Do You Remember?, page 5
Our unfortunate teacher grappled with the sticky fingers of a row of ten-year-olds striving desperately to get wool under, over and around hard, sharp steel needles that simply refused to be in the right place. Stitches fell off the needle and holes appeared and endless repetitions finished up in an unrecognisable tangle. Plain and purl that were supposed to produce a neat, even row could turn into a complete mess and have to be unravelled. The first day I encountered these challenges I looked at a knitting neighbour with a newfound respect.
Eventually, when her pupils had mastered the art of one plain, one purl, the teacher tackled the complicated business of turning the heel and closing the toe. This was almost a step too far for me. I watched in awe as our neighbour sped through pairs of socks and added the amazing skills of knitting gloves. She was delighted to help me and we spent hours unravelling – literally – the mysteries of heel-turning and toe-closing. Then, a woman who had married into the next farm did beautiful crochet and embroidery simply while she waited for the dinner to cook! I thought this was just wonderful and I was full of admiration.
As well as knitting, sewing was also on the agenda at school, and in a tall press, or cófra, at the corner of the room, our sewing boxes were stacked. They were mostly tin boxes as it was not unknown for a rat to have a late-night supper of a sewing sample, and the place was a race track for mice. So, tin boxes with pictures of curly-haired little girls in frilly dresses running through rose-filled gardens, or with elegant Edwardian ladies draped across their covers were lifted down once a week for the sewing class. Those covers portrayed a world as far removed from ours as the man in the moon. But it was the contents not the covers that fascinated us.
Each box had a sewing and darning needle, maybe two reels of thread, a thimble, the piece of material on which you were working, and, if you were lucky, an already finished sample of your skill. We learnt tacking, hem stitching, top-sewing and ‘run and fell’ – and for the life of me I now have no idea what ‘run and fell’ was all about. It sounds like a cross-country race! Having mastered the various stitches, the next high jump was to do a buttonhole. This was complicated territory, but with much trial and error we got there. Then, for some extraordinary reason, we tackled the complicated business of making a pair of knickers. My mother bought a lovely little piece of cotton adorned with playing children in Denny Ben’s for me to make mine. I loved the children playing, but from the start they were destined never to get out to play. Somewhere along the way the necessity of a gusset for leg flexibility was omitted. The children never got out of the box and years afterwards I discovered them in my mother’s attic.
One of the problems of the sewing class was the maintenance of a clean ‘sewing piece’, as it was called. We had no water in which to wash our hands that could have been engaged in easing small stones from between our toes, picking blackberries or making daisy chains. So the miracle was that the sewing sample, on completion, was even recognisable as such.
But of all the skills we learned in the sewing class, the one that I really enjoyed was darning. There was something very satisfying in drawing threads across a large hole with matching wool, and then cross-darning them until the hole disappeared. My mother sat for hours at night by the fire darning socks and jumpers, and when she folded the darned garments she always had about her a great sense of satisfaction.
Chapter 8
Around the Fire
Do you remember ABC? No, I am not talking about the alphabet that opened the door into the written world, but the dark network of fishnet squares that you got imprinted on the front of pale legs if you sat too long and too close to the open fire. But even if it did give us ABC, the open fire was the magnet that drew us all into its embrace. And it was a multi-tasker! It was the cooker, the home heater, the social centre and the comforter for the entire family. It did duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for fifty-two weeks of the year. It was the focal point of the kitchen and, in winter, of the whole house. Everyone who came in pulled up a chair and warmed themselves in its comforting glow and it could encompass a wide circle as it stretched across one whole side of the kitchen. And even if you sat alone beside it, you still had company as it told you stories revealed in pictures between the logs and sods of turf. A fire is good company. It was also a constant, moving, living centre around which entire families lived, loved, were educated, read, fought and grew up.
The fire was seen as the heart of the home that never went out and this was probably how a certain old tradition evolved: when entire families emigrated, rather than let their home fire go out the embers were taken across the fields in a bucket or on a shovel to a neighbour’s house, where they would continue to glow. In this way, it was felt that the heart of the home would not stop beating and that one day some of the family might return and that once again their own home fire would glow. It probably eased the pain of emigration which, at the time, was often forever.
Built into one corner of the original fireplace was a little corner seat called the hob. This was literally the hot seat as it was so close to the fire it often had to be abandoned by a sweating occupant late at night when the fire grew too hot for comfort. Beside and above it was a small, deep, square recess known as ‘the hole’, which was used to house the tea caddy, matches and sometimes the pipe of the man of the house. At the other side of the fire was the bellows, which was the heat controller. From beneath the bellows, through an underground tunnel into the ash hole underneath the fire, the bellows whipped air along and caused the fire to dance to its tune. The bellows wheel was iron, and was kept in balance by means of a leather strap that connected it to a lesser wheel, which accelerated the movement of air along the tunnel. It was a simple but very effective device, except when the bellows went out of balance and the strap began to slip off, which sorely tried the patience of the bellows winder. This sometimes required my father – much to his annoyance – to do some necessary adjustments. Eventually the required delicate balance was achieved again and harmony restored to the bellows, the winder, and also to our ‘Johnny Fix It’, who was not a man of endless patience. Sometimes, if the bellows decided not to cooperate, he swore at it in unrepeatable adjectives!
Beneath the fire the deep ash hole had to be emptied each morning prior to the setting up of the fire for the day. The previous night the gríosach, or hot cinders, had been moved to the sides of the grate to avoid being fanned by the air from the ash hole. These hot cinders were clamped down by means of hot ashes that had smouldered slowly overnight, keeping the fire on stand-by.
Come morning, the gríosach was hopefully still smouldering. The iron cover was removed from over the ash hole with the long tongs – this cover was perforated with holes to allow the air up from below and the ashes to go down from above into the hole underneath. Sometimes the cover required a visit to the blacksmith to keep it in working order and he also provided replacements if it lost its efficiency due to old age and too much of the fire accompanied the exiting ashes.
This hole was emptied with a tin ponnie or old chipped mug no longer respectable enough for table use. Careful manoeuvring of this mug was needed to avoid burnt fingers from the still-hot sides of the ash hole. Then the cover was replaced and dead cinders put over it to form a bed on which the hot gríosach was then piled, and surrounded by little bits of screwed-up newspaper, if available, and light dry sticks known as cipíní and soft dry bits of turf. Sometimes, if any of these were in short supply, fine dry hay from the barn was gently introduced. If there was difficulty in getting the flame started, the scarce and valuable matches might have to be brought into action to light the paper or hay. Gentle turning of the bellows slowly coaxed the smouldering flame into life and the fire was gradually fanned into a glow that slowly grew into a strong flame.
I loved the smell of burning hay that turned into a galaxy of blue, yellow and red colours. It was then surrounded by sods of turf and logs that grew into a large fire capable of boiling the first kettle of the morning. The fire was up and running for another day and the work of the kitchen and farm could crack into action.
Straddled above the fire was the crane, which was the scaffolding from which hung the kettles, pots and ovens of the kitchen. The crane itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship and it performed its many feats while balancing like a ballerina on one rotating leg that could swing the crane forward when required. Its long arm stretched out over the fire and two flat iron hangers dangled from it. The stronger of the two hangers was for the heavy pots and the other for the lighter pots and kettles. These hangers were skilfully controlled by a long handle that strategically levered them up and down to the required height. Down along these hangers were perforated holes and when the hanger was judged to be at the correct height an iron peg was inserted into one of these holes to hold it in position. Onto the hook at the end of this flat hanger went the pot hanger. The ends of the pot hangers curled into two iron hooks and these fitted into the ears of the pot to hang it over the fire. Mastering the skills of manipulating the hangers was the first requirement for cooking on the open fire. Pots and kettles full of boiling water required delicate balancing, otherwise the unwary cook could be flooded with disaster and two burnt or scalded legs. Bastables unwisely positioned could produce pale-faced cakes or burnt offerings. As well as being a cook, the woman of the house also required the skills of an engineer and as her cooking utensils were of heavy black cast-iron, she also required fitness, strength and dexterity. She needed to be a woman of substance and have what my father termed a good ‘understanding’, to keep her steady on the ground, and he was not referring to her intellectual abilities.
Her black army of cooking utensils included a large kettle for use when the whole family or a meitheal was gathered, and a smaller kettle when tea was required for just a few. My mother had a wide range of pots. The most impressive was the huge pot-bellied monster known as the ‘pig’s pot’, as it was used for boiling potatoes for the pigs – potatoes that were not fit for the kitchen table came the way of the pigs. The heavy pig’s pot was placed on the flag in front of the fire and the crane swung out over it so that the large pot hangers could be hooked into its ears, and then it was swung back over the fire. A hot fire licked its black bottom until the water came to the boil; when the potatoes began to disintegrate it was again swung forward and the hot water precariously drained off into a tin bucket with a jute bag over it to hold back the potatoes. This was a balancing act in time and motion to avoid a scalding waterfall. The pig’s pot was often parked at the bottom of the kitchen and all food left-overs tossed into it. There was absolutely nothing wasted.
The next pot was a slightly smaller model, but still of ample capacity, and it was used to boil water on washday. Then came the potato pot, which was smaller than its big brothers but still a sizeable pot, and every day it was filled with potatoes that were boiled for the dinner, which was always at one o’ clock. The healthy practice of the day was: breakfast like a king, dinner like a rich man and supper like a pauper. The potatoes that were surplus to immediate family requirements were used to feed the extended family of dogs, chickens and pigs. My grandmother’s oft proclaimed creed of ‘waste not, want not’ was not just idle talk.
The next smaller black brother was for boiling the bacon and cabbage or turnips, which was the staple diet, all produced on the farm. We were definitely into grow your own! Once the bacon was boiled the cabbage was submerged into the same steaming pot that bubbled merrily over the fire as the potatoes eased off their jackets in the heat of the other pot beside the fire. The kitchen filled up with the smell of the approaching dinner, which flowed out over the yard and told approaching diners what was on the menu – though this was scarcely necessary as the menu seldom varied. Sauces were not considered essential to whet the appetites of the clientele and the only embellishment available was a good dollop of Coleman’s mustard.
In spring the cabbage was occasionally replaced by a potful of evil-looking nettles that my mother judged to be good for our blood. Dessert was seldom on the menu, but when it was, rice, semolina or tapioca, thatched with cream from the top of the milk churn, came our way. From late summer until supplies disappeared, apples from our own trees were served stewed, boiled and roasted.
The next pot down in the assembly line was a cheeky little fellow known as the skillet, which inspired the Skillet Pot song: ‘And our mother made colcannon in the little skillet pot’. He was a small, beautifully designed little lad, called into action to boil or roast a chicken or other niceties not normally on the menu. I now have one hanging off my apple tree from which the blackbirds slake their thirst and where they wash their feathers. This little skillet is probably older than myself, but unlike me is showing no signs of wear and tear. Those pots out-cooked many users.
The cook had two bastables that were used to give us our daily bread. The larger of the two was the baking container for the two big round brown cakes that my mother turned out daily to feed family and helpers. Sometimes the baking was extended to include a currant cake and, luxury of luxuries, a giant apple cake when the apple trees were groaning with apples. The smaller bastable could be used for a rare roast or to rattle up a fry of eggs and bacon, and sometimes a large, heavy frying pan was brought into action. Sometimes an empty fruit tin was used to boil eggs. The tea was left to draw in a tin teapot seated on a bed of hot coals beside the fire. All in all, the open fire was the feeder of the multitudes and the woman of the house was the wonder woman of the fireplace.
When cooking was over in the quiet of the evening she sat by the fire, took out her knitting, sewing or darning and with light from the oil lamp swinging off the wall above her head, she patched and darned and generally held the family together. She continued after the supper, which was generally around seven o’clock when the cows had been milked and the family and neighbours gathered around the fire. The open fire then became a social centre. The newspaper was read, sometimes aloud by the man of the house. The choice of paper depended on the political allegiance of the family, but usually in Cork the Examiner, being local, held sway. World events reported in the paper were discussed and argued over, while lessons were done by the schoolchildren, and the woman of the house maintained law and order from her chair under the lamp.
On Friday nights, with no lessons to crucify us, we children played cards – or ghost stories were often told, to our delighted horror. Later we regretted our delight in these stories as the remembered horrors threatened sleep. Before bedtime mugs of warm cocoa were dished out and sometimes toast was made on a long fork held over the glowing fire. No toast would ever taste as good as that made over a turf fire. Then the drifting off to bed began, led by the youngest. To light our way we took a sconce holding a candle. Often we read in bed and when halted by tired eyes we told each other stories, sometimes retelling the ghost stories heard earlier and frightening the life out of each other all over again.
When she had the kitchen to herself, my mother bedded down the fire for the night and arranged her laundry around it at a safe distance. Another day was done and the cricket began his lullaby behind the bellows. I loved the sound of the cricket and at that time in our schoolbook there was a poem called ‘The Ant and the Cricket’ and I believed that the cricket in that poem lived behind our bellows.
The Ant and the Cricket
Anonymous
A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter was come.
Not a crumb to be found
On the snow-covered ground;
Not a flower could he see,
Not a leaf on a tree.
‘Oh, what will become,’ says the cricket, ‘of me?’
At last by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,
Away he set off to a miserly ant
To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant
Him shelter from rain.
A mouthful of grain
He wished only to borrow,
He’d repay it to-morrow;
If not helped, he must die of starvation and sorrow.
Says the ant to the cricket: ‘I’m your servant and friend,
But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend.
Pray tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?’ Said the cricket: ‘Not I.
My heart was so light
That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay.’
‘You sang, sir, you say?
Go then,’ said the ant, ‘and sing winter away.’
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.
Though this is a fable, the moral is good –
If you live without work, you must live without food.
Chapter 9
Day-old Chicks
The day-old chicks arrived by bus. Their arrival caused great excitement. They came in perforated cardboard boxes and through the holes we could see a moving mass of yellow fluff. Occasionally a little black eye peered out. A faint chorus of chirping arose from the box. Their arrival changed the face of poultry keeping on our farm.
Prior to this big step into the world of mass production all our chickens were home hatched. The procedure was simple. A huge flock of hens wandered around the yard and haggard, and at night were housed in the Jim Dillon henhouse. What, you may well ask, was a Jim Dillon henhouse? Well, after its introduction into the world of poultry, these houses became so well known that they were simply referred to as the Jim Dillons. He happened to be the Minister for Agriculture in the late 1940s who decided that he would flood England with eggs from Ireland and to that end he had a special henhouse designed. He gave grants for their erection in farmyards all around the country. The Jim Dillon was a simple design of a rectangular house about twelve feet long and six feet wide, with a door on the front right and two windows to the left of it. In here, arranged along the back wall, were perches on which the hens slept at night and laying boxes where they went when they felt an egg coming on. After laying, they emerged crowing with delight at their achievement and letting the whole world know of their success.
