I came to Junior Cert year my mother said I
would be allowed to go to the Carnival Dance in the
Eclipse Ballroom with my cousins if I did my best in
school. An incentive and a challenge, but well
worth a try to earn such a big reward. Up to now I
had gone to the Ceilies in the Parish Hall. The
Eclipse Ballroom, to my mind, was only for grown-
ups.
I put the thought aside until the results of the exam
came out in September. I scored good marks in a lot
of subjects and my mother was delighted. I waited
and waited for my reward, but not a word about my

20

‘coming of age’ night out in the Eclipse. When I
reminded her she hesitated and said ‘I need to talk to
you before you go anywhere, you are a bit young.’
“You can dance,” she said, ‘but you must be careful
with the guys you meet ....All Sorts go to the
Carnival Dance.” Careful and All Sorts, what could
she mean? Then she emphasised the necessity of
staying around with my cousins in the dancehall. It
was only when I promised to follow her instructions
that she was happy to let me go.

‘Will I get a new dress’? I asked. ‘Not at all’, she
said. That dress your Aunt Teresa sent you from
America is gorgeous’ I didn’t like it much. It hung
well below the knee with a claustrophobic neckline. I
didn’t dare show my objection to wearing it in case
my night out was cancelled. My cousin, Bridie
laughed herself sick when she heard I was wearing
the dowdy dress. “Wear mine with the pink sequins
and plunging neckline,” she said. “You can change
in the cloakroom and slap on a bit of make up before
you come on the dance floor.” I remember how
guilty I felt, but I’d take the chance.
“You look lovely,” my mother said, as I rushed out
the door to join my cousins in Seamie’s hackney car.
They were in a giddy mood and giggled as they
anticipated what fellas would turn up to the carnival
dance. Actually, the mini dress with the pink sequins
was foremost in my mind.
As we hopped out of the hackney Seamie shouted
after us to have a good night. We paid our 7/6 each
and made straight for the cloak room. I pulled off

21

my Yankee dress and got into the silk shimmery mini
with the plunging neckline. ‘Go on,’ Bridie kept
saying, it’s real smart on you and the lads will love it.
I was shivering as I entered the ballroom and nearly
died when I saw the line up of girls on one side of the
hall and the fellas in their Sunday suits on the other
side. The Royal Blues were playing that night. They
looked resplendent in their blue jackets with gold
buttons and black pants. I felt thrills of excitement
going up and down my spine as they played ‘Under
the Bridges of Paris with you’.
Suddenly there was a surge across the floor and in
seconds several couples were dancing. An older fella
came my way and said ‘will you dance Miss?’ I
nodded demurely and soon we were shuffling around
the hall. At the end of the dance he took me to the
bar for an orange drink. I felt uneasy until I learned
he was Roseanne’s older brother. I nearly died when
I saw my mother’s friend, Mrs. Duffy serving in the
mineral bar. She greeted me with a sort of a smile
and said....”you are getting very tall, growing out of
your dress, I see.” I felt a different shiver this time, a
shiver of fear that she would repeat the same remark
when she met my Mother next day!
At midnight the strains of the National Anthem filled
the hall. I was sorry the night was over. Afterwards
I had a few nightmarish moments back in the
cloakroom when I couldn’t find the bag with my
Yankee dress. It had fallen under the sink and it felt
damp and cold as I dressed for home. I pulled my
gabardine coat over it and removed as much makeup
as possible. Then all of us girls rushed out to find

22

Seamie waiting patiently to pick us up. “What’s this”
he shouted. “Three fine girls and not a man between
ye”. We just laughed and chatted humorously about
the ‘All Sorts ‘we had met. Mom waited up in the
kitchen until I returned. She really believed I was the
Belle of the Ball and was happy to hear I had the
most memorable night of my life in the Eclipse
Ballroom.

23

Lifetime Bonuses

A bonus is something extra that comes our way, very
often without creating or earning it. In my lifetime
bonuses were plentiful. At this moment in time it’s
a bonus to have comfortable living accommodation
at home in my own apartment while contemporaries
are either in nursing homes or in assisted living
places. I appreciate the bonus of good health more
than all else.
During my lifetime it was a big bonus for me to have
opportunities to travel to foreign places and to have
met the strangest of characters. In the early eighties I
spent a most challenging year in St. Patrick’s college
of Education. The bonus came at the end of the
course when the whole class, already primary school
teachers, travelled to Amsterdam and Rotterdam to
visit other schools and see for ourselves how special
needs children were placed and treated in Holland.
All this was a big learning curve for me. Our
lecturer was broad minded and decent. He believed
that ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ so
he recommended that we would use our free days
well. I think we used them more than well whenever
we set off in groups to The Van Gogh Museum, the
Anne Frank House, a cruise down the canal and last
but not least a night trip to the Red Light District.
The Red Lights opened my eyes to see women at
work inside the glow of soft red lighted windows. At
first I was bothered that women demeaned
themselves until I realised that this was their work
and legal in Holland. I wondered if they had children

24

waiting to be fed and brought to school in the
morning, amongst them being special needs
children. The bonus for them must be that Mommy
had earned enough money to buy breakfast and a
nice treat for lunchtime.
As I journey on I am aware, like the Magi of old, that
there was a Star pointing the way for me. In 1956 it
led me into the Mercy way of life, a calling to share
myself wholeheartedly with the poor and needy and
above to bring good tidings of joy and peace to all
around me. As a Primary School Teacher I was
never denied a chance to be faithful to my vocation.
Here I found scope to encourage both pupils and
parents to believe in themselves and to trust their
‘guiding stars’ at all times. Hopefully my advice
became a supporting bonus as they too journeyed on
through life.
In 1995 this same Star led me in a different direction.
In early September I was drawn to study a new
programme in the Institute of Spiritual Leadership in
Chicago. This was daunting because now I was
working and learning with several nationalities from
Bangladesh, Indonesia, Philippines, Peru, Brazil,
Vietnam, Pakistan, Australia, Papua New Guinea, the
Netherlands, England, Ireland and USA. Last but
not least the African countries, Kenya, Malawi,
Sudan Uganda and Nigeria were represented too. I
loved every day with my co-workers who were there
like me in search of their ‘our best selves’ and
gradually touching the divine in all of creation. All
this demanded enormous trust and hard work, but the
reward lasted a lifetime.

25

The following year I was led into a ministry of care
in a rehabilitation home for women in prostitution.
All this was very new for me. The experience tore
me open in the face of such vulnerability. I saw for
myself that people in prostitution are honest to God
individuals who were sexually and physically abused
as youngsters. Love was oozing out of every pore in
their bodies but unfortunately considered themselves
a ‘nobody’ in society. It was my privilege to
companion these women in their journey to
rehabilitation. Many of them made it and some
didn’t, but I know for sure they had gained a secret
hope that all would be well in the future. The bonus
was that they could laugh and joke about themselves
and be proud of their efforts to be better people. I
learned a lot from these women.

26

Raspberry Jam

I hate raspberry jam,
seedy, slushy and sweet.
Often made by thrifty housewives
and stored in glass jars so neat.
Shared with neighbours and friends,
this sweet, rose-red jam,
then lapped up by those who like it
after savouries and salty ham.
I still hate raspberry jam
whether made by Chivers, Fruitfield or who?
Don’t let me stop you liking
this seedy, juicy, sweet goo.

27

Two sides of the same story

The incident as witnessed by the customer

Browsing in Marshall Fields Department store in
Chicago was an eye opener in more ways than one.
Everything I ever wanted to see seemed to be right
there within my gaze. When the escalator stopped at
the sixth floor I knew I had reached my desired spot.
Aaah! I gasped, just candles….something I love.

Candles, just candles that scented of lilac, rose and
lavender. For demonstration purposes some of the
candles were lighting while the rest were set in
circular glass, in four tears, one above the other. I
gazed in utter amazement at the variety of expensive
candles, some placed in ornate glass holders while
others had an oil burner with scented wicks. As
Christmas music played in the background my friend
and I stood there gob-smacked as the price of each
candle flashed up in front of us. The cheapest one
was $50.00.

“No joy for us”, I whispered to Mags and as I turned
to move away my bag hit the side of a candle. It
obviously moved it and if it did ten others moved too
and rolled off beyond the edge of the circular table
and smashed on to the ground one after another.
Hundreds of dollars worth….I watched them falling
and stood there speechless as if it had happened to
someone else. I may have looked innocent, but my
mind was in disarray at the thought of the manager

28

and maybe the cops questioning me about the heap of
broken glass, the scented oil streaming out in front of
me and blobs of candle grease everywhere I looked.

As I slowly raised my eyes and ventured to offer an
explanation it was obvious that the shop assistant had
no interest in getting into conversation with me. She
smiled and gave me a signal to move on. Maybe she
had her own reasons for getting me out of the way so
fast.

The same incident as witnessed by the shop assistant

Julie-Ann had put a lot of time and effort into this
candle display. It was her idea to have the four tier
glass–stand close to the checkout counter. In this way
she could monitor sales and have the stock
replenished immediately. She was extremely proud
of her display and often succeeded in fitting an extra
expensive candle into an already packed space. She
believed that the customers spied this one first and
after that the others would fly off their spot.

Today was different. Two Irish women stood there
and viewed every candle meticulously. Julie-Ann
hoped they would see the one at the corner and that
meant “luck” for the day. The price tag was the
problem for these women, so they decided to move
on. Just as they were about to do so the clumsy one’s
bag hit the corner candle and it was…smash, smash,
one after another until the whole shelf was cleared.

29

Julie-Ann was aghast and blamed herself for the over
packed display. The customer was her main concern.
Would this woman complain to management about
the danger incurred? Would she sue for the trauma
experienced and the destruction caused by oil
splashes on her good coat? And worst of all! Would
she lose her job after pleading guilty to sheer
negligence? This girl’s mind was certainly in a state
of distraction with such prospects looming over her.
After a while she stepped forward and approached
the clearly agitated lady and apologised for the
dangerous way the stock was displayed. She
discreetly slipped a $100.00 candle into the lady’s
bag and advised her to enjoy the rest of her
Christmas shopping.
Believe it or not, I was that Christmas shopper!

30

A Favourite Garment

It is worn and fluffy, but somewhat scruffy,
faded and colourless throughout.
It’s my “Bromley Sport” with down and feather,
the ideal garment for cold Irish weather.
It hangs on a rail for most of the year,
until storms blow strong and icicles appear.
I reach for the Bromley with down and feather
and Eskimo woman has nothing to fear.
This garment that fits from shoulder to knee,
is my old winter jacket, worth a fortune to me.

31

Christmas with a difference

For a long time I had a desire to spend Christmas
somewhere out of Ireland, preferably New York
because most of my family live there. The
opportunity came my way when my brother sent me
the air ticket as my Christmas present. I arrived in the
city of Yonkers on the evening of the 23rd December,
just in time, as I thought to visit the shops and amuse
myself as I gazed at the glittering lights of the big
city.

Soon I discovered that there was very little time to
‘stand and stare’ in Yonkers. The family owned
‘MORLEY’S SUPERMARKET’ was a hive of
activity and every member of the family was roped in
to give a helping hand on the busiest day of the year,
Christmas Eve. “You might give us a hand yourself
tomorrow”, said my brother, looking in my direction.
I knew this request was no joke, so I had no option
but to turn up at the number three checkout at ten
o’clock next morning. My niece was so busy
scanning item after item that she barely raised her
eyes as she whispered “thank God you are here” and
then kept pushing large quantities of food in my
direction, so that I could pack it into bags for
customer after customer. As the over loaded trolley
was pushed forward to make room for the next
person on line, a cheery greeting and a ‘thank you’
was exchanged, and the more generous shopper left a
dollar tip for the ‘packer’. This was repeated over
and over again that day. I had lost track of time until

32

Joe tapped me on the shoulder at 5.00pm and
reminded me that his schedule was about to begin. I
knew this was not the kind of Christmas I expected
to spend in New York, and it surprised me that I felt
happy and fulfilled to be in the role of helper that
day.

Towards evening my sister phoned to remind me to
attend midnight mass and that she would meet me
there and drive me home afterwards. I took my seat
in St. John the Baptist’s Church at 11.30pm, prayed a
little and was enthralled by the strains of the organ
music as it peeled out song after song in this
beautiful setting. Soon the church was packed to
capacity and as Monsignor took his place on the altar
there wasn’t even standing room in the outer porch.

All of a sudden I felt a great uneasiness creeping
over me. My sister, where was she? No, she was not
there and in my mind’s eye I could her in a deep
sleep on her recliner chair. My mind became as
active as the whirlwind that was blowing outside and
Monsignor’s words floated over my head as I
planned how quickly I would make the lone journey
home at the unearthly hour of 2.00am. Just as the
choir started the recessional hymn, “Silent Night,
Holy Night, all is calm, all is”…I had walked out
into the brightness of Yonkers Avenue and was
heading towards my house at 79, Cowles. In less
than five minutes I was turning my key on the door,
and safely home. Since then I can never find it in my

33

heart to say that New York is not a safe place, even
in the lonely hours of a Christmas morning.

Christmas Day was cold and blustery. By midday the
snow was all over the place, so our planned visits to
friends and relations had to be cancelled. At five
o’clock my brother and I dined in the kitchen, where
we enjoyed a small, but tasty meal. We sat there
together in the glow of a burning candle and
reminisced about our childhood Christmases, the
pranks we played and all the chocolate sweets we
nipped from our Grandmother’s cupboard. As we
laughed and laughed we remembered too how
accurately we could read the ‘time’ from the fake
wrist watches we got from Santa Claus. That said
Tom glanced at the clock on the wall and decided he
should retire and have some sleep since he was
scheduled to open his business at 6.00am. the next
day. This was indeed a very different Christmas, but
with friends together, does it matter?

34

A Mysterious Feather

About ten or eleven years ago Eily’s twin sister died.
They were without doubt ‘best friends’ all their lives.
Eily was devastated and remained so for a long time
afterwards. Everytime I visited her she was more of
a wreck than the time before. She spent a small
fortune on doctors, consultants,
counsellors……name them…and Eily was there.
Her story was like a long playing record, but at the
back of it all she had tremendous faith in God.
Invariably she would wind up her story by praying
“Out of the depths, I cry to you O Lord.”

By coincidence Eily came in contact with Dora, a
psychic/spiritual woman. While she told her story
Dora listened intently. After a long pause Dora said
in a low voice “your sister is close by as you are
talking”. This kind of talk didn’t impress Eily. She
was obviously too pained to let it sink in. As they
were about to say goodbye Dora promised her that
she would find a sign to confirm that her sister was
always near her. The sign may be as simple as
finding a feather in a very unusual place, she said.

Eily walked to her car with the same heavy heart and
tears flowing down her face. Just as she was about to
turn the key in the ignition she noticed a little feather
on the passenger seat. At that moment something
cracked or shifted inside Eily and she returned home
a healed woman. For me this was good news. I have

35

told this story to many people, but never did I think
that something similar could happen to me

I was spending Christmas in New York because most
of my family live there. On Christmas Eve, 2002, my
brother, Luke, who was a farmer in Ireland got a
massive brain haemorrhage and obviously died
within minutes. He dropped at the entrance to one of
his fields and was found on December 28th by a
neighbour. This was the telephone message we
received on that day, four days after he died. It was at
this time I was brought into ‘mystery land’ with
another feather.

On the morning of December 26th I found a fluffy
white feather resting on the kitchen countertop. I was
alone in the house at the time and I recognised it as
being a special sign for me. I blessed myself and
saluted the dead whom I hoped were close to me.
Then I put it away in my bedroom. Later that evening
I related the story to my sister and forgot all about it
until we heard the tragic news on the 28th. When I
went to get the feather it was no longer there. This
was mysterious too because I knew exactly where I
left it.

Time passed. Five of our family flew home for the
funeral. I was asked to say a few words at the funeral
mass. I debated with myself whether I should share
the story of the feather with the congregation. It was
very vivid in my mind and as I stood up to speak
both stories seemed to flow out from my heart. I was

36

astounded at the responses I got afterwards from
young and old alike. It seemed as if my words were
the only ones they heard during Luke’s funeral mass.
As the coffin was being lowered into the grave my
sister nudged me and said, “Mary, look at the
feather.” Sure enough, a feather blew across from
‘nowhere,’ rested for a second and then blew into the
grave. The Priest, who stood beside me said
“extraordinary” and then continued to finish the
decade of the Rosary.

37

The Copybook

It was well into the second term of the academic year
when Conal came to Scoil Mhuire for the first time.
According to his parents he was making no progress,
so they decided to bring him into the big school
which was six miles from his home. I was the
teacher to get the new boy into my class after the
Hallowe’en break in 1990.

It must have been a daunting experience for Conal.
He came from a class of three, two girls and himself
and now he was one of thirty second class pupils all
his own age. He was shy and reserved and showed
little or no interest in my scheme of work for this age
group. His schoolbag was empty except for his
lunchbox and the span new copybook that his mother
stuck in that morning. Towards the end of the first
day I admired this copybook and asked him to draw
his favourite picture for me. Conal just shook his
head and no words passed through his tightly closed
lips. This was his stance for the next two days, but
as he became comfortable, he would take out the
copy and flip through each blank page as if he were
amusing himself.
On Thursday he began to draw something, but it was
quite obvious that I was not to see it because he
would put his hand over the drawing whenever I
looked over his shoulder. I didn’t push him, just
waited while I gathered in the other 29 and praised
them for the great work they had done during the
day. However I glanced at Conal I saw a glint in his

38

eye and to my utter amazement I heard his small
whisper…’’I done it for you, Teacher.” Yes, he did
it alright, a very detailed picture of his toy tractor, his
puppy and himself. I showed him how pleased I
was and as a reward for his outstanding work I stuck
a bright red star underneath his picture. He glowed
with excitement and promised to draw another
picture for homework. From then on Conal made
remarkable progress and soon his copybook was full
of many coloured stars until one day he got the big
GOLD star for the highest achiever in second class.

Conal’s copybook was the special treasure he carried
home with him on the day he got his summer
holidays towards the end of June. He was a happy
little boy when he left Scoil Mhuire to spend his
summer holidays climbing rocks and racing on the
sandy beach around his home village in
Claddaghduff.

On the 15th of August I heard the sad news. Conal
was killed as he drove out on to the Main road on his
toy tractor. When I saw him again he was laid out in
a white coffin with his star-filled copybook resting
on his knees. The achievement of his short life was
contained within the cover of this copybook. This
was the treasured keepsake that Conal left his Mom
and Dad. As the years rolled on Conal’s parents got
the grace and courage to live again. They are blessed
in their belief that they have a real Star shining for all
Eternity and a copybook that makes it very real for
them.

39

Terror in the Lift

I remember when thumbing a lift was the order of the
day. It must be thirty years ago since I had the
courage to ask my neighbour for a lift to Galway
because I wanted to visit a good friend who was a
patient in Merlin Park Hospital. My request was
graciously accepted, but Jamsie made it clear that my
visit would be short because he hadn’t much business
in Galway and anyway he had to be home for a
meeting at 8.00pm. I thanked him and assured him
that this visit would take less than fifteen minutes.
From the moment I set foot inside the hospital door
my only thought was to visit Kate and keep strictly to
my schedule. I knew where to find her. She was on
the third floor, so why not use the lift and save time.
Half way between the first and second floor the lift
stopped short, never to go again. The sudden stop
alarmed me and as I grew more fearful I became
terrified that I was going to suffocate in the small
enclosed area without a puff of fresh air. I pressed
the bell over and over again, but to no avail. I was
beginning to panic and feel dizzy. The thought of
Jamsie sitting outside in his car while I was in my
last extremities inside the lift was a real worry to me.

I pressed the bell once more and this time an angry
tone of voice came through...’’Are you in
trouble…..what is the matter…Stop the panic and
keep calm”. How could I keep calm with Jamsie
waiting for me, knowing well he wasn’t the most
patient of men? I pleaded earnestly with the voice

40

from the outside to get me out fast, only to be told
that the Electrician could not be located just then. He
was in Galway City working on another job. After
many calls he finally came and released me from
what seemed like a death trap. I didn’t even consider
visiting my friend Kate, but rushed out to see if
Jamsie was still waiting in the car.
As most men would, he grew impatient early on and
made his way to ‘enquiries’ to find out where I might
be. He had a sense that something unusual had
happened. You must remember there were no
mobile phones in the good old days. As soon as he
heard that I was stuck in the lift he cancelled his
8.00pm. appointment and read the newspaper until I
emerged 7.30pm. In a disorientated state I ran to the
car and kept repeating “I am sorry, I am sorry, really
sorry.” He just looked at me, and in a teasing tone
said “you’ll take the stairs the next time”, and as a
smile crossed his face he said “I’m starving and you
have enough for one day, let’s have a meal before
we go home”. What a nice ending to a very bad day!

41

A Love Story

When I met Julia first she was in her 70’s. This
chance meeting took place on Beach Road in
Clifden, a favourite haunt of this woman who rented
the same cottage every year. She wanted to be alone
with the many fond memories she had of this
beautiful place. When I greeted her and then
admired Juniper, her dog, I felt she had a story to tell
by the way she drew me into her confidence there
and then.

As we walked slowly towards the beach she talked
and talked and before long she had asked enough
questions to know my name, where I came from and
what I worked at. It was only then she settled down
to tell me her long and unusual story that was very
special indeed.

Julia was born and raised in a small country village
in Co. Leitrim. She left home at an early age and
took up hotel work in Clifden town. That was the
time when most of her earnings were sent back to her
parents in Leitrim to help them put bread on the table
for the rest of her siblings. She seldom got home
except maybe at Christmas and Easter. At that time
the mode of transport was so poor that it took for
ever to get her there and back.

Recreation and rest for Julia was not found in pubs
or dancehalls, but on the steps at the end of Beach
Road where she would sit for hours and dream of

42

meeting nice friends. One evening as she sat there
all alone she noticed the fishermen drawing in their
haul for the day. What an awful life she thought to
herself. Mick and his father, the boat owner, were
the last to get off. Mick was a young man of 22 and
as they greeted each other Julia knew there was
something different about this man. She was shy and
took no notice of her reaction. She was only sixteen
and kept all her dreams to herself.

They met again next day and again the day after and
at other rare times when Julia had time to spend on
the Quay steps down Beach Road. Their fondness
for each other grew into love and soon they knew
they could be soul mates forever. Shortly before
Julia’s 17th birthday Mick asked her to be his wife.
With all her heart she wanted to, but her parents
persuaded her to wait until she was older. Her Aunt
Margaret would take her to Chicago, find her a good
job and then she would return with plenty of money
from America.

Mick and Julia made promises to each other and as
she sailed away from Cobh harbour, she thought her
heart would break….and the heartbreak stayed with
her long after she arrived in Chicago. She expressed
it all to Mick in the many letters she wrote during her
first years away from him.

Then things changed for Julia. She met up with a rich
business man, of Italian extraction, married him and
was blessed with two daughters. She enjoyed the

43

luxury of having plenty of money and Arnold
Mancuso was kind and good to her and the girls. She
often wondered if Mick was still waiting for her, but
she knew that this was irrelevant, since she had her
own life to live now.

On Julia’s 35th birthday tragedy struck the Mancuso
family. Her husband was killed in a car crash,
leaving Breffini and Erin fatherless. After a short
time Julia and her daughters returned to Leitrim and
resumed a slower pace of life there. Neighbours,
friends and school companions cheered them up by
inviting them to parties and other small functions in
the area. Julia’s youngest sister, Una, had settled in
Connemara. By coincidence she got tickets for a
dance in Maamcross and brought her widowed sister
as a guest. Everything and everyone seemed strange
to Julia and certainly things were not as flashy as in
the big restaurants and party houses of Chicago.
However, they danced the night away, met up with
new friends and gained new acquaintances.

Towards midnight the last request was played for
Julia Doogan-Mancuso from Leitrim. The name
rang a bell with Mick Cauley who had just rambled
into his Local to meet some of his friends. “This
could never be my sweet-heart, Julia”, he said to
himself. He felt driven to peep through the doorway,
hoping to catch a glimpse of somebody that might
even resemble the only girl he ever loved. There she
was and as she turned around to look for her sister,
he tapped her on the shoulder and without an

44

explanation or introduction they were in each other’s
arms. They chatted together into the early hours of
the morning and before they parted they had
arranged day and date for their wedding. Mick had
waited a long time, but he knew in his heart that this
match was made in heaven.
The day I met Julia on Beach Road she was grieving
Mick’s death and the only thing she wanted to do
now was to tell and retell the love story of her life.

45

Shattering News

Many years ago I lived in a quiet village in the West
of Ireland where everyone was a cherished,
neighbour and friend. Dan and Nancy were the best
neighbours anyone could have. If the window didn’t
close or the key wouldn’t turn on the front door we
called on Dan for help. His wife Nancy was a real
lady, fond of style and wore it well. I always loved
to meet her in town because she was funny and
would give me a full run down on her grandchildren.
The very last time I met her she was excited about
Marthy’s Confirmation. She was going to Angela’s
boutique next day to buy a new outfit. Jokingly I
said, “Nancy you’ll be a distraction to the Bishop”.
She laughed and so did I when she said ‘maybe he
needs a shake up’! These were the last words I ever
heard from Nancy.
Friday evening in their house was always the same.
They had dinner at 5.30 pm and after Dan finished
his chores for the evening they both relaxed by
watching television or doing the crossword together.
They were always in bed by 10 and up at the crack of
dawn.
Early on Saturday morning Dan heard loud and
persistent banging and wondered what was going on.
Nancy wasn’t in the room so he believed she had
fallen in the kitchen. He rushed downstairs to find
two policemen on the doorstep. They apologised for
the urgent banging and proceeded to ask if he knew
where his wife was. Dan firmly believed she was in
the house and shouted her name a few times. It was

46

when one of the officers flashed the car registration
that Dan realised his car was missing.
It seems Nancy left the house shortly after midnight
and drove to a seaside resort. She was seen sitting on
a seat around 2.00 am by a young man who was
walking home from work in the nearby hotel. He
didn’t engage with her but the image of this woman
haunted him and he retraced his steps. As he came
closer he saw she had jumped into the water. He
didn’t hesitate just jumped in and grabbed her as a
huge wave dashed her to the ground. He knew she
was still alive eventhough she felt limp and
breathless as he carried her to the shore. The police
and ambulance service came on the spot but Nancy
died on the way to hospital.
Grief, like a black veil of mystery hung over the
whole village that day. There were no answers as to
why a lovely wife, a mother and grandmother should
disappear overnight. When I saw Nancy again she
was laid out in her house and dressed in the outfit she
intended to wear for her grandchild’s confirmation.
To this day Dan is shattered and suffers from horrific
nightmares with the same loud and persistent
knocking ringing in his ears. I am left speechless
when Dan tells me that he has begun to accept the
mystery of it all. We cry together, say a prayer for
Nancy and then drink a cup of tea before I set out on
my next Mercy call.

47

Learning by Experience

It was a blustery evening early in October when John
and the returned Yank met in the local pub. Austin
had lived in Montana for many years and returned to
Ireland for his retirement. Julie, his American wife
was rather excited at the prospects of finding a
suitable house, one that would have enough en suite
bedrooms for her children and grandchildren when
they came to visit from all over the States.
This meeting was totally coincidental. John was
curious by nature and ventured down to where
Austin was. In the back of his mind he wondered if
he had relations in CULFADA. “You are welcome”
said John, “I see you enjoy a Guinness”. “Indeed I
do”, said the stranger and soon they were in deep
conversation with one another. John being an
Auctioneer all his life knew exactly the type of house
this man was after. He advised him to hasten slowly
so that he would get the best one on the market.
There and then Austin pulled out his phone and
proceeded to show John the house of his dreams on
the Internet. It answered every wish in Julie’s heart
and that was enough for John to buy it. It read,
“beautiful and impressive residence of historic note,
in excellent condition, offers a stunning sea view and
overlooks the local golf course. Bus service three
times daily to the nearby city”.
Surely this had to be the house for them. There was
no doubt in the Yank’s mind. John was hesitant but
revealed nothing. He had sold this very house only
one year ago to another American family who left

48

overnight because of what happened. “Sure it is a
lovely house,” said John, no doubt about that, but I
wouldn’t buy it if I were you”. Austin wasn’t really
looking for advice. His only desire was to please his
wife of 45 years.
This couple moved in at Hallowe’en time, excited
and delighted with their exotic dream house. Their
family and friends travelled from near and far for the
house-warming that went on all day long. Then tired
and somewhat on a high they retired to their lavish
en suite rooms to relax and sleep the night away. Lo
and behold as the loud grandfather clock struck 12
midnight the whole house began to sway back and
forth with eerie yawns and crackling sounds coming
from everywhere all around them.
Terror gripped their hearts and there was nothing
more to do than leave the haunted house that was left
vacant ever since that awful night. Now, Austin
knows what he never wanted to know. Ghosts are
real!

49

Changes through time

The song says “What’s Another Year” and I say
“What’s another century” Time goes too fast and has
done so for millions of years. Change is the one
‘constant’ in our lives and happens whether we want
it or not. There’s great joy and jubilation when a man
or woman reaches their 100th birthday. A hundred
years brings closure to the journey of life with
memories of struggles and triumphs.
My mother was only 7 in 1916, the year of the
Rising; Her father was a widower with nine children
at that time. This family struggled on and made the
best of life as it came their way. They had their
moments of fun and excitement and never failed to
tell us so. Grandfather died in 1947. My mother
raised a family and departed her life 24 years before
the centenary date of the 1916 rising. She was
spectacular in her own way and left a mark that only
she could do. She didn’t earn headlines on our
national newspapers or a news flash for being a
committed and peace loving lady. Wars and
executions were never mentioned and I don’t know
what memories she had of such times. She was
contented with her status as housewife, mother and
homemaker.
Five of her family hope to be together on Easter
week 2016 when we come together to remember
again and honour the brave patriots who died for
Ireland. Our mother won’t be there to add her
prayer. We, her family will. It is our hope that this
celebration will follow on the lines of Queen

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