Celtic Road Home E-Book

Ann Doolan

• Herausgeber: Ann Doolan-Fox
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

This is the true story of a young, naïve Irish woman who embarked on a path of "most resistance" and danced/survived her way around seven different countries. Her very descriptive, dramatic and often humorous Celtic Road Home takes you on a journey of constant Life adventures. Despite her many up and down struggles along the way, she never gives up Hope on the very next outcome becoming more successful than the one before. Inspirational and captivating throughout, Ann always strives to maintain a positive outlook while going against the grain. A saga filled with an uplifting spirit and a touch of Irish Laughter that will make your heart smile.

Leseprobe

Special Praise forCeltic Road Home

“A light read with a lilt of Irish Laughter”

Windy Mason

“A world of vivid adventures await all who choose to read this outstanding book”

Joey Arispe

“This book is like sitting in Ann’s living-room, listening while she tells you each story”

Jan Ekstrum

Celtic Road Home

A Memoir

Ann Doolan-Fox

© Copyright 2017 Celtic Road Home. All Rights Reserved.

Viking font licensed from DeNada Industries/Mike Allard, all rights reserved.

Cover Designer: Sean Stennett

ISBN: 978-0-692-83323-0

Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by Booknook.biz.

Celtic Road Home

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One: Dublin (Ireland)

Chapter Two: London (England)

Chapter Three: Milan (Italy)

Chapter Four: Paris/Avignon (France)

Chapter Five: Rome (Italy)

Chapter Six: Madrid (Spain)

Chapter Seven: New York City, NY (USA)

Chapter Eight: Birmingham (England)

Chapter Nine: Alcala/Palma/Madrid (Spain)

Chapter Ten: The Hague (Holland)

Chapter Eleven: Los Angeles, CA (USA)

Chapter Twelve: Colorado Springs, CO (USA)

Epilogue

Sherry Trifle & Irish Coffee Recipes

Acknowledgments

About the author

Dedicated to my parents: Gerry and Angela Doolan for giving me the Gift of Life and to Jimmie and Ryan Fox for making it Complete…

Introduction

“Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough…..”

-Marvin Gaye

Ever since I was a little girl, growing up in the Irish capital city of Dublin, I always harbored a secret Dream; to learn foreign languages and travel and explore the world. Humble and tough beginnings would one day propel me forward and that day came in July, 1981. I ran away from home/my father’s dominance in the early dawn; my mother bidding me farewell as I flew the nest.

At a mere eighteen years of age, I left the only life I had ever known and ventured across the Irish Sea to nearby London, England. Soon after, I realized that this girl had bigger and brighter life aspirations much further afield. I would have gladly departed for Timbuktu but settled for the world’s fashion capital of Milan, Italy as a launching point.

Be careful sometimes what you wish for, as Life decisions can often take you on both physical and emotional roller-coasters. There were to be many dark moments ahead, especially in those early days when I seriously considered returning home. However, I would have only lived to regret that outcome.

Throughout the following twelve years, until almost reaching the age of thirty, I endured living/surviving in seven different countries, all the while trying to achieve my main goal. What was that…you ask? To live the American Dream. As you will soon read, I would have climbed any high mountain, or crossed any low valley, river etc… to reach that single goal. Would I make it come true, you will just have to read on to find out….

It is often said that we Irish are renowned for our musical, poetic attributes, great sense of humor and story-telling; so you can be the judge of my Celtic Road Home. Before you begin, let me bestow to you the following Irish Blessing along your Life Path…

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you;

May you see your children’s children.

May you be poor in misfortune,

Rich in blessings,

May you know nothing but happiness

From this day forward.

May the road rise to meet you

May the wind be always at your back

May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home

And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,

May blue be the skies above you,

May pure be the joys that surround you,

May true be the hearts that love you.

Chapter 1

Dublin, Ireland: May 1969 to July 1981

Mum and Dad walking past the GPO, O’Connell St.Dublin, circa mid 1950s

Doolan clan in Tottenham, London back yard, circa mid 1960s

In the second grade at Mother of Divine Grace Primary School

Spring into summer of 1969 was beginning to be quite a pleasant one, considering how typical Irish summers go….i.e. cloudy, rainy, windy and chilly. Mum and Dad had made the decision to bring their Doolan brood back home onto Irish soil. Both had ventured to London during the late 1940s for prospects of a better life, as Ireland had little to no work at the time following the Second World War in Europe. Being a smaller island than England, it took longer for the economy to bounce back and therefore, forced a lot of its young people to uproot their lives and move to other countries like England and the United States. Sadly, as in other times of massive emigration, the majority of those young people would never return home again, except for brief visits to cherished loved ones.

Dad was born on a cold November day in 1921 as one of nine children. Gerard Mary Doolan started out Life on Finn St. near the infamous Phoenix Park. Much of his strict childhood days during The Depression would often include going without enough food to eat since there were so many siblings. Way back in those days, Irish families were usually larger ones, with birth control not even up for discussion within the confines of the strict Catholic faith. Everyone was out to survive in the best way possible and I often wonder about how your personality/character is set from the time you are just six years old. I can’t help but believe that those very meager beginnings helped to form a lot of bitterness with my father that would unfortunately carry on throughout most of his lifetime.

Mum, on the other hand was a country girl at heart. Although born in Sligo, she spent most of her youth living between Counties Clare and Galway; with both locations on the stunning west coast of Ireland. Angela McMahon was one of the last to leave home and was already into her early thirties when she made the decision to go and work in London as a secretary. Prior to that, she had entertained the idea of joining the Dominican Nuns but, fortunately for my siblings and me, it didn’t work out and she met my dad a short time afterwards. It had been really brave on her part to leave home during those days. She earned a bit of macho slack from one of her brothers with; not only was she making a huge mistake, but that London would prove too tough for her mild and meek country manner. Mum’s determination and hard-working nature however would soon prove him otherwise. Like mother like daughter!

Our parents had first met on a blind date in a well-known park in London called Ennismore Gardens (through an Irish magazine called “Ireland’s Own”) in the early 1950s. Dad was getting over a lost love from home at the time, while Mum had been dating an Irish man who had been employed as a London Bobby. So, I guess you could say, they were both on the rebound. Hence, the beginnings of the Doolan Clan; otherwise I wouldn’t be penning this story. So, in order of appearance: first on the scene came Tommy, my oldest brother in October, 1955, then Kay, my sister in January of 1958. Paul hit the scene in April of 1959 and last but not least, yours truly in September of 1962. Times were tight in those days, especially for my Mum who always held full-time secretarial jobs, (until I reached the age of 13-14) so she was a real Trooper in every sense of the word.

While memories of living in Tottenham, north London in the mid-1960s remain very sparse, I do recall arriving in Dublin fresh off the boat into the Dun Laoghaire port in May of 1969. I was a mere six years old and about to embark on a whole new life in my native Emerald Isle. It was to be an exciting new venture….So amazing at that age, seeing everything around you in such gigantic form. At least, that is always how we remember our childhood days, right?

Dad had located temporary lodgings for all six of us at an inexpensive boarding house on Pearse St. in the city centre, where we would remain for about six weeks until we could find a home suitable to meet our needs. While residing in a bed and breakfast, we had no choice but to vacate the premises daily by around nine am. That meant that we four rambunctious Doolan kids would need to entertain ourselves for the entire day, all without adult supervision. That task was actually very common back then, when it was preferred for the most part, that children should be “seen and not heard!”

As both parents worked full time (to earn enough for a deposit on a house) and school wasn’t due to start until September, we had the city to ourselves on a daily basis. Although we didn’t travel far, our adventures would take us to numerous parks and museums where we whiled the endless hours away. From tracing coins, observing statues both of human and animal forms etc…at all the free museums where we would often attract stern glances from the mega serious curators and staff. Once a week, we headed off for a swim at the Tara St Baths or wandered around the city streets trying to find stuff to entertain us with. I can remember doing a fair share of walking back then along those bustling city streets. Going to the movies, or pictures as we called it, was always one of my favorite pastimes. Although at my young age, movie choices were quite limited. For sure, we didn’t have the choices of Disney, Pixar and all those other selections that abound in today’s world. Kids wouldn’t know how to exist without their choices of gadgets, and that is the honest to God’s truth.

In the evenings after Mum and Dad finished work, we’d usually dine at one of the multiple city center cafes. Oh, how I loved munching on burger/fish and chips, followed with a 99 ice cream cone (soft serve) with a Cadburys Flake stuck on the side and a drizzle of strawberry syrup. That was always reserved for a Friday treat. My mouth waters at the thought. The cafe juke boxes back then would emit a grand variety of late sixties hits….From a very early age, I have always loved music and no matter how far you travel or how you age, there will always be wonderful tunes that will rekindle fond/not so fond Lifetime memories. In addition, music can become such an amazing therapy. From those warm summer evenings, the tunes I remember the most are: 1) Young Girl –Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, 2) San Francisco – Scott McKenzie, 3) What a wonderful World – Louis Armstrong, 4) Everlasting Love – Love Affair. Without a doubt, there were many others but those four really stand out in my mind from that time period.

Before long, an affordable house appeared on the horizon and off we all set to take a look. It was located on Ballygall Road East in Glasnevin, on the north side of the River Liffey. The south side has always been a bit more posh and way more expensive to live in; needless to say, my parents’ income didn’t quite meet those criteria. Michael, a country man (we call them “Culchies” by the way while Dubliners are “Jackeens”) who was selling the house, seemed a little brusque in manner and exuded a dodgy air. Remaining quite insistent but without much success. in trying to include an old piano along with the house sale. My dad politely declined however and within the next week or so, we promptly moved into our new abode in early July, 1969. Pity we never got to keep that piano though, as with my love for music, I might have become an accomplished pianist today…who knows.

The rear side of the house featured a long unkempt/overgrown garden that for us four kids soon turned into our outdoor daily oasis. Complete with an old rusty three-wheeler bike that was really destined for the garbage heap. I soon treasured it. That piece of junk turned into the one and only bike I would ever get to call my own. I even once skidded off it while riding along the front of our house on a summer’s day, while quickly rescued by two nice ladies who happened to be passing by. To this day, I still bear the scar on my left knee as a reminder of those simple summer days. There’s a favorite local tune that calls to mind those times called “The Rare old Times” (The Dubliners) about daily life in Dublin some decades back, You will often hear it sung in an Irish pub during an evening of music and song as we Celts are best known for our musical and melodic ways.

We quickly came to cherish that wildly overgrown back garden and during long summer holidays from school, we would spend endless hours of the day there. My brothers, (well Paul) would hunt for bugs, (earwigs especially) and proceed to chase me with them or burn them to a crisp in matchboxes: typical boys. Drenched in sweat while digging out an underground camp at the end of the garden, we would place blankets, flashlights and other items there for later use. Quite often, we’d sneak down there in the dark after our parents had gone off to bed. Years afterwards, when arguments with Dad would involve his kicking me/my siblings out of the house into the cold, dark nights; we could at the very least, find shelter there. Until Dad had gone to bed and was sound asleep, Mum would quietly let me/us in to provide a quiet bite to eat…Bless her Soul. On the plus side, our little hideaway was not to be discovered until multiple years later. When Dad finally stumbled upon our secret place while ordering lettuce and rhubarb stalks from our neighbor, he immediately set about filling it all in with dirt. Busted at last, but never defeated!

Mr. M. whose back garden bordered with ours was an avid gardener with an impressive greenhouse from which he often sold us tasty produce. However, I always harbored a creepy feeling about him whenever I happened to be alone ordering items for Mum. There goes that gut feeling….the earlier you can teach your children to trust their own inner voice, the less likely they will encounter danger. Hey, maybe he was a lovely guy after all….one never knows.

Another family who happened to reside at the end of our back garden beside Mr. M, was the C.Family They were six in total just like us, with two boys/girls of similar ages and we often played together whenever the weather was halfway decent….now, you’re asking a lot of Irish weather…ha ha.

The father was a quiet and low key kind of guy, but the matriarch was a whole other story. Mrs. C. was extremely religious and strict and you could often hear her shrieking at various times of the day or evening. The comical part of it all though, was that whenever we happened to be watching a film with any form of physical affection, such as kissing, this is what my Dad would do. All of a sudden, he would edge open the living room window and commence shouting: “Mrs. C. you need to see this, they’re in a “Clinch” (kiss). Mum would quickly get up from whatever she happened to be doing to shush him and run to close the window. This would turn out to be quite a frequent event; it’s a wonder the C. kids never asked me why the heck my Dad would call out their Mum’s name…

Although Daddy had grown up under immense hardship, he somehow still became a highly- educated and brilliant man. Having self-taught himself both French and Spanish, he would often strike up a conversation with some of the many young Spanish students who travel to Dublin each summer to improve their English. Inquisitive by nature, he interrogated the students with: “When are you going to give the Catalans and Basques their independence from Spain?” That was my Dad, forever within the political arena and always making waves. Those shocked teens must have felt dumbfounded as most young people couldn’t give a toss about the world of politics. To give him credit though, I definitely get my love of Languages and open and friendly ways from him. (BTW, these were some of Daddy’s positive attributes) Also, a huge animal lover, we always kept at least one or two pets on a consistent basis. All the dogs in the neighborhood knew who my Dad was and would approach him for a few friendly pats, especially two called Charlie and Cleo.

That also happens to be the case with his youngest daughter today. The local yapping dogs in our neighborhood always calm down when they hear my cheerful voice sing “Hello”….while out on some long walks…This always makes me think fondly of my Dad.

Unfortunately for the rest of us, including my Beloved Mum, Life would often become a test of Endurance within the confines of the Doolan household. All of us would bear the brunt of my father’s mood swings on a daily basis. The art of being Stubborn can create both positive and negative traits, but in Dad’s case, the outcome would often reign down on us like the most intense dread and felt akin to living under a Dictatorship. I suppose in some ways, it certainly propelled all of us to leave the nest a lot earlier than other young people had done. However, that did not mean that it was an easier path for either me or my siblings. Leaving home the quicker the better became the one and only option to strive for as soon as we could make it a reality.

The house at 160 Ballygall Road East would continue to remain my home for about twelve years in total: from 1969 to 1981. Even though so much time has passed; to this day I still have dreams on a regular basis about that first home in Dublin. It’s almost as if the past thirty-five plus years have never transpired and I have returned to that innocent young Irish girl again who would venture out onto the streets of Dublin with Hopes of a better Life. No doubt, I was not along in those times either.

Flashback to the autumn of 1969 and primary school was soon about to start. Mother of Divine Grace on Ballygall Parade would become my elementary/primary school for the next six years along with a traumatic beginning. Most of the other children kept insisting that I was English, with my strong London/Cockney accent. “No, I am Irish!” would be my instant reaction; so it continued on a daily basis for a while, until they moved on to something else. Thank goodness for small mercies….

The early school years were definitely not memorable ones; not by a long shot. There were two female teachers in particular whom I still vividly remember to this day. One was in the fourth grade called Miss C. who was one of the meanest individuals I have ever met. My sister also had had the misfortune of her company four or five years earlier. Miss C. was a spinster with short wiry, black hair, a contorted face and purple hands/fingers that permanently grasped a piece of chalk. Her dress sense was very similar to the attire of a lay clergywoman. Try as I might to turn away whenever her hands would continue to gesticulate about; I was actually terrified of getting that small piece of chalk embedded in my eye. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak, a spray of her saliva would encompass the immediate vicinity, expanding, if the sunlight caught her silhouette just right. I know: gross, right? There would usually at least one or two children standing in one of the classroom corners serving punishment for getting into trouble for some minor offence. Lo and behold, one fine day I would also get my turn to face that corner wall also. Upon discovering that she previously had experienced the pleasure of teaching my older sister Kay….she exclaimed:”Oh yes, I remember Kathleen Doolan” with such a tone of disdain. Kay frequently bore the brunt of her wrath as she had most likely answered her back with a cheeky London accent to boot. It goes without saying that I soon wished away that school year as fast as I could

On a lighter note, for my sixth grade class, I had a much more pleasant experience with Miss O’B. who also happened to be a spinster. (BTW, any female unmarried woman back then who would have been aged forty or older was considered as such, or to put it even more bluntly, an old maid) Although very disciplined with her teaching methods, however quite banal, I came to acquire an even further musical appreciation. Along with a rich musical taste and a brother in the RTE (Irish Television/Radio Network) Symphony Orchestra, we would be introduced to a new song every Friday. From a variety of old slave songs like:”Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen” to classical melodies, each week would present us with a new song. The musical part of class wouldn’t begin until mid-afternoon, so getting the chance to gulp down an extra leftover mini bottle of milk (when I was lucky!) would not infringe upon my musical fun.

I would often hum that new tune all the way home while on my long walk from school along Ferndale Ave. Once home, I’d be alone for about an hour until my brother got home from St. Kevin’s Secondary School. It was just down the hill from our house, where some of the so-called “Christian Brothers” weren’t quite so Christian with their physical punishments of misbehaved boys. The norm was to use a hard wooden ruler onto the palms of the boys’ hands, which was quite common in such times. Wow, sounds like we were in the Middle Ages or something as it would never be tolerated in today’s world.

As long as my brother arrived home in one piece, I was a happy sister. From time to time, I would peer out of the bedroom window to witness Paul being ganged up on by two or three other boys. Screaming bloody murder, I’d bound down the stairs to quickly open the emerald green front door. I would then yell out for them to stop which would distract the bullies just enough for Paul to run inside our gate or jump the wall towards the open door and to relief. Phew! Why do boys have to fight anyways….so silly.

Two prominent memories stand out from that timeframe:

My dad insisted that we all learn some Irish/Gaelic….which is our native language. Most evenings just after dinner, (with the help from a book called “Buntus Cainte”) we would all sit together around a cheap dining table with feeble attempts at picking up any new words/expressions. Both of my parents were fluent native speakers of the Irish language….although a bit rusty, as it wasn’t as widely spoken back then as it is today:As free milk had been provided in public schools back in London, my dad phoned the Irish Department of Education one day and caused a small riot. Just kidding! Shortly following his complaint, (he wasn’t about to give up) us school kids indeed had our very own little glass bottles of milk to compliment a sack lunch from home on a daily basis. What I enjoyed the most was that there would often remain left over bottles in the milk crates each day. After lunch recess and the bell had rung to return to class, I would often raise my hand (whenever I got picked) and goof off an extra 5-10 minutes to empty said milk crate. It was like getting an extra mini recess and anything to get out of class felt like Heaven. I often wonder if those Dublin children still get their daily milk today and who they have to thank for that…

I know that says a lot about my mostly intense dislike of school along with all of its rules and oppressive regimental ways. To my young and innocent mind, it was like a double whammy as I was already enduring a similar way of life on the home front. I was just going to have to suck it up for the impending ten to twelve years remaining in grade school. Needless to say, I never did become any Teacher’s Pet and have always frowned upon kids who need constant recognition of their ongoing endeavors. I often assume that they are perhaps introverted and self-conscious about themselves. Don’t get me wrong; throughout all of my academic years, I was intensly shy in nature and would always turn a dark shade of crimson if my name was ever called out during class. It wouldn’t be until many years later while teaching English in the Mediterranean that I finally overcame my timid ways. Thank Goodness for that as it’s all in our minds anyway, but try explaining that to a preteen, who’s dealing with peer pressure.

Another fun activity that my Dad liked for us to participate in back then was the creation of our own home theatre improv productions. The latest event would be recorded via microphone onto a cheap cassette tape recorder, where Dad would suggest a topic, whereupon we all created a play together. Those family evenings were always a lot of fun and often had me laughing so hard that it would cause me to have a mini accident. That basically meant I couldn’t reach the toilet in time, which was on another floor…that’s my excuse anyways. Actually, we only had one bathroom, as did most homes at the time. On one of those occasions, (as we had bare wooden flooring) I wet myself and right on cue, my Dad blurted out on the open microphone: “Oh, Mrs. Brown, it looks like the weather has turned and it’s starting to rain!” I smile today when I recall those simple times of meaningful family moments spent together long before the days of social media with the constant need to feel connected. In addition, I relished listening to the radio a lot (especially plays and miniseries) imagining what the faces of those voices looked like. To this day, my images and reality still don’t quite match up once the face of the person’s voice is revealed. Ha-ha.

As far back as I can remember, my secret Dream was to one day travel the world in an escape from Ireland and all of the oppressions of living at home. The biggest Dream of all was to end up living the rest of my life in The United States. All the TV shows in the world, no matter what genre they were; as long as they came from America, you would find me completely hooked. My all time-favorites were The Waltons, Little House on the Prairie, How The West Was Won, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Rhoda etc. The detective series were the best of all: Columbo, Kojak (“Who loves ya baby!”), Hawaii Five-O (I had such a huge crush on Jack Lord). Barnaby Jones, Mannix, Rockford Files, McCloud, Cannon, Vegas etc. I became so immersed within each episode in the knowledge, that one day America would someday become my Home. I once even had a bet with my Dad that I could hum the theme tunes to fifty different TV shows. Dad had doubts that I could remember them all, but I surprised him in a matter of minutes and he soon had to pay up…all five pounds at the time. I spent most of it on candy afterwards, in case you were wondering?

*Today when I recapture some of those old shows in color, it is as if I’m watching them all over again for the very first time. Jack Lord is ten times more handsome in color and was also an Irishman: go figure. Mary Tyler Moore and Rhoda’s colorful wardrobe is like catching a fashion show, albeit from the 1970s…it would have been nice to have seen it in color back then, but there are no regrets.

For the time being however, I found solace from daily home life with mini-escapes such as, going into town with my sister on Saturday afternoons. Kay would often tempt me with the promise of a nice sweet treat at the end of shopping and I was sold. That treat would usually comprise of a sausage roll or jam/jelly doughnut along with a cup of coffee with a dollop of whipped cream on top (at Roches Stores Café). Aah, the little things in Life that bring us such Pleasures. Our respite would finally materialize after a few hours of bargain hunting for just the right clothing item. My sis always knew where a deal could be had and would move Heaven and earth to uncover it. Suffice to say, the much-needed rest and bite would always turn into a lovely compensation for our weary legs. Whether it was down Henry St., Mary St., North Earl St., etc. or over to The Dandelion Market (my favorite spot as it resembled a bazaar from an exotic location) filled with vibrant colors, aromas and incense filling the air; we must have covered at least ten miles or more.

Due to her financial abilities/contributions, it was with huge thanks to my older sister that we acquired our very first sofa set, china cabinet, dining table and chairs (mostly from a place down on Benburb St, Dublin 1 called “Bargain Town”) and many other household needs (carpeted stairs). It was apparent that my father was never going to provide in that way for his family. Dad was just way too involved with his nationalist /political agendas, etc….which I will touch on a bit later…

How I loved to hear the sounds of the delivery van dropping off our new piece of furniture. (I wasn’t as bad as that Hyacinth Bucket woman in “Keeping up Appearances” if you know that classic 1970s show!). It felt like our address was Special when the lorry/truck pulled up in front of our house. Upon setting up of our very first sofa: I can still picture it so vividly filling up part of our barebones living/dining room. A dark brown faux-leather with material cushions clad in a floral design; I’d lounge on it like I was Cleopatra for hours on end, admiring it’s every detailed stitching. Even if had been years after moving into our home in Dublin 11, those material comforts meant the world to me/us.

How kind/thoughtful of my sister to provide for us in those ways as she could very easily have spent that hard-earned income on herself. Mum was so very grateful but couldn’t openly show it, while Dad never uttered a single word of gratitude. Deep down, I believe he held resentment towards Kay, as he should have been the family provider when all was said and done; not his own daughter. Such was how it was and would continue on in the Doolan domain. Were it not for my sister’s kind gestures, we could have very easily spent another ten years with sparse pieces of furniture.

In addition, over the years, my eldest brother Tommy also kindly contributed monetarily each time he would venture home for a visit, even paying off my parents’ mortgage in later years..No sooner had he arrived inside the front door, he’d quickly unzip his suitcase, hand Dad a bottle of Johnny Walker, perfume for Mum and a couple hundred Irish Punt to help with the cost of his stay. Mum would always have a t-bone steak at the ready, warming in the oven for a nice dinner, by way of saying Thank You to her first-born son.

Before Tommy headed back across the Irish Sea to London at aged seventeen, I had become his local shopper for Coke, Tayto crisps, Cadburys and the like. My compensation for those errands (mainly just across the road to Fox’s shop – appropriate name) of usually five or ten pence would enable me to buy my favorite Calypso chocolate toffee bar. I still miss some of the snack foods and candy/sweets from back then, as they recall so many fond memories. Most of the best candy bars and snacks are now gone forever though. If someone were to bring them back, I’m sure they would make a fortune…so come on then?

While my big brother enjoyed his sweets and crisp deliveries, he would often play his music at full volume on a record player in the middle of the day, as my parents were both at work. Although the sounds blasting out with the likes of Alice Cooper and The Who weren’t exactly my favorites, I did enjoy others like: “The Guitar Man” Bread, “Crocodile Rock” Elton John and “Ventura Highway” America. Whenever he would catch me loitering outside his door, he would shoo me away..Funny memories…

So, I guess you could say that some of those little escapes, whether on a bus ride into the city or being the home personal shopper made daily life a little easier to bear. The best moments though, were reserved for bus trips to town, the city centre of Dublin. It would never get old; observing all of those foreign tourists, along with their exotic languages and auras of faraway locales. From those moments going forward, I vowed that one day, I would somehow venture to those countries. Listening to the rhythms of their babbling tongues was like music to my ears and I hoped to have the ability to babble that way someday too. All in good time, Annie!

During my teenage years, after finishing up a part time job shift, I would often meander up and down the main streets of Henry Street, Westmoreland and especially Grafton St. Throughout the city centre, there would always be some fun outdoor events taking place. The facade of the GPO (General Post Office) has kind of become a meeting place nowadays: at least from my most recent visit back home again in July 2015. In days gone by, the initial meeting point would often be in front of Clery’s Store, just under the clock (which curiously happens to sit directly opposite the GPO). On that most recent 2015 trip home, Clery’s suddenly closed its doors for the very last time which became a very sad event, as it had always played an integral part in Dublin’s history. Change is inevitable… I guess. I sure hope all those hard-working employees got paid in the end.

Dublin’s Fair City back in the mid 1970s was on the milder side….unlike today, where it’s as cosmopolitan and bustling as any other European capital. By mild, I mean that most of its inhabitants back then were primarily Irish and the few outsiders tended to be of Algerian/Moroccan descent and mostly university students on temporary visas. At the gates of St. Stephens Green, you would often encounter small groups of Hare Krishna chanting and that was about as exciting as it got, without counting out the aggressive London salesmen peddling their sharp knives and kitchen wares along Moore St and the like on a Saturday afternoon. Their loud and obnoxious shouting would compete with the Liberties ladies peddling fruit, vegetables and flower adding their own strong Dublin accents. Listening to both at the same time was quite comical, to say the least. Dublin then seemed like an undiscovered place and in some ways, I miss those simpler days. But Life progresses and places change…it just seemed like a city of innocent solitude.

In those times and continuing through today throughout the month of July, Dublin city and its suburbs can often be found teeming with international tourists and high school students. Primarily from Spain, they flock there to improve/practice their English skills. Ireland and Spain have always maintained a strong cultural bond, and even while living in Madrid on and off for nearly seven years, I can attest that both Irish and Spanish people are similar in many ways, We are equally a friendly, expressive, vibrant and somewhat Bohemian people. Spain was definitely added to my list of places to go … I just intended to get to a few other places first, like London and Paris…. All in good time, Annie.

My father would have given anything in his youth to have been able to travel to foreign lands and enjoy their cultures. So I guess, when I did manage to accomplish that in later years, my experiences became his also and he was able to live it all through my eyes. Years after I had left home, he would often refer to me as his daughter: “The Linguist”! I guess, that was his way of being Proud as he hadn’t ever uttered those words to any of his children in his living years. The farthest Dad had ever reached was London where he had spent twenty years of his Life and didn’t have the best of experiences. Being Irish and labeled a “Paddy” everywhere you went wouldn’t have been a pleasant daily occurrence. “Paddy” basically meant you were stupid, a drunk or both; and therefore were treated as an inferior in English society. Throughout many of the jobs that he held, I believe he had felt berated on a consistent basis and therefore, maintained his dislike of English people. That outcome had been based on his personal journey/experiences and nobody can take that away. Daddy was also a very stubborn and independent man, so it is possible that among his multiple positions, he may have rubbed some people the wrong way

Among many of his career choices included the following: postman/mailman, grocery store owner, electrician, porter, soldier, phone operator, road sweeper, barman, security officer, cleaner, phone technician, painter, gardener, journalist etc. Even a newspaper editor of his very own 4-8 page bimonthly political newspaper which he called “Victory” during the late 1970s to mid 80s. Every single editorial, article, crossword, joke, cartoon (caption anyway) was created without any outside help. What can I say, the man was talented, but was also misguided when it came down to family responsibilities. Unfortunately for us, that self-made paper gobbled up most of his income which meant we often went without. Somehow, my dear old Mum always made it work though, in providing for us and always had a meal ready each and every night. Such an Amazing Lady; we would surely have been lost and homeless without her.

Since arriving back in Dublin, Mum had always been the main Family breadwinner anyways. Working extensive hours as a secretary for a few legal offices in the city, she did so for many years to keep food on the table for her four children. Returning home from a long day, she would make dinner, help us with our homework, sew elbow patches onto our worn sweaters and pack our school lunches for the next day. My sister and I would often run to meet her as she descended from her number 19/19A bus at the end of a long work day. If it was Friday, she’d always carry a few extra goodies, like bananas or Milky Way candy bars. I can still picture her on a warm summer’s evening: bringing home two lovely dresses from Dunnes Stores: a pink one for my sister and a blue one for me. Impeccably dressed in her long royal blue coat with its golden buttons and her hair wrapped in a headscarf, she exuded such sheer elegance. Although she didn’t possess much in the way of fashionable clothing, she always made the most of what little she had. What an inspiration Mum was both to me and my sister Kay. To this day, I still don’t know how she managed it all. Suffice to say, having a strong country upbringing and never being afraid of hard work came as an added advantage.

Having Mum around us always made Life more bearable throughout our upbringing, and without her love, support and compassion, I’m not sure how we all would have endured. She wasn’t necessarily an openly affectionate person which had a lot to do with her tough country childhood. Lord only knows, Angela Doolan did the very best she could and that was more than enough for us kids. Most nights before getting into bed, I would call out for her, while waiting endlessly at the top of the stairs for a goodnight “kiss and hug”. My Dad would often appear with an offer, but no; only my Mum’s hugs would do. I would wait forever on that cold and dark landing for that single hug to help settle me off to a night of peaceful slumber. So I guess you could say she was my whole World.

My eldest brother Tommy could only tolerate so much of Dad’s regimental ways, so within five years or so of our return to Dublin, he headed back to London for a career in bar and hotel work which lasted for many years. The Crown Pub in London gave him his start as a lounge boy and a room above the premises. It must have been hard leaving home at seventeen, but he made it work as it was his best choice to leave the family home at the time. If I could have, I would have gladly crammed myself into his suitcase.

I guess the first-born often bear the brunt of family discipline and therefore Life was not always an easy one while living under my Dad’s Home Rules….There had been many an argument (usually once a week at least) when it came time for a haircut and my brother was not going to budge. You have to remember, that long hair on guys in the seventies was very much in fashion, so you can only imagine how old that argument became after a while. A similar feat awaited Paul, my other brother some years later so it was all repeated itself once again like a broken record.

Without school cafeterias or fridges in which to place your lunch, kids would usually bring sack lunches and wash them down with those free mini bottles of milk (only at the elementary school level). We were certainly not poor by any means, but were also not privy to many of the comforts that our friends lived with such as:, carpeted floors, hot water, color TV, telephone, fridge/freezer, washing-machine, car etc. Whenever any of my friends would stop by, I would quickly rush out the front door so as not to have them wait in the cold/damp porch, wondering why they were never invited inside. On the rare occasion that they did come in, with my Dad home; it would often turn into an embarrassing event in one way or another. Sometimes, I guess my son Ryan feels that way today….ha-ha. Like father, like daughter, at least during those crazy teenage years.

Most of our weekly groceries came primarily in either tins or packages with refrigeration not required. Frozen foods were available but not used as widely as nowadays. Every Saturday, my dad or I would drop off the weekly shopping list by nine in the morning at a local Mom and Pop store called Brownes. Later that same day, Mr. Browne the owner, would kindly deliver them in his car, as we didn’t have one…ever. Dad knew the basics of driving (or so he led us to believe) but I perish the thought of him listening to a driving instructor as he would have been more of an expert. He was always that way on any subject under the sun. The dictionary would often be sought out for the correct spelling and pronunciation of words; I guess you could call him a perfectionist at heart.

So that our milk stayed fresh back then, we would fill up a basin of cold water and keep it in the kitchen sink….refilling it with cold tap water every few hours or so. Most of our produce was maintained in a pantry-type area just inside the kitchen back door since it was the coolest spot. We rarely had to throw anything out and used up all supplies in a timely manner. If we felt like having ice cream, we consumed it all right away with Raspberry Ripple my favorite flavor in the summer time. Dad would often buy a bottle of American Cream soda which we used to create a float. His claim was that he had invented the float idea until I found out the truth many years later. What can I say; I was naïve and loved my Daddy so much that I thought he was the smartest man in the world. (He actually did possess a Genius IQ). One day, I overheard him state that he would one day become the President of Ireland. As I used to love watching a TV show called Flipper, (about a dolphin) I even asked him if he would buy me one when he became President. Like a silly little girl, I told my entire elementary class and Lord only knows what they thought of that fairy tale story. But I was really convincing (still am) so maybe some of them bought it.

Growing up, I knew the exact price of close to every single item in all the local stores and as previously stated, was often the main shopper in the household. During high school years, on my way home, I would stop by the butcher’s shop to get some ground beef or pork chops for Mum for dinner. Pretty often, I would calculate just a little above the price so as to treat myself to a Mars bar for a reward. I didn’t get caught until years later when my Dad was home sick one day and did the numbers. I was caught red-handed or in that case, with a mouthful of candy. All of which was consumed while changing out of my dreaded school uniform…You’ll hear about that in a little while.

On Saturday mornings, I always shopped at another nearby store called Heaslips where I would pick up some Irish Cheddar cheese and ham for our Saturday lunch sandwiches. Inside the rear of the shop was an Off-License (Liquor store). Familiar with the owners, I was always able to purchase some Guinness for my Dad or Sandeman’s Sherry for Mum.. That would never happen in today’s world but hey, that was the seventies in Ireland.

On my walk back up the hill towards home, a local band would usually practice at the nearby prefab St .Kevin’s School (where my brother Paul had been a student. Not being a fan of their music, I thought they would never amount to much. Man, was I on the wrong track….Fast forward a few decades or more and U2 have only become the biggest rock band on the planet today! Most of the band members still live locally and in the mid-late 1970s Bono would pass our house every day on his way to/from school (St.Kevin’s)…Isn’t that a really small world? He always appeared downcast with a sad look on his face (not uncommon in those days, as who knew what was going on behind some of those closed doors) and a few years ago I figured out just why. Bono had lost his mother around that time frame, so that explains a lot looking back on it today. He was/is an amazing musical talent and a wonderful Humanitarian. My husband remains a big fan of U2…Moi, what can I say; I’m still that Disco Diva at heart.

So my taste in music was always of the Disco variety (Thank you Nile Rogers, The Bee Gees….) and I truly believed that those sounds would last forever. They would soon however reach an abrupt end (wah!!) replaced with Punk, New Wave, Romantics, House, Ska etc….Whenever I could sneak into a disco like Shanks, Barbarella’s and the like with my sister, (being tall always meant that I looked older) she would often warn off anybody who asked me to dance that they would never get to sit down for the rest of the night. I danced and danced until the sweat was pouring from my forehead….that is how much I ADORED the Disco era. I always hold out HOPE that it still might return in this Lifetime…I can always dream, can’t I?

Life in the Doolan household in the 1970s was always predicted by my father’s mood swings. As I told you earlier, he was definitely a Dictator….not quite as bad as someone like Idi Amin (for those of you who don’t know….he was a horrible dictator in Uganda/Zimbabwe in the same time period). However, our daily way of life was subject to Gerard Doolan’s emotional stability/instability. While he relished his pint (or a few) of Guinness (in later life. whiskey became his drink of choice) and on many an evening, he could be found at one of the local pubs…The Quarry or The Cremore. Most pubs in Ireland are separated into two areas: the bar: where it can get a bit rowdy and is geared more to the younger crowd, or the lounge: which is more peaceful and intended for families etc. Dad would usually spend his evenings in the bar area either having a drink alone or talking nationalism/politics with anyone who cared to listen. My father never had any friends and was always a loner…part of this reason being, I believe, was that he thought he knew more than anyone else in the vicinity or elsewhere for that matter. Stubborn as a mule, that was my Dad. I’m sure we, his offspring all have a portion of that hard-headedness in our own ways today…how could we not?

On a rare occasion, I would welcome the offer of running an errand with my father as we would usually finish it off with a trip to a pub, in the lounge area of course. It was pleasantly quiet, sitting there with my Coke and lemon (without ice back then, which usually meant more Coke) along with a bag of Pub cheese and onion crisps (chips) while he perused the local newspaper. Dad could always complete a crossword and still managed to do about three a day into his late eighties. These were nice father-daughter memories that I recall now with a smile. On the flip side of his drinking though, we always awaited his return home with bated breath. Not knowing what kind of mood he was going to arrive in, I would sit in the cold, at the top of the dark stairs as the garden gate eased open with a squeak. If the key easily opened the door; that usually meant that all was well. If we heard the rat-a-tat of the door knocker; that implied either he had forgotten his key or he was way too out of it to turn it in the lock. If he was upbeat, and brought hot chips/fries for us to share, I’d bound down the stairs and offer to butter some slices of bread for chip sandwiches. If the situation was reversed, I’d quietly tiptoe up to bed into a freezing, dark bedroom. Since we couldn’t afford nice bedding, we would always make do with a heavy pile of old, musty overcoats to cover us with to stay warm. If a light was ever left on in the house with nobody using it, we would always hear about it from my father who insisted that we were wasting electricity! So we would usually have to find our way in the dark, all the while feeling along the wall for the light switch. I am pretty sure that other families went through a similar routine as power was not the cheapest during the 1970s era.

My sister Kay and I shared a small double bed for most of our childhood/teen years. It was fun, as we would often use a flashlight to read under the covers or just chatter away until our Dad would shout at us to be quiet and go to sleep. His ears would even catch us whispering, so that always caused us to giggle all the more. Kay would usually ensure that she had hopped into bed before me, which meant I was always the last one to turn out the light switch. While doing so, she would taunt me by saying that the Boogeyman was under the bed and was going to grab my ankles any second as I climbed into bed. The result of which would scare the life out of me. Following that, she would tell me some ghost stories which we Irish are renowned for with our story-telling abilities. That’s what big sisters do, I suppose. That’s ok, I forgive her. Most of all, my sister helped me with self-esteem issues during those later awkward teenage years when I felt like a gangly wallflower. Kay would often remind me that all the rock stars and famous athletes would often choose girlfriends and wives that were tall model types and wore clothing so beautifully. Thanks Sis.

Winters were always freezing cold in our house and in Ireland in general back in the day. Our single heat source was a dusty coal fire in the living-room which wasn’t set every day. Whenever it was, we would all hover close to it on many a chilly evening. My father claimed to be the expert on how to properly light a fire the right way….it sure took forever to get going though. Even after the use of a firelighter it still took at least another hour. Coal was fairly cheap, dirty and plentiful in those days, (unlike today) and relaxing in front of a blazing fire was my idea of Bliss. On cold wintry nights, we would often sit around the hearth while Dad would read Irish ghost stories, which I absolutely adored. Mum would often make us a fried egg sandwich along with a cup of tea which would warm up our tummies before heading up to a chilly bed. On the odd occasion, Dad would light a fire in my parent’s bedroom fireplace where my sister and I would dry our hair in front of it after boiling up saucepans to have a bath. The latter became a tiresome and dangerous chore, trudging full and heavy pots of boiling water up/down the steep staircase to our little bath room. How we didn’t scald ourselves, I’ll never know! Today, I never ever take a warm shower or relaxing hot bath for granted….and while watching House Hunters International on TV with my hubby, could also never fathom buying a home without a bathtub. It’s just the ultimate in relaxation…

Life wasn’t always so negative with my dad. A pretty good cook when he chose to, with Saturday often his day for making the family dinner. It would either comprise of fried egg, chips (from a deep fat fryer) and peas or Dublin Coddle which is a white stew of potatoes, onions, parsnips, bacon and sausage. That warmed us on many a wintry evening. So when he felt like it, my dad could step up and be a decent man. Notwithstanding, those moments were few and far between but is how I choose to remember him. During evenings when nothing much was on TV, we also enjoyed many a board game of Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit together where he got to exhibit his high IQ,

Nowadays, I always make an effort and choose to remember the better moments of our times spent together as I believe we are all flawed while also being a product of our family genes, childhood and/or environment. It is up to us and us alone to take a step forward each day and try and make the most we can of our Lives. There will always be Obstacles ahead, but it is how we choose to overcome them that will ensure that we get to the better part of living. Nothing good ever comes easy, but if you never give up and take the good days with the bad, I promise that it will all work out for the Best. Just learn to be Patient and it will happen…I know sometimes that is much easier said than done, including present company.

Vacations were luxuries that we were not privy to; however my father would often insist that we spend an entire Sunday out of the house on Ballygall Road East every once in a while. We would all be awoken just after dawn, to find my dad in the kitchen vigorously shining his black shoes with polish. Ever since he had spent a brief stint in the Irish Army as a young man; he had learned how to shine shoes just right. Still half asleep, we would all bundle onto the number 19 bus and head off for the day to Portmarnock or Dollymount Beach, Lucan, The Phoenix Park, Glasnevin Cemetery or Kilmainham Jail. Most of the excursions included the odd history lesson with stories about deceased Irish patriots who had fought for Irish independence. Mum would pack us sandwiches with crisps/fruit and we’d find a park bench or sit on the grass enjoying our food, while trying to avoid pesky ants. On the way back home, we would always end up in the lounge area of a pub; thanks to dad. What can I say; the man enjoyed his pint of Guinness!

Music always made everything alright in those early days, later on and through today. Whenever I would be sitting in the kitchen with my ear to the half-broken radio listening to one of my favorite songs, the door would abruptly open and I would be scolded with: “Turn that rubbish off!” Once a week, when the one and only musical show I lovingly followed called “Top Of The Pops” would air, (most weeks anyways… and on an Irish channel only) my Dad would come up with an excuse. It was either to watch another show (we only had two channels for goodness sakes on our b/w TV) or he wanted some peace and quiet in the house. It would break my heart as he would make this decision just minutes before the show was due to start. After a while, I gave up trying to watch it as it just wasn’t worth the hassle. When Boy George came out with his smash hit: “Do you really want to hurt me?” I giggle thinking back to my dad’s question: “Is that a man or a woman?” Ha-ha!

My dad had a simple pink record player back then, and we would often share some of his musical tastes with albums like: Jesus Christ Superstar (I knew the words to almost every song) or singers like Terry Jacks (“Seasons in the sun”), Nana Mouskouri, etc...I wasn’t a big fan however of the more operatic voices though like Mario Lanza. On a few occasions, he would bring me home a record/single (via my request) from either Dolphin Discs/Golden Discs (two record stores in the city) like; “My old piano” by Diana Ross etc…The very first 45 RPM record I ever bought myself was “Baker Street” by Gerry Rafferty and 33 RPMs were “Could it be magic” Barry Manilow and “Saturday Night Fever”…yay for the incredible sounds of The Bee Gees.

Every Wednesday, my favorite weekly magazine called JACKIE was out on the newsstands and Dad would always reward me with a copy on his way home from work. With his zany sense of humor, he’d often claim to have forgotten it, but then produce it. That event was often the Highlight of my week, in getting to read it. It originated from London and was packed full of the latest gossip, fashion, Cathy and Claire page, true reader’s stories, and so much more. Another monthly magazine I loved back there was called SMASH HITS and included the words to many of the current hit songs which made it it fun to sing along with the radio…when my Dad was out or having a nap, of course. It would have been great if we had iPods back then or even Sony Walkmans; I could have listened to music up in my bedroom …oh well.

I would often enjoy lovely long walks with Mum to the local Johnstown Park, Botanic Gardens or even accompany her on a Sunday evening to mass at our local Ballygall Tin church. You could often find us outside in the back garden by the kitchen door whenever we were lucky enough to grab a sunny summer’s day. We would sit together on wooden kitchen chairs, reading the newspaper or just shooting the breeze about this and that. She always enjoyed it when I would make us Coconut Buns or Peach Flan on a Sunday afternoon for tea. My dear old Mum ended up working her fingers to the bone during the first few years of High School at St.Mary’s Holy Faith Convent in Glasnevin during the fall of 1975.

As stated earlier, Mum was an amazing typist and during the last years of her secretarial career, she chose to work from home for a female barrister who also lived in our Glasnevin neighborhood by the name of Mary Laffoy. Who knew how this special barrister would one day become a Supreme Court justice within the Irish Courts. Miss Laffoy would provide my mother with a typewriter and Dictaphone system and twice a week, she stopped by to collect all the multiple legal letters/documents needed for court the following day. I am so very Proud that my dear old Mum’s contribution to a little piece of Dublin history in this way…Good on you, Mum.