Grannymar

Kate at iRamble wrote a piece on Dolls Houses For Grown Ups.

It brought back such memories for me…

I did have a marvellous large hand-crafted double fronted dolls house when I was a child.  It had four large windows and above the front door was a porthole window, all five had real glass in them.

The sides and half the front were red brick and the top half was finished with stone chippings  It had a wonderful front entrance with Pillars and steps up to it and some garden out front.  The roof was tiled and topped with a chimney pot.

When you turned the house around there was no back wall so that the rooms inside could be accessed easily.  A very grand staircase that divided and went to both sides of the upper floor There were four bedrooms and an landing area, the latter had the porthole window.

Downstairs, again there were four rooms - kitchen, dining, study and living-room.  It was fully furnished when I got it, and it had battery operated light fittings.  It fully covered a coffee table in the corner of our living room and was just the right height for me to kneel and play with.

Gosh that was over fifty years ago!

Alas, the camera was not pressed into use back then in the way we do today, so I have no pictures to share.

Paul from Blackwatertown left a comment on Who needs a Notebook, a Podcast about our kitchen table in the home of my childhood.

Paul’s comment is priceless and worth reproducing and I do so with pleasure here:

This is wonderful.
How weird hearing your voice.
Does it sound odd to you? It took me a long time to reconcile myself to my own voice - higher than the one in my head.
You read/speak very well. People usually have a tendency to rush through things, accelerating as they go or to stumble repeatedly. You do neither.
And you also manage to sound both precise and warm. They often don’t seem to go together.
I like the table list. I have a picture in my mind of your family having to lug the whole table to the local shop so as to be able to refer to the list. And then you could pile the messages up on the table to carry them back home.
You had me laughing at the part about long division. “Quick, fetch another table! I’m running out of table.”

I do not, and indeed never did like the sound of my own voice,  right from the days of a small reel to reel tape recorder that we had at home.

Everywhere I worked involved using my voice, there were phones, a tannoy system that relayed my voice throughout an office, steel-work yards and indeed through many streets in the surrounding area.  The lads I worked with took great pleasure in trying to distract me and make me laugh while speaking.  Once or twice they succeeded!

Later it was a radio system to engineers at their point of work.

After I married, my voice came into play once more through charity work.  I spoke in schools and at meetings of ladies groups or clubs and also at the AGMs of the Charity concerned.  HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal, was our President and I had the opportunity of speaking to her after she chaired one of those AGMs.   This was all done in front of the cameras.  Following that I was interviewed for The BBC and ITV news programmes.  They wanted to know what she said to me.  The secret was to get the message I had delivered over, without actually repeating what HRH had actually said.

The largest group that I addressed was a full congregation in St Anne’s Cathedral in Belfast.  Again, it was in aid of Charity.

Through the world of blogging, my voice was used at Barcamp and Podcamps, I have been interviewed for radio and invited to take part in RTE’s Afternoon Show.

So whether I like the sound or not the ould voice has come in handy!

Paul, I love the idea of carrying the table to the shops to buy a half stone of spuds, two dozen eggs, six pints of milk and 6 pounds of butter!  As for the long division we managed to keep the figures on the one table, they just got smaller and smaller the longer the sum!

As I begin my piece for the Loose Bloggers Consortium this week, I would like to ask you to pause for a moment and think of Conrad and his family who were bereaved last weekend by the death of Conrad’s father Joe.  Over the past couple of years Joe had become familiar to us through Conrad’s writing and one very moving post - Fathers Are Sons’ Templates is an excellent example of the love and affection they had.  I was fortunate to have spoken to Joe via Skype, not all that long ago.   May Joe Rest in Peace and may Corky and the family find acceptance and strength in the strong bond of love between them.

Our topic today was chosen by Delirious

Ancestors

I could write reams about my ancestors, but so much of it would be repetition and boring for some long time readers.  I have decided instead to pick four posts from my archive.  Two are written posts sandwiched between two podcasts.  I hope you will enjoy them.

Which Branch are You? (Podcast)

My 3rd Great Maternal Grandfather 1763 – 1836

Who would you like to meet from past history?

My paternal Great Grandmother 1840 - 1921

History in the Making

My Maternal Granny 1884 - 1968

Who needs a Notebook? (Podcast)

Mammy 1914 -1996

The topic for the Loose Bloggers Consortium today was chosen by Padmini.

Glory

I could never see it.  It was very visible to those all around me.

For me it was heavy, wilful and required plenty of work.

“Ouch!” I wailed

“Pride feels no pain.”  The answer was always the same.  But then Mammy could not feel the pain she was inflicting on me.

It was the same every morning.  My thick mop of curly hair was a mass of tangles.

Once tamed to Mammy’s satisfaction with a chocolate box bow sitting neatly on top I was set up for the day.  That was unless the boy next door saw me.  He always made straight for the bow and pulled it off.

As I grew older my hair was always remarked on.  I learned how to master and tame it and when the sun shone the auburn tresses dazzled and danced.

Daddy always referred to my hair as my ‘Crowning Glory’.

With time, the gold is turning to silver, but I still have a good head of hair.

Did you miss me?  I had a busy few days with family and friends.  It was fun.

One day was spent with three of my siblings recalling the times we all lived under the one roof….

Was that not just last year?

We headed to The National Botanic Gardens, where we had lunch and sauntered around the various sections of the grounds recalling the tastes & sounds that take each of us right back to that time long ago.  Details of events that each had a different memory of, and the silly things we discovered - like peony roses which three of us hated.  Peeling potatoes got several mentions.

In the Sensory Garden designed by Joan Rogers in 2002, we sat and enjoyed the sunshine as one story led to another.  Suddenly a robin landed on the railing round the pond, and watched and twittered at us.  All four said in unison “That’s Dan’s Bird!”

Dan’s Bird

Further along we found the fruit and vegetable garden.  Along one wall were Gooseberry bushes and just look at the effect that had on my siblings….

Looking for Babies

I bet Gooseberry bushes never had that effect on you.  I suppose I better explain…

When we were young there was a gooseberry bush next to the shed at the end of the garden.  I seem to remember it being removed after our sister was born.  When ever we asked that thousand dollar question… you know the one:

“Where did I come from?”

We were all told that we were found under a gooseberry bush!

Plymouth is a city on the coast of Devon, England, about 190 miles south-west of London.

I have never been there.

BUT…. I have been here:-

With Elly at Plymouth Rock

We didn’t travel on the Mayflower.  HONEST!

I even found a Ranger!

That would be Dan’s bird.  We never really knew which of the 200 regularly occurring bird species in Ireland, Dan’s bird belonged.  It was certainly swift, that is in speed terms.  It had no name other than ‘Dan’s bird’,  Had the brothers been older, then constantly referring to Dan’s bird might have raised smiles or eyebrows. But it was holy catholic Ireland and we were young innocent children.

You see the Dan’s bird seemed to spend most of the day watching our every movement while remaining invisible to us.  All six of us - no matter whether we were all at home or scattered to the four winds of Dublin.  The bird knew exactly where we were and what we were up to.

There were days when Dan came in tired and weary from work, with a face as long as he was tall.  Those were the days when the bird had pecked on the windscreen of the car, her way of asking Dan to roll down the window.  You won’t remember, sure it was long before the days of electric windows in cars.  You had to turn a handle in a circular motion to open or close a window.  Now the car might seem antiquated, but it was magic too… It had a spare gallon of petrol hidden for emergencies.

Tales of all kinds of mischief were told.  A brother jumping off the roof of the shed at the end of the garden, another ‘boxing the fox’ at Baldy D’s.  Trips to hospital for stitches or checking a broken collar bone.  I am sure there might have been a wee story about me, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it might have been.

Dan’s bird was not into all doom and gloom, she reported the good stories as well as the bad.  Someone winning a race, or passing an exam got a mention.

We thought that every family had a bird like Dan’s.

Did you have one in your household?

We all have them, sometimes even without realising it.

The place where you put your keys when you go to bed.  What?  Don’t tell you leave them on the coffee table in the living room or on the hall table ready for a quick escape in case of fire in the middle of the night.  It is a well known fact that those are the first places a burglar will look.

For years in many homes in Ireland, there were only two keys to the front door.  The man of the house had one and the other was for use by the wife and all the children.  If ‘mother’ was going out before the children were home from school, the key was placed under the doormat or nearest flowerpot.

In other houses the key was attached to a long piece of cord and hung on a nail on the inside of the door directly above the letterbox.   When any member of the family arrived home, they put their hand through the letterbox and pulled out the cord until they had the key.  The cord would be long enough to reach the key hole.  Once the door was open the key was pushed back through the letterbox once more.

I know a lady who is so afraid of locking herself out that she has given keys to some of her neighbours.  I actually sat and counted the number of keys belonging to her that she gave to people at different times.  EIGHT  Eight sets of keys and I am sure that half the time she does not remember who has them.

I have contingency plans made for when I lock myself out.  I have done, and proved my plan works, but there is no way I am telling the whole world how I do it!

Now one lady I knew kept money in cookery book, but that is a story for another day

I had nothing in my mind when I tossed this topic into the pile for the LBC, a very long time ago.

NOTHING

Sitting tapping my fingers on the edge of the keyboard hoping for inspiration to strike, a couple of words from a song came into my head and there they stuck like sh*t to a blanket.  Nothing would shift them.

‘Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could….’

With them I was back in the year 1966, sitting in the Savoy Cinema, on O’Connell Street in Dublin, with all my siblings and my parents watching The Sound of Music.  It was the first time any of us had seen a film on a wide screen.  The occasion was a late celebration of the 25th Wedding Anniversary for our parents and it was to be followed by dinner in the Gresham Hotel, a couple of doors away.  But I have gone off on a tangent…

“What have you got there?”  was the question that caused me to hesitate in my tracks as I ran down the garden.

“Nothing.” I replied without turning, holding tightly to my oversized jumper.

I was on a mission and I needed to keep going as fast as my little legs would carry me.

I didn’t actually find what I needed on my fast foray to the kitchen.  A hand or tea towel would be missed and anyway I would never get rid of the evidence.  Never stuck, in time of need, my solution was stuffed up my jersey!

I was actually surprised that there was no noise coming from the area where I was headed.  At my tender age, it did not ring any alarm bells for me.  In my book at that time, the less said the sooner mended.

You see, it was not really my fault.  SERIOUSLY.

There was nobody in front of me when I lifted the triangular headed hoe above my head.  I needed a good sharp blow to make a cut in the hard compacted soil that I wanted to clear.  My younger brothers were well behind me and I had told them to stay there.  That of course was as silly an idea as hoping a dropped slice of jammy bread would land sticky side up as it reached terra firma.

I didn’t hear or see the youngest one move.  He was magically there as the hoe descended full force to land on his forehead.

I had accidently split my little brother’s head open with a garden hoe!

So, as I arrived on the scene of my crime there was blood streaming down his face.  I had seen blood before, and I knew what to do.  I needed to wipe it off and I was ready!

I produced a bundle of paper bags and proceeded to mop up the blood.

It worked.

Yeah… for about two seconds, so I tried again.

And again!

“Holy Mother of all divine race horses; what is going on here?” It was mammy.  That sentence was not exactly what she said, but you get the idea.   I froze on the spot.  Partly with fear and partly with relief.  Not satisfied with my scurrying reply, she had come to investigate.

Mammy took in the situation quickly and called on a neighbour with a car to drive her to the local children’s hospital.  There were not many cars about on our avenue at that time, and daddy was at work.  She took my other brother with her…. I wonder why?  I was left in charge of the house in case anyone phoned.

The house was quiet at first, but then all the ghosts and devils of the Universe began to shout and taunt me for nearly killing my brother.  He could have been lying dead on a cold slab at that very moment for all I knew.  I couldn’t hack it any more…

I packed my bag and went in search of a new home.  There was no point in waiting until mammy came home and threw me out.

I left by the back door bag in hand, and walked slowly down the garden, dragging my feet with every step.  I crossed the fence to the house next door and asked our neighbour if I could live in her house!  She brought me in to sit by the fire and gave me a cup of tea.  She chatted away to me for quite some time.  Eventually mammy arrived to bring me home.

I wondered how mammy knew where I was?  Our neighbour had no phone, computers and  internet were unheard of then, never mind twitter; but those women had ways of communicating and they watched out for each other and all the children of the neighbourhood.  If any parent chastised us we took it on board, and in turn we could ask any of them for help.  There was no such thing as fear or inappropriate behaviour.  We were very fortunate.

Did you say something?

You want to know about my little brother?  Oh yes, his head healed, but he has never let me forget it.  Of all the four brothers, he is the only one to sport a monks haircut so the scar is visible every time I see him.  Mind you, that is usually on Skype.  He moved to Australia, well out of the reach of the garden hoe!

Active LBC Members are:

• Anu
• Ashok
• Conrad
• Delirious
• gaelikaa
• Grannymar
• Magpie 11
• padmum
• Ramana
• The Silver Fox Whispers

Some may be distracted by work, play, love and or family, so their post may be late in appearing.

Good King Conrad had the chore of picking the topic for today.

Sanity

Part of being sane, is being a little crazy ~ Janet Long

Sanity is a madness put to good use ~ George Santavana

“Is that ‘Mad Granny’ you are talking about?”

This is a question that I often hear Elly ask.  It usually follows some tale I have told about my childhood.

Mad Granny (MG) was my maternal grandmother and I loved the bones of her.  I was not alone, my siblings and all the neighbouring children round about us, loved to see her come and visit too.  She lived off the South Circular Road in Dublin from the day she got married.  She came every Sunday for lunch and stayed until well after the evening meal.  Although she had seven children, ours was the house where she felt most at home. In the latter years she would arrive several times a week and on occasion would stay over night.

MG talked of the ‘coal hole’, although all fuel for the fire was kept in a shed built for that purpose in her back garden.  Mentioning it now, tells me something about myself, and my asking a young Elly to bring me (insert product name) from under the stairs…. The madness runs in families they say!  This house has no stairs and the house I remember MG living in had no coal hole.

The house where MG was born was mid terrace, all the houses were built by her father.  In the street outside there was a circular manhole cover in front of each dwelling.  Once lifted it allowed the coal man to drop the weekly order down into the cellar.

MG was a woman before her time, wearing bright yellows when many women her age wore the widow’s black.  Her Lisle stockings* were frowned upon by my other granny.  She had her troubles in life – found her husband dead in bed one morning – leaving her with a family to educate, yet she did not let her grief overtake and hinder the enjoyment of her grandchildren.  There were with time 27 grandchildren for her to spoil.

My eldest brother was the first of his generation on that side of the family.  A quiet child with a mop of blond curls, he did not like to get his hands dirty.  One summers day MG arrived (so I was told) and the young toddler was sitting in the playpen half way down the garden.  Down she went to say hello and handed him a bar of chocolate.  Leaving him to discover the pleasure of it, she returned to my mother in the kitchen.

The kettle had hardly boiled when she looked out through the window and began to laugh.  My brother was looking at his hands in horror, they were covered in chocolate.  On more careful examination he was covered in the stuff, on his hair, face and all down his front.  MG laughed and laughed.  She had never seen him with a hair out of place or with a speck of dirt on his clothes until that day!

If you were sitting beside her at table, she might tap you on the furthest shoulder and as you turned away to see what the tap was for, she would use her other hand to lift the last treasured bite of a sweetmeat from your plate!  With MG we could not be cross for long.

When we as youngsters had cleared the dining table and were running the hot water to wash the dishes, granny would appear, pushing up her sleeves and donning an apron from the back of the kitchen door.  As she reached the sink she would pause and say “I don’t fancy washing up tonight, will we just chuck them out the window?”

We loved her fun and to this day I miss her.  I only hope I inherited her madness, because if I did, I know I am quite sane and can come to no harm.

* Lisle was a fine, smooth, tightly twisted thread spun from long-stapled cotton. The fabric knitted of this thread was used especially for hosiery and underwear.

Active LBC Members are:

• Anu
• Ashok
• Conrad
• Delirious
• gaelikaa
• Grannymar
• Magpie 11
• padmum
• Ramana
• The Silver Fox Whispers

Some may be distracted by work, play, love and or family, so their post may be late in appearing.