The School Hall.

This is the school hall in Saint Finbar’s School, Cabra West. The first time I was ever in this hall I was about four years of age. My older brother brought me to see a film of Abbott and Costello meets the Mummy. The hall was crammed with millions of other children, most of whom where screaming and shouting to each other. Some adults too where shouting even louder at the children to ‘shut up and sit down or you’ll be barred’. I had no idea what they meant by this as I took a tighter grip on my brother’s hand. I was afraid of getting lost in the crowd. Eventually the lights were dimmed and the steady humming noise from the film projector silenced the mob. Everyone settled back to enjoy the film. I think the first film to come on the big screen was called The Masked Rider, a silent film with a piano music soundtrack. I was mesmerised by the big screen hanging on the wall over the entrance doors to the hall. This was my first time to see a real film. The roars and screams from the gangs of children were almost deafening when Abbott and Costello came on the screen with the Mummy coming up behind them. ‘Behind ya mister’ went up the chorus from the entire audience. The walls of the entire building shook from the screams. That film and experinece was my baptism by fire into the world of cinema. This was also the first place I had ever seen Dicke Rock from Dingle Road singing with the Blue Clavon. It was a charity concert that included the Dubliners ballad group. And of course when I graduated to Finbars from the convent the hall became a semi permanent fixture in my young life. On rainy days we played in this hall instead of going out into the school yard. In my teen years with the Cabra Tech Icame here to the Hops and dances that the priest ran each Friday night and Sunday afternoon. As a young boy the hall seemed almost as big in size as the compound on lower Killala Road. When I returned to it some years ago I was shocked at how much it had shrunk over the years. Today St Finbar’s School and hall haven’t got as many children attending as it had in the 1950′s when I was there.

The Coal Man.

At some stage of our existence my mother joined a Coal Club at 2/6 (Two shillings and six pennies) a week. A man called to the house every Friday night to collect the money. He had a certain amount of customers who made up the ‘Club’ and he would call on these each week to collect the subscription for the coal. When each of his customers had received their coal then the’Club’ would start over again. Each customer got their coal delivery in turn. My mother always seemed to go into town for something or other and on the occasion when the coal man was due she’d leave strict instructions with one of my older brothers to make sure to count all of the bags of coal as they were brought into our kitchen and emptied under the stairs in the coal hole. On a winters evening it would be quite dark and cold outside. We’d all huddle together around the fire listening to the rain lashing on the kitchen window, tap tap tapping trying to get into our nice warm kitchen. The flames from the fire would throw long black eerie shadows across the ceiling and onto the wall by the old Belfast kitchen sink. It was like a scene from Charles Dickens novel ‘Great Expectations’. Then all of a sudden a great hammering noise would shake the house and make all of our little hearts miss a beat in terror at the noise being hammered out on our hall door. The coal man had arrived. On opening the door a great giant of a man covered from head to toe in black coal dust stood humped over and stooped with a great big sack of coal on his back. We’d all sit in terror of this dark stranger as he stomped in and out of our kitchen. Under our breaths we’d all count, one bag, two bags, three bags until all eight bags of black glistening coal was emptied out. The coal dust would ever so gently drift down and settle on the gas stove, the draining board and the sink. The coal man would make a deep grunting noise to my brother who would grab a pencil and carefully write his name on the delivery docket to say that he had personally counted eight bags of coal being brought into the house. As quickly and as noisily as he came, the coal man left. The hall door slamming shut behind him. When my brother had settled back into his place by the fire we’d ask him what the coal man had said. He’d look around at each of our faces, then mimicking the coal man he’d suddenly let out a great big grunting noise and we’d all roar out laughing.

A Family Wedding.

(Click on photo to enlarge)

Michael Sheridan from Ventry Park and May Killens from Carnlough Road.

Weddings were always a great occasion in Cabra. In the weeks leading up to the big day neighbours spoke to each other of little else and especially if the couple getting married were both from the same area. There was all sorts of comings and goings in both houses in preparation for the big day. The house had to be scrubbed clean from top to bottom, the lace curtains taken down and washed by hand so they wouldn’t shrink, new wallpaper had to be put up, the window frames on the front of the house had to be painted and even the garden gate sometimes got a lick of silver paint. There was great excitement in the air on the morning of the wedding. The neighbours were often invited into the house of the bride to view her wedding presents laid out in the parlour or in one of the bedrooms. The canteen of cutlery usually took pride of place alongside a new bedspread or quilt that came with a set of matching bedsheets and pillow cases. Two or three sets of delph were proudly displayed on a sideboard next to a lamp-stand with a giant lampshade that looked like the hat the mother of the bride had borrowed for the wedding. The room was laid out like Aladdin’s Cave.

Some of the neighbours were busy helping out in the kitchen making cheese and tomato sandwiches for afterwards or looking after the great big piece of ham boiling on the gas stove. Kettles of water for the tea were constantly on the boil also. Everyone in the house had a job to do or a place to go. Children’s faces were being scrubbed clean as the Da’ stood over the kitchen sink having a shave, his voice bellowing out some song or other as memories of his own wedding came flooding back. The mother of the bride was busy upstairs helping her daughter fit into her wedding dress. The bedroom floor being litterd with toilet paper that wiped away the tears of joy of both women. ‘I’m going to miss you ma’. ‘I know love but you can always come back to visit’. There were many time when the bride and groom moved in and lived in the same house with either parent. In the grooms house the big question everyone was asking was ‘Now are you sure you’ve got the ring’? ‘Of course I’ve got the ring, I’m not stupid you know’ . ‘And don’t forget the shilling for the altar boys‘. Shoes were polished to the highest standard so that faces could be seen in them. The Da’ was in control as he gave out orders to younger children about behaving themselves in the church. He’d also make sure there was enough drink in for the neighbours. It certainly wouldn’t do to run dry of drink halfway through the day. The Ma’ was busy ironing shirts and wiping dirty faces clean with a spit and a lick.

Suddenly it was that time as everyone clambered out of the houses to the applause and cheers of neighbours and friends. Most of the guests had to walk around to the church while the bride and her father travelled in the back of a borrowed Morris Minor. Inside the church all was quiet and reverend as both families sat opposite each other. The priest standing on the altar with the groom anxiously waiting to see the face of his new bride as she solomnly walked up the aisle holding onto her father’s arm. Crowds of people and especially young children would gather outside the church. The children all waiting for the traditional ‘Grushie’ were wedding guests would throw handfuls of loose money into the air above the heads of the waiting children. What a scene that was as they dived onto the money or tried to grab it in mid air before it reached the ground. The crowds would let out a big cheer as the newly married couple emerged from the church. Everyone made their way back to the house for tea and sandwiches washed down with a drop of porter for the men and a glass of sweet sherry or babycham for the women. And so the day went on with everyone happy to see the newly married couple head off in the Morris Minor for the train to Bray and their weekend honeymoon by the sea.

Washing Day.

(Click on photo to renlarge)

How did my mother ever manage to wash the clothes before the family moved to Cabra? My father and mother along with four little children previously lived in a front room on the top floor of a tenement house in Gardiner Street. When they eventually moved to Killala Road in Cabra West the house had no bath, it was the war years and things were scarce. But they had the old Belfast sink in the kitchen which was used for washing everything. On Saturday nights it was like a sheep dip with so many Coffeys waiting to be washed and scrubbed with carbolic soap. On Sunday morning the Da’ used it for his wash and shave. All the cracked delph and odd bits of cutlery were washed in cold water during the week. When the bath was finally installed it became amongst other things the family washing machine. The Ma’ would half fill it with a mix of hot and cold water and put the bedsheets and the Da’s white shirt in to soak for a few hours. Then like an army of little ants we were marched upstairs and taking off our shoes we’d stand in the bath on top of the clothes and stomp our little feet up and down to help get the grime out of the clothes. The Ma’ loved a fine breezy day because it was ‘a good day for drying’. Because we had such a big gang in our family we had two clothes lines in our back garden. To stand in our back yard and look at the white bedsheets dancing on the clothesline was like looking at the Onedin Line on telly. They looked like great big sailing ships heading off to India and China for great big chests of tea that had the silver paper in them for the Black Babies. Our first washing machine had a mangle on the top of it that you had to turn by hand. The machine would stand in the middle of the kitchen floor and once turned on it would do a jig around the kitchen, we’d all hop on it for a jaunt, ‘Giddy up there cowboy’. The poor Ma’s hands were frozen blue with the cold and all wrinkled up from dipping them in and out of the water. We’d end up with more water on the kitchen floor than there was in the Cabra Baths. Windows and doors were flung wide open to help dry it all out. Sometimes the Ma’ would borrow space on the neighbours clothesline next door. I remember the clothes line full of football shirts and shorts belonging to a rugby team. They belonged to the Hibernian Bank rugby team, the Da’ worked in the bank as a porter and offered to have me Ma’ wash all their gear for free. To this day I still love the smell of freshly washed clothes coming off the clothesline, it brings me back all those years ago. (Thanks to Liam O’Kelly for the photo)

The School Around the Corner.

Sunday in our house was always a great day. The Da’ would be up at the crack of dawn dragging the lads out of their beds to go to Mass. Because he’d been in the army everything had to be done in military precision so as keep some kind of order with fifteen children. Everything was done in shifts. The girls were always up first on Sunday morning because they needed to use the toilet. The boys had to march out to the backyard and pee down the drain hole outside the back door. And if you weren’t quick enough whoever came behind you was likely to pee down the back of your legs. We’d have a quick duck under the cold-water tap for a wash as we passed through the kitchen on our way back upstairs. The boys back then didn’t wear underpants or anything like that. So it was a mad dive into the big wardrobe in the back bedroom for a dirty clean shirt to wear to Mass.
The Da’ was great on Sunday mornings because he’d have a fry going for us for breakfast. He’d give each of us a fried egg on fried bread and a plate of bread and dripping all washed down with a cup of tea. Most of the cups in our house were either cracked or chipped but who noticed? We certainly didn’t because if you hesitated to eat or drink anything at our table the rest of the gang jumped on it and scoffed it down before you could change your mind. After ten o’clock Mass we were thrown outside to play with our pals, regardless of the weather. Then the kitchen was in full blast with the Ma’ and Da’ getting things ready for our Sunday dinner. The smell of boiling cabbage and and cow’s tongue filled every corner of our house. On the odd Sunday the Da’ would send one of the older brothers to Cafolla’s shop window on Fassaugh Avenue for a block of ice-cream and a packet of wafers. At our dinner table we looked like ‘The Waltons’ off the television. The Ma’ and Da’ sat at the top of the table facing downwards and each of us according to our age from eldest down to youngest took our rightful place around the table. We didn’t of course have enough chairs or stools for us all to sit on so most of us had to eat our dinner standing up. Now nothing in our house ever went to waste, especially when it came to food. We all had to play our part in the clean-up after dinner.
On a fine Sunday afternoon the Da’ would take a gang of us younger ones up to the Phoenix Park for a ramble. He never brought us into the Zoo, he’d have us walk around the outside and peek in through the railings at the animals. Back home my mother was busy baking a cake or two for the Sunday tea. By the time we all returned home we’d be starving again. We’d have batch loaf sandwiches filled with meat left over from the dinner, bread and margarine and a slice of my mother’s tea brack. Our teapot was actually a big old style kettle that you needed both hands to carry it to the table. Some of us would try to be posh and use a tea strainer to catch the tea leaves in. Then the Ma’ would read my sisters’ tea leaves. According to the tea leaves they should have all married tall dark strangers.
When the tea was over we’d have to do our ecker or homework for school the next day. Then it was out to play with our pals agains until Paddy Crosbie came on the old black and white television screen with ‘The School Around the Corner’. We’d all sit on the floor in front of the telly mesmerized by the culchie accents of some of the little boys and girls on the show. I remember one time there was a young boy on it who said he’d never been to the seaside, I think now that his family was from the midlands somewhere. We all laughed at the idea because we were always brought to Dollymount, how could someone never be brought to the seaside? Paddy Crosbie was great fun with kids and their funny stories, recitations and jokes.
When that was over we watched the Black and White Minstrel Show on the BBC station. The Da’ would join in singing all the ould songs and especially if they were old army songs…’Bless them all, bless them all, the long and the short and the tall…’. In my head I can still hear the Da’ singing and the Ma’ laughing at him as her knitting needles clicked and clacked in time to the music. Yes Sundays in our house in Cabra West were some of the greatest time in my young life.

First Holy Communiion Day.

Do you remember years ago when you made your First Holy Communion? That’s my little sister on the left holding her certificate. I still have my one somewhere with the promise written on the back to always say my prayers before going to bed. It was the first time in my life that I actually got to wear something that my brothers or sisters hadn’t already worn. Do you remember the kind of questions the Nun’s drilled into us?…’Who made the world’? ‘God made the world, Sister’. ‘Can God do all things’? ‘Eh yeah’. ‘What do you mean “Eh Yeah. well? With the hair standing up on the back of your neck and the pee heading south down your spindley little legs you froze in terror. Out came the brown leather strap and twice as quick out came the answer ‘God can do all things, he is almighty’.Phew, that was close. In preparation for our big day the Nun put a small piece of an ice-cream wafer on our tongues and told us to pretend it was actual Holy Communion. Well that brought the leather strap out again as some of the lads began chewing on it. God but we were innocent. We were marched in single file to the little chapel in the convent grounds to have our Confession heard. The Nun had told us that we would hear the voice of God in the confession box but to our little ears God sounded awfully like the Priest who came into our classroom to test us out with more questions. And do you remember the morning of your Communion? We were scrubbed spotless clean from head to toe and warned not to get ourselves dirty. The little young one from next door looking angelic in her white dress and new overcoat. She had a veil on her head that reminded me of all the weddings in our neighbourhood. I was only hoping to God that we weren’t getting married because she had one of those plaster patches over one eye of her glasses. The Mammy and Daddy were all spruced up and of course Granny had to come along as well. It was great because everyone kept putting money in my pockets. ‘Here you are love, there’s a little something for yourself’. Another threepenny bit would slip and slide down in my pocket and snuggle up to the pennies and halfpennies that were already there. Heading off to the convent chapel my stomach was rumbling for food. ‘Shut up moaning or you’ll get a belt’ says Granny. Then I couldn’t wait to get another piece of ice-cream wafer. All of the boys sat on one side of the chapel and the girls all sat on the other. I remember looking around to see where the Ma’ was and there she was smiling up at me like an angel from heaven. Then again we moved in single file up to the altar rail with out tongues hanging out to receive for the very first time the Body and Blood of Christ. It was white and round and didn’t look anything like the ice-cream wafer. It was also much bigger than I thought it would be. It actually filled my whole mouth and I couldn’t swallow it. Panic sets in as I begin to imagine myself having a martyrs death choking on my first piece of Holy Communion. I began to feel faint when one of the nuns gave me a shove and landed me back in my seat. Suddenly it was all over and we were outside getting photographs taken beside the little grotto with the statue of Our Lady. The Da’ was dying for a cigarette and me Granny wanted a cup of tea. I remember my mother bending down to fix my little white ankle socks that she had bought in Clery’s. The rest of the day went by in a blurr of aunties, uncles, neighbours, tea, cakes, lemonade and the back of my new shoes tearing the skin from the heel of my left foot. I don’t remember seeing much of my new suit after that but I remember my mother saying something about going to my ‘Uncle’ with it, so maybe one of my cousins got the suit. Well it’s that time of year again as my little seven year old nephew is making his First Holy Communion today. I hope he has as many memories of this special occasion as I have of mine. What was your special day like?

Dollyer

I recently went for a walk along Dollymount Strand early one morning. There was a cold sea breeze coming in over the bay. At one point I stood and looked out over the water as I hunched up against the cold air. It was then that my mind began playing tricks because I imagined I could see and hear all the kids from years ago running up and down the strand, splashing in the water and screaming at the top of their voices. Isn’t the ould memory a wonderful thing all the same? I could picture the Ma’ and Da’ settling down amongst the sand dunes. The Da’ taking charge of course as if he was back in his old army days. ‘Here, you run off and fill that kettle with water for the tea’. ‘Get your clothes off and get into that water quick or I’ll throw you all in’. The Ma’ was sitting on the Da’s overcoat cuddling her baby close to her breast. The older brothers were gathering bits of driftwood for the fire. Myself and the rest of the gang hadn’t a care in the world as we ran miles out to the water. And do you know the other thing I remembered when I was standing there looking at the water? The old wooden bridge we had to cross when we got off the bus. Bejakers that was a scarey old bridge. The Da’ used to tell us to be careful or we’d fall through the cracks in the timber. Do you remember you could look down through the timbers and see the water below? There was no place like Dollyer. We could run wild and there were no ould neighbours to give out to us for making a racket. The Ma’ brought loads of tomatoe and cheese sandwiches that her and me sisters made that morning. It was like a production line in our kitchen at home when we were going to the seaside. By the time we got to eat them they were soggy and saggy. Do you remember the fire that the Da’ would light? No matter where you sat the smoke would always find you and burn the eyes out of your head. These are some of the things that went through my head as I stood on Dollymount Strand looking out over the water. Isn’t it a funny ould world all the same.

The Graveyard visits.

                         
                                             (Click on the image to enlarge)

When we were all small the Ma’ used to always take us for real long walks everywhere. One of her favourites walks was up to Glasnevin Cemetery. Sometimes she’d bring a lemonade bottle filled with water for us to drink and she’s always pack a few sandwiches as well. She called them ‘Dagwood Sandwiches’ because each sandwich had three slices of bread. Sometimes there might be some home-made jam in them or just margarine if it was during the summer. As you can see from this photograph taken in 1967 my mother rarely went anywhere on her own. We were like little baby ducks tagging along behind her.

We’d always head up over Broombridge Road and call in to her sister to see if she wanted to come with us. Well she had a gang of kids as well and together we all looked like something out of an orphanage. We’d head over the Royal Canal at Broombridge and turn right down along the canal bank towards Phibsborough direction. This was a magic land for us kids as we’d toss and throw stones in the canal water trying to splash each other. The Ma’ and her sister would walk miles ahead of us. But do your know, the strange this is that my mother always claimed to have eyes in the back of her head. Without turning around she’d shout out ‘Stop trying to push your sister into the water’. The Ma’ missed nothing that was going on behind her back.
When we finally got to the bridge at the far end we’d turn left and head up towards the cemetery. In next to no time we’d be at the row of little cottages on our left-hand side and across the road was the big wall surrounding the cemetery. The Ma’ would tell us stories about grave robbers digging up the dead in the black of night. Soon we’d arrive at the gate of the grave yard on the canal side of the main cemetery where my Granny was buried. The Ma’ and her sister would stand beside Granny’s grave in quiet contemplation saying a silent prayer for the repose of her soul as we ran wild amongst the surrounding headstones and graves. Then we’d head over to the main cemetery to visit all the Ma’s school pals who had died. Just inside the main gate we’d all sit on a strip of grass near the holy graves of all the catholic bishops and have our picnic. By the time I got to have a drink of water out of the lemonade bottle there’d be lots of spits and bits of bread floating on the top.
We’d then be taken on a tour of all the old graves belonging to the men who fought and died in 1916. We were always taken to see the resting place of Countess Markievics because my Granny knew her well. Very few of the people the Ma’ knew had a headstone over their grave. She must have attended all of their funerals because she knew exactly where each one was buried, what they died from and the year that they died. The Ma’ and her sister would spend ages talking about each one and who they went out with and eventually married, were they lived and how many children they each had. What a great store of information these two sisters had between them. Then we’d head home along the Ballyboggan Road back to Broombridge.
As children we had no fear of grave yards because they were just second nature to us. Even today when I go away on holiday I’m looking for the local grave yard. Well now when I visit Glasnevin Cemetery I always stroll over the railway bridge on the other side of the road and visit not only my Granny but also my mother and her sister. They are all together in the one grave. And that’s how it was always meant to be. In life the three of them were inseparable. Isn’t it a strange thing to think that now, we are the older generation. Over the years I very often took my own children into grave yards for picnics and made up all sorts of stories for them. What great memories to have of spending time with the Ma’…God bless her.

Light a Penny Candle.

 

This is the inside of the Church of the Most Precious Blood in Cabra West. I was baptised here and made my First Holy Communion here as did most of my brothers and sisters. Some of them were even married here and my parents were brought here on the day of their funeral. As a young child I was brought here to ten o’clock Mass and later on went to the Sodality here and also confession. The other day I attended ten o’clock Mass in this church. I sat at the very back so that I could observe the other people, mainly older retired people and the priest up on the altar. It was an interesting experience as I sat there remembering and recalling how so much of my younger life revolved around this fine edifice.

I thought of all me old school pals who were often marched here from nearby Finbars school and remembered that most of them like me will turn 60 this year. How the years have flown so quickly. I sat in the pew trying to recall all the old neighbours who came here every Sunday and the men and women who would call in on their way to and from work to say a little prayer or light a candle. So many memories came flooding into my poor head that I nearly got a headache. I especially took this photograph from a low position to remind me of what it must have looked like for me as a small child coming in to mass with all the brothers and sisters so many years ago.

After the mass was over I went up and lit two candle. One was for all those people who look in on this website and especially those who live so far away from Cabra. The second candle I lit was in memory of my parents and their good neighbours who are no longer with us. I do this every time I go into a church that has candles. I love going into churches regardless of which religion they are and I love going into grave yards too. So maybe the next time you’re in a church either at home or on holiday, you might light a candle or two yourself and think of all the good people you’ve come across in your life.

Jun 28 2011

 

'Here's Your Wages'

I first started work at thirteen years of age. It was a summer job way out in the countryside in a place called Santry. I was a ‘Plugger’ in Brothers Sewing Machine factory on Santry Lane. My job was to put an electric plug on each sewing machine as it came down the assembly line. My starting wage was four pounds a week. I remember getting my first wage packet, a little brown envelope that was glued shut so the money didn’t fall out and it included a long skinny payslip. When the supervisor came around on my first pay-day (Because I was only on work experience I didn’t have to work a back week) and handed me this envelope I was shaking at the idea of having earned four pounds, a fortune to me back then. I couldn’t wait to give it all to the Ma’ and cycled like mad through the countryside of Santry, Ballymun and Finglas roaring and singing my head off with delight. I burst through the hall door shouting for the Ma’ and proudly handed her my unopened first pay packet. She stood grinning down at me, as only the Ma’ can as she opened the envelope. I couldn’t wait to see what money I had got for my weeks work. Out came four brand new one pound notes and my pay slip. The Ma’ reached out and handed me one of the notes and said ‘Here’s your wages’. I was bursting with delight, a whole pound note all to meself. Now I could go to the pictures loads of times or buy as many slabs of Cleeves toffees as I wanted to or even buy a bottle of American Cream Soda and drink it all to meself. What a great feeling it was to be working and bringing in a wage just like the Da’ and my older siblings. First thing monday morning I’d be up with the lark and off on my bike again to earn more money. The lads on the road didn’t quite cut it with me anymore because they didn’t have a job as important as mine, I was a ‘Plugger’. The Da’ told me that I had one of the most important jobs in the factory because without the plugs on the sewing machines they wouldn’t work. Image that!!! There were two big fellas from Leix Road that worked there. One of them was a big fella named Mick and I think his pal was Joe Lyons. There was another fella from Ventry Park who had a big motorbike and played the guitar and then there was Bobby Paget from Fassaugh Avenue that went to school with me Da’. He was in charge of the tea room where we went for our breaks. That was the summer of 1965 when short skirts were becoming all the rage and Scott McKenzie was going to San Francisco with flowers in his hair. A big crowd of lads from Cabra were riding around on their Honda 50′s thinking they were the new age Hells Angels. Sure the finance company owned all them motorbikes because none of the lads ever finished paying for them on the never-never. Those were the days alright when you got value for your pound note.

Meath Street

(Click on photo to enlarge)
Most every Saturday morning the Ma’ and Da’ would be up early. They never stayed in bed for a ‘lie-on’ as we called it. Orders for the day were given out. In our house we had Spring Cleaning every Saturday. All the beds had to be made and each room swept and dusted. The stairs had to be swept down as well and the lino on each step had to be washed and polished. Everything brass on the hall door had to be sparkling using an old sock and a tin of Brasso, even the little brass roller under the weather board at the bottom of the hall door had to be done. ‘But Ma’ no one will see it’. ‘God knows it’s there, now clean it’. The Da’ would head out on his bicycle because back then he had to work a half day every Saturday. By nine o’clock us younger ones were fed, washed and smelling of carbolic soap. If you missed a bit of dirt on your face the Ma’ would spit on the corner of her apron and wipe your face clean with it.
Then it was off to town with the Ma’. She’d take four or five of us younger ones with her every time. She always had a bit of lipstick on and the ould scarf on her head. Sometimes her poor old head would be full of things to do or kids to watch that she’d forget to take off her apron and wouldn’t realise it ’til we were half ways into town. We never got the bus because the Ma’ said she knew a short cut and would take us walking down along Prussia Street, into Manor Street and around into Queen Street. Every now and then she’d stop to have a yap with some ould one or other that she knew. She was great on the history of Dublin and would tell us all sorts of stories about each street we walked along. ‘At one time…‘ she says ‘Manor Street was one of the oldest highways in Europe because the High King of Ireland travelled along it to get to the Liffey’. And she knew all about Arbour Hill and the Vikings that settled there and when we’d finally arrive in Thomas Street she knew the story of Robert Emmett and Lord Norbury.
She’d give a quick glance into Frawley’s to see if there were any bargains there she could afford and then we’d go dodging in and out between the dealers on Thomas Street who were selling all sorts of things. Her favourite place of course was the indoor Iveagh Market in Francis Street. She knew all the stallholders by name and got some great bargains in secondhand clothes for us. ‘Try them shoes on and see if they’ll fit yeah’. ‘But Ma’ they’re girls shoes’. ‘I’ll get your Da’ to dye them, now try them on’. The hustle and bustle, the noise and smells, the stench from the fish market next door, the roars of the women, the mugs of tea, the laughing and joking, sure isn’t this what Dublin was all about back then? Then we’d head off to do some serious shopping along the length of Meath Street where once again the Ma’ was a familiar face to all the shopkeepers and stall holders. During her life time my mother spent more time on this street than any other street in Dublin. And all the time us kids were trailing behind her and the new secondhand shoes cutting the heels off me. I had to wear them to break them in you see. We’d eventually head home loaded down with heads of cabbage, bags of shopping (mostly out of date stuff) and a lump of toffee in our gobs to shut us up moaning. The whole Meath Street experience was forever stamped into our memories because it played such an important role in our young lives. Looking back now they seem like great times but I don’t know if my ould heels would agree with me., ouch!

'Hello, is that England'?

I always remember the Da’ going around to the telephone box on Rathoath Road on a Sunday night to phone my sister in England. I think half of Cabra West used to queue up outside it waiting to make or receive a phone call. All the lads standing there with their collars up and the hair full of Brylcream hoping their moth was waiting on the other end of the phone. ‘Is that oul one going to be in there all night’? Their nerves getting the better of them as they dragged on their cigarette butt, having bought two tickets for the Capitol Picture House on the blackmarket and not sure if the moth was washing her hair again or not. The Da’ would have sent a letter to my sister the previous week letting her know the time to expect his call. I can still see him hopping from one foot to the other and cursing under his breath at some pimply faced teenager whispering down the telephone. And then all hell would break loose at two older women losing the rag when they start banging on the window of the phone box. ‘Here, what are you doin’ in there, gum suckin’ or what?, we haven’t all night to be standin’ out here in the rain. Would you ever hurry up’. Then the ould fella from down the road steps into the picture and declares ‘ I was on the queue before you. I won’t have you skippin’ ahead of me’. ’Ah jaysus now, hang on mister…tell him Carmel…how long are we here’? And while they’re at it good and heavy the young fella slips out of the phone box and the Da’ sneaks in without saying a word. It was like a religious ritual that people in our neighbourhood went through every Sunday night, it was almost like going to Mass or Sodality. It wasn’t until I was much older that I understood the difference between button ‘A’ and button ‘B’. Then there was the smart lads that shoved a piece of paper up into the slot where people got their money back when they pressed button ‘B’. When nothing came out of the slot people would give it a good bang and storm out not realising that the stuffed piece of paper was holding their money back. Then the smart lad would return at his leisure and removing the paper would pocket the money. I remember one of my pals showing me how to ‘tap’ the phone to make a free call but what use was that to me, I didn’t know anyone who had a phone. I think I was about sixteen when I first used a public telephone. Nowadays even the baby in the pram has it’s own mobile phone. What would the Da’ make of that???

St Josephs School

(Clcik on photo to enlarge)
We just lived around the corner from Saint Joseph’s School for deaf boys. As young children growing up in the shadow of the school we knew it only as the Deaf and Dumb. It was a large redbrick building not too unlike something we’d see in a horror film on the Cabra Grand Picture House.The large wall surrounding the school was a daily reminder to us ‘outsiders’ to keep out. We would often sneak over the wall and rob some rhubarb or apples and run in fear of our lives if we ever saw one of the Christian Brothers or gardeners that worked there. There was little or no contact between those inside the wall and those outside the wall. As a matter of fact we were very much afraid of the children belonging to the school. Nobody ever took the time to explain to us why they were there and what the purpose of the school was. In our childhood ignorance and innocence we made fun of these young boys, not realising that they were in many ways just like us. We generally referred to them as ‘Dummys’ but only because that was what the older boys in the neighbourhood called them.
The school had a shoe repair shop where my father often had his shoes soled and heeled. Before a proper church was built in Cabra West my parents would attend Sunday Mass in the little chapel in Saint Joseph’s School. One time, families living in the Annamoe area of Old Cabra received a card from this school explaining to the householders how to communicate through sign language with the young boys as they passed through the neighbourhood. As far as I know the people in Cabra West never got anything like that. One time a young boy from Lower Killala Road was robbing some rhubarb with my brother and their pals and as they were making their get-away the young boy ran out onto the road and under the wheels of a great big cattle truck. In later years the school decided to build a swimming pool and open it up to the people of Cabra and the general public. It was located on the Navan Road side of the school grounds. You had to pay into it of course and it was much cleaner than the Cabra Baths. Anyhow, a few years later after the cost of the swimming pool was covered it was closed to the public.
I had a foster son who had to attend Saint Joseph’s full time back in the 1980s. He was housed in the main building in a long dormitory with two house-mother. Each boy had his own little bed and locker. Now its all changed, no more shoe repairs, no more free rhubarb or apples and no more chases from ‘Mad Mary’ who lived in the little gate-house near Drumcliffe Road. A Muslin School and a Girls’ School are being built on the site where the old buildings are being pulled down. I suppose all this change will seem a bit strange to the people of Cabra at first. For me it’s just another bit of memory lane slipping away into the distant past. Well thankfully, I have some nice photographs of the school that I took in recent years to keep alive my memory of what used to be.

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The Wireless

This is the same as the radio we had at home. I came across this one in the Radio Museum, housed in the Martello Tower in Howth. If you have nothing else to do it’s a great place to spend an hour or so. It’s like ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ with all the stuff that’s in it. Some of the old radios in the museum are still in perfect working order. And it certainly brings me back to those days when we didn’t have a telly in our house in Cabra West. The radio or wireless as we used to call it was all the rage. It was turned on first thing in the morning and wasn’t switched off until last thing at night. The knob on the left was to turn it on and the one on the right was to tune in the stations. The row of cream coloured buttons on the front were for selecting the wave length. In our house we only had one electric socket downstairs, on the wall near the kitchen door. There were no sockets upstairs. Everything electric was plugged into double sockets shoved into more double sockets, a disaster waiting to happen but thankfully never did.
Our wireless sat on a sideboard near the kitchen door and every bit of rubbish was placed on top of it. I remember one of my older sisters rushing home for her lunch from Williams and Woods on her bicycle just to listen to ‘The Kennedys of Castle Ross’. The Ma’ loved listening to ‘The Archers’ on the BBC radio station. Sometimes in the evenings she’d sit and listen to a play while she was doing her knitting or darning the Da’s socks.

During the war years my Dad’s uncle made a crystal radio from instructions given out by the BBC Home Service. This was a crude form of radio but worked none the less. Only one person at a time could listen in to it as you had to use an ear piece. Because he didn’t have a radio licence he hacked out a hole in the wall of the tenement room and hid his radio behind it. He placed a holy picture over the hole and used the metal wire of the picture as an aerial for the radio. He’d sit there smoking a Woodbine and listen to ‘Lord Haw Haw’…’This is Germany calling…’.

Then of course in the 60s the transistor radio came into its own. I always remember when meself and the pals would cycle out to the seaside in Bray some ould fella would always have a transistor radio stuck up to his ear listening to Michael O’Hare blabbering on about some game or other in Croke Park. And then of course some of our posher neighbours had a radiogramme, probably from Sloanes and paying for it on the never-never. You could play records on it as well as listen to the radio. Every day at six o’clock the Angelus would ring out from the radio in our kitchen and the Ma’ would always say ‘Pour out the tea, your Daddy will be here soon’. And sure enough the ould Da’ would arrive home on his bicycle and soaking wet from the rain. After he had his dinner he’d sit down by the fire and listen to the radio . Then you had the music from Waltons Music Shop…’If you want to sing a song, sing an Irish song’ they’d always say and on would come Count John McCormick.

I think it was every Monday night you’d get the Irish Top Ten coming on, that was my favourite. You’d have Johnny McEvoy singing about Murschin Durkin, Danny Doyle with ‘Step it out Mary’, Brendan Bowyer doing the Huckle Buck and Dickie Rock going from the Candy Store on the Corner to Matt Whelans on the Hill. Yes indeed, the ould wireless was great all-round entertainment for all ages. If people would only dump out their old tellys and dvd players and go back to listening to the radio sure wouldn’t the world be a better place all together.

Tolka Rive Memories...

 

              (Click on image to enlarge)

 

I recently took a stroll along the banks of the Tolka River that runs alongside Ballyboggin Road. First off I crossed over the bridge that once led to the old dump where me and my young pals hunted for rats that were almost as big as ourselves. Strangely enough, as I closed my eyes I could still smell the stench of household waste and rubbish that came from the dump all those years ago. As I stood for a moment on the bridge I could hear voices to my right coming from the new Pitch and Putt course that straddles the bank of the river. The voices had a slight echo from them that brought to mind the chatter and laughter of young children paddling in the river all so long ago.
Crossing the bridge I turned to my left and rambled along the riverbank to an area we once called 'The Silverspoon'. There were blackberry bushes all along the waters edge showing off a great crop of berries crying out to be picked by little hands and shoved into an open mouth, so I obliged. They had a slightly bitter sweet taste and reminded me of my father and the many times he walked us along this stretch of river picking 'Blackers' for the 'Ma.
Today was a beautiful sunny day, you remember the kind of days we had when hoards of kids from Cabra would descend on the open air 'Cabra Baths'. Some of the boys could be seen taking off their clothes before they even got to the pool, the excitement was powerful. The girls would take themselves and the smaller children across the field and down to the 'Silverspoon' to paddle in its clear crystal water.
Do you know, as I stood there looking out across the river to the area where the baths once stood I remembered some of my brothers and their pals standing in the river holding a sack between. They'd scoop it into the water and wait for the word to 'Lift it slowly' and like magic they would see squiggling tiny Minnows appear. Little hands would gently reach out and lifting up the tiny fish drop them into a jam jar half filled with water from the river. Some of the younger children would jump up and down in the water with great excitement, splashing everything and everyone in sight.
I sat down on a large rock by the rivers edge and thought of me Ma' and the time she told us we were going to the seaside for the day. With seven or eight children in tow she headed up Broombridge Road and met up with her sister and her gang of kids. We all headed off in great excitement to the seaside. We crossed over the Royal Canal at Broombridge and turned left at the dump heading towards Cardiffsbridge. When the old bridge joining Cabra and Finglas came in sight I remember seeing the remains of some old cottages on the Cabra side. I can still recall how excited all us kids were as we roared and shouted, 'There's the seaside'. We crossed over the bridge and made our way down the embankment to the waters edge. Not one of us had any swimming gear so we stripped off into our nude, boys and girls and dashed like wild horses into the cold waters of the Tolka River. To us young children this was Heaven, the freedom to run and shout and splash about without a care in the world. The Ma' and her sister sat together on a clump of grass and chatted away to their hearts content. Overhead the birds too chatted in the trees and the sun shone even brighter than before.
I don't know who put that river there but I'm so glad they did because it played a very important part in my young life growing up in Cabra West. I wonder did some rich person lose a silverspoon in the river while they too were paddling in it like us kids? Is that how it got its name? And wasn't it strange that we had a seaside there as well...