Looking Under Stones E-Book

Joe O'Toole

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

'This is not a story of me, but of me and mine, of my place and theirs, of places north, south, east and west in Ireland, but particularly of home life in Dingle and holidays in Galway, and of the times and traditions that left an indelible mark on a growing boy.' Set against the backdrop of major events in Irish history and the smaller local happenings of fair days, football matches and the first teenage dance, the book is shot through with the unique feel and flavour of an Irish upbringing.

Leseprobe

Fair Day on Main Street, Dingle.

DEDICATION

To Joan, a wonderful partner.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I have many people to thank:

Teresa for her motherly, non-judgemental eye over five decades.

Max & Phil Webster for their supportive encouragement.

Four tremendous sisters, Mary Sabrina, Anita, Phyllis and Grace, for not panicking about this. Phyl Moriarty for her help, stories and photographs; Ita Moriarty for her openness and courage.

Patty Atty Moriarty for uninhibited information on the early Moriartys; John Moriarty and John Benny Moriarty; Hanora Moriarty. Mollie, Fergus and Karl O’Flaherty for their accuracy; Mazzarella and Norella for their story.

Peadar and Murielle O’Toole, Lettermore; Lena O’Toole, truly a fount of knowledge. Oliver and Annie O’Toole; Clare and Geraldine O’Toole.

Tomás, Síle and the Tourmakeady O’Tooles for completing the family tree.

Micheál Ó Móráin for his stories.

Fr Kieran O’Shea.

Pat Neligan, Donal Ó Loingsigh, Thomas Lyne for remembering.

Austin Corcoran for his research.

Micheál Ó Cuaig, Cill Chiaráin, don taighde áitiúil.

Ciarán Cleary, graduate of Barry’s forge, for describing another Dingle.

Mary Webb for her effective editing, positive advice and sheer professionalism.

FOREWORD

This is a story. It is neither a social history, a local history nor a family history.

Mentally revisiting, questioning, querying and trying to understand anew things which were the norm growing up has been a real challenge. The research, the talking and the writing were thrilling for me. I have learned more and come to understand more about myself and my background during the writing of this book than at any other time in my life. The uniqueness of a Dingle childhood and the constant provocation and catalyst of interesting relations, friends and neighbours re-emerged.

I have also been awestruck in admiration of the zest for life among my O’Toole and Moriarty ancestors, how they dealt with hardship, tragedy, success and change, and most of all how they could still laugh at themselves and live life to the fullest. The more I got to know of them, the more interesting I found them.

Surprisingly, I have found that all those things that I enjoy in my own life, including teaching, politics, writing, boating, haggling and a love of islands, are all there within the clan experience. I have also grown to a fuller appreciation of how those life experiences moulded me.

No one contributed more to the way I turned out than my father, Myko, whose influence and open, tolerant philosophy continues to give me a sense of direction. I hope that this book is a testament to his tutelage more than any other. It may be a strange thing to say about one’s father, but it was a great privilege to have known him and shared in his constant optimism and ever-ready good humour. His great lesson was that every day is worth living, and life, with all its challenges, is also an entertainment.

For me this has been an exhilarating and fascinating voyage through my gene pool. My hope is that the reader, as a fellow traveller, will share some sadness, joy and discovery with me and that my account might also induce the odd smile.

Joe O’Toole, September 2003.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Cast of Characters

1. Daddy Tom

2. Seán the Grove

3. Connemara Roots

4. The Emigrants’ Return

5. Granny and Her Sisters

6. A Kerry–Galway Match

7. A Kickstart from the Pope

8. ‘Unwillingly to School’

9. Foxy John

10. Summers in Galway

11. Upstairs in the Monastery

12. Fair Day in Dingle

13. Buried Talents

14. Behind the Counter

15. Three Cheers for Our Lady of Fatima

16. Jimmy Terry’s Stallion

17. A Tailor on Every Street

18. Bonfire Nights and Wran Days

19. Light my Fire

20. The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

21. Anything But A Socialist

22. Goodbye Dingle, Hello Dublin

Plates

Copyright

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Moriartys

Daddy Tom: Great-great-grandfather

Old Johnny: Great-grandfather

Seán the Grove: Grandfather

Born 1885. Married Bridgy Fitzgerald, 1913.

Children: Patrick (Patty Atty), Mollie (married Paguine), John (Foxy John), Thomas, Teresa (my mother), Jonathan (Jonty), Phyl, Ita, Benny, and Jimmy

The O’Tooles

John O’Toole: Great-great-great-grandfather

John O’Toole: Great-great-grandfather

Pat (Kruger) O’Toole: Great-grandfather

Joe O’Toole: Grandfather (also his brother Henry, my granduncle)

Born 1884. Married Margaret O’Boyle, 1905.

Children: Patrick, Mary Clare, Twins Michael (Myko – my father) and Jack, and Plunkett

The joining of the clans:

Teresa Moriarty married Myko O’Toole in 1946

Children: Joseph (b.1947), Mary Sabrina, Anita, Phyllis and Grace

DADDY TOM

There have been Moriartys in Kerry for as long as history records, but the first one of whom I heard stories was Daddy Tom, my great-great-grandfather. And by all accounts he was not the kind of behavioural role model we would be inclined to hold up to our children. He had a reputation as a bit of a rake; the kind of man a father would be reluctant to leave alone with his daughter.

Daddy Tom married another Moriarty, a distant cousin, thereby reuniting two sides of the family. His wife, Síle Óg, was from below the hill in Mullach Mhial, a beautiful and remote place tucked in under the Conor Pass, on the Cloghane side. The Mullach Mhial people had a centuries-old track worn into Dingle, across the hill, through Camaois and down by the Glens. Daddy Tom called into Mullach Mhial regularly enough. It was always expected that he would marry Mary, the eldest girl; they were promised to each other. But Tom’s eyes wandered. He was distracted by the younger Síle, and soon it was himself and Síle Óg who were becoming great with each other.

It wasn’t a situation approved of by Síle’s father, who did not trust Tom for either of his daughters: ‘By God but weren’t we privileged to have had his company again today! He is too fond of the drink and mad for the other thing, that fella. I’m telling you, you’d be better off keeping far away from him. Young O’Donnell is far steadier. Tom Moriarty might be clan but he has a dangerous, wild streak in him.’

Síle was well aware that James O’Donnell was steadier. Wasn’t he a neighbour and didn’t she know him all her life. When he called to the house you wouldn’t notice the difference; he was just like the rest of her family. And he would marry her in the morning. Everyone expected it. James was safe, secure … and dull.

Tom Moriarty was a rogue. He plámásed her mother, drank with her brothers, challenged her father, laughed at the world and worried little. He was exciting. Never a pátrún day or fair did he miss and he would never leave a ball before morning. And she had heard about him and the women. But she wanted him around and wanted to be with him.

One fine summer’s day, when it was time for Tom to leave, Síle walked with him up the path to the top of the hill where, no doubt, the stunning views of the north and south sides of the Peninsula were the last things on the minds of two healthy, handsome youngsters. As Breandy Begley put it, ‘They went at it so hard that Tom left the print of Síle’s arse on the side of the track!’

Nature took its course, and with a baby on the way the couple did what they were expected to do and got married. And as for a honeymoon, a learned local historian told me once, ‘What honeymoon are you talking about? In those days the honeymoon after the wedding was a day in town and a night in bed.’ While the young lovers settled in to the married state, it is said that Daddy Tom did not let marriage completely change his rakish ways. ‘Seven or eight at home and a few more around the parish,’ was his answer to an enquiry as to the size of his family. Tom took to heart the great biblical imperative ‘Go forth and multiply’ and made it a personal mission.

The story of Daddy Tom and Síle was an entertainment, and the generational distance in time made it safe to tell. But these two people represent the beginnings of the family tree and, as such, they evoked a great curiosity. As it happens, the old track from Glens through Camaois into Mullach Mhial is extant. Little or nothing has changed and, apart from the presence of a power line with its string of poles, the view today is the same as it would have been for Tom and Síle.

Two centuries later I retraced their journey over the hill track down into Mullach Mhial. I started off lightheartedly enough, driving the Glens road out of Dingle and turning right at the Droichead Bán. Leaving the car behind when the road ran out, I crossed a gate and headed up into Camaois. As children growing up in Dingle, Camaois was the back end of nowhere. It was the place of threatened banishment if we were bold. How age matures, I thought, as I soaked in the sheer beauty of the place. How could I have missed this loveliness on my boyhood visits? It reminded me now of the Scottish legend of Brigadoon, which emerged magically out of a drab valley once in every century. Had I stumbled on Brigadoon? Or maybe the real truth of Brigadoon is not that it reappears every hundred years, but that it is only visible to the enlightened and the ready?

Striding up the gentle incline I kept a sharp lookout for the imprint of the posterior of my libertine great-great-grandmother, Síle. I have to report that, sadly, I did not find it. But following in the footsteps of the young lovers, I could almost picture them skipping up the hillside on that warm August day. Now that I was surrounded by the almost spiritual beauty of the place, their story took on a new meaning. The crude, simple telling seemed inappropriate. No sense now of a bawdy, superior enjoyment at their expense. This was a place meant to inspire romanticism and love.

And when you think about it, where could young couples go to be alone in those times? There were no secluded corners in nightclubs, no ‘Come up to my apartment’. It was only to be expected that in their desire for each other they would have been loathe to part when it was time for Tom to go. Wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world that Síle would walk aways with him? And when they reached the summit they would see the glory of West Kerry spread out in front of them, with the point of Cruach Marthain puncturing the sky and dividing the panorama between the distant Blaskets to the west and Skellig Mhicíl to the east. Breathless after the climb, and cocooned in the dry heather, they would rest before saying their goodbyes, delaying the inevitable parting by surrendering to passion in the most natural and, as it turned out, fruitful coupling.

So there it was, the place of conception and the source of my maternal gene stream. From this pair, through four generations to me, and it continues.

As for Síle Óg and Tom, it could be that as the years passed their love faded and their passion for each other cooled, but it would appear that the older Tom became, the more of a ‘stail’ he became. Many years after Síle’s death and with his family well reared, Tom was living with a son and daughter-in-law. His son’s wife was a decent, caring woman, who put up with the antics of her father-in-law. One night as she was sitting at home, there came a loud and demanding knock at the door. It would be rare enough for anyone to knock; neighbours just lifted the latch and came in with a ‘God save all here’ greeting. It was rarer still for someone to come to the front door, which had very little practical function in those times, apart from the welcoming of a new bride or the taking out of a coffin.

By the time she had sconced a candle and got to the front door there was no sign of anyone in the dark outside. Thinking that the visitor had gone round the back, she was about to shut the door when she saw a basket on the ground. Wrapped in it was a tiny, newborn baby. Practical woman that she was, she knew it was ‘returned goods’ to her father-in-law. And soft woman that she was, her heart went out to the little mite. She took herself and the child to bed and the word was put out that she was having trouble with a premature birth. A day or two later she produced the child. She called him Tom and he was reared in the house as their own.

As a young man, Tom felt the call to the priesthood and he was duly accepted as a seminarian in Maynooth College. At the time there was an arrangement that seminarians could be ordained after five years rather than the usual six if they agreed to serve a ten-year stint in Australia. Tom chose that route, and records show that he graduated from Maynooth with high honours in 1903. He loved his time in Australia, where he was held in great esteem by his community. When the ten years were up he was so comfortable with his parish that he opted to stay there, despite the offer of returning to a parish in his native Kerry. The people of his Australian parish were so delighted that they presented him with a sidecar and a pair of white horses. A month later he was driving in the sidecar to one of the outlying parishes when a woman by the roadside raised a large umbrella. The horses took fright, reared up and took off at a gallop. Father Tom could not get them under control. The whole contraption turned over on him and the poor man was killed. All that happened near Melbourne, in the diocese of Ararat, where he had served as priest in some beautiful-sounding places, such as Warnambool, Koroit and Casterton.

By all accounts Father Tom was a kind and generous man who always took an interest in the family back home. But if he had had his way, this book would never have been written and the union of the O’Tooles and the Moriartys, still a long way off, would never have happened.

When my grandfather, Seán the Grove, and Bridgy Fitz got married, Father Tom strongly advised them to come to Australia where he guaranteed them a good start. Interestingly, it was a route that my other ancestors, the O’Tooles, were to take a generation later – one of the many coincidences I was to discover in the story of the two families. Anyway, back to the Moriartys – the young couple decided to take him up on the offer and he sent over the price of the tickets and money for the journey. All was organised, and after the farewells were done, the pair headed for the ship in Queenstown, now Cobh harbour, outside Cork City. As Seán the Grove told it, ‘We had everything packed and ready to go, but when Bridgy saw the ship she bolted and refused to go another inch. We turned on our heels home again for Dingle.’ Though he relished the telling of the story and laying the blame on Bridgy, it always seemed to me that he was not unhappy with the outcome. He was a reluctant would-be emigrant at best.

Bridgy never changed her mind about emigration and as she would say herself, signs on, only one of her own family later emigrated. After one row too many, her son Jimmy, the black sheep of the family but her pride and joy, decided that Dingle was too small for her and him. When his mother heard that he was about to board a US-bound plane in Rineanna, as Shannon Airport was then called, her comment was, ‘The green distant grass makes an ass of the ass.’

From what I heard, Father Tom did not hold it against them that they changed their minds about Australia. Indeed, every story I was ever told about him suggests that there was a man of goodness if ever there was one, and there is no doubt that as a priest he was loved and respected for his caring and commitment. The irony is that if Holy Mother Church had even suspected that Tom was illegitimate he would never have been accepted as a seminarian. The rules of the Catholic Church at the time were unwavering on this matter: ‘Bastards can’t be priests.’

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

It is almost certain that Tom himself lived and died in ignorance of his true parentage. It raises a very fundamental question: should he have been told? Certainly he had a right to know, and nowadays we would be in no doubt that he should have been made aware of his biological parents, for all kinds of reasons, including family medical history. But that was the way it was then, and many a child grew up not knowing that the woman they called ‘Mammy’ was in fact their grandmother or some other caring relative. But it is interesting to speculate as to what direction young Tom’s life would have taken if Daddy Tom had been made to face up to his responsibilities.

Great-great-grandfather Daddy Tom was described to me by one seanfhear as ‘Fear mór leathair, feoil agus ceoil’ – a great man for sex, meat and music. ‘Leathar’ was commonly used in Corca Dhuibhne to describe matters sexual: ‘Bhíomar ag stracadh leathair’, literally meaning we were tearing leather, or indeed the more graphic ‘Bhíomar ag bualadh bolg’ – we were banging bellies. Nothing left to the imagination there. The colloquial Gaeilge for sex was direct, expressive and rich in imagery and the euphemism is often starker and more vivid than the real thing. An enquiry into how far things had gone went straight to the point: ‘Ach ar fhágais ann í?’ – but did you leave it in her?

It could be that English was the language of Puritans.

The fact that drink wasn’t listed in the description of Daddy Tom’s attributes should not be taken to mean that he was a teetotaller, far from it. Drink was such a given that it wasn’t necessary to mention it. Indeed, there was a kind of a view in those times that whiskey was a great pickling agent that prevented the breakdown of organs. And in Daddy Tom’s case, it seemed to have worked; he lived hard and died at the ripe old age of 105 years.

It was Minnie the Brewery, when I was a young lad, told me about the death and dying of my great-great-grandfather. It was the simplest of accounts.

‘I was there. He got up out of bed, went down to the chamber and did his business. Then he went in to bed again and died for himself.’

A few questions elicited more detail of the events.

‘Was there anyone with him?’

‘You can be sure that all his family were around him when he died. None of them were going to lose out.’

Apparently, whenever any of the family came to see him and he had established that things were going well for them, he would counsel them: ‘Never be short of money.’ For emphasis he would take his stick and rap hard on the locked chest he always kept under his bed. That chest became the stuff of dreams and the source of wild speculation among the family. How much was in it? What would they do with all that money when he was gone?

But the door would be firmly locked whenever he opened the famous chest and nobody was allowed to see its contents. ‘You’ll have plenty of time for that when I’m gone,’ he’d say.

The chest and its prospects became a bonding that kept the family together and attentive to the old man. He was well looked after and never wanted for anything. The estimated value of the chest was well spent on him over the long years until he finally died with his wits and family about him.

It goes without saying that the beneficiaries could hardly contain themselves; before the body was even prepared for the habit they had hauled out the chest and opened it for the share-out. It was stacked full of small, heavy, bulging bags. These were quickly emptied and, one after the other, they discharged their contents onto the floor – small stones, little bundles of cipíní, buttons. There wasn’t a single item of any value. Not a brass farthing among the lot of it.

‘Well, the old bollox!’

And I have no doubt but that the old cladhaire was breaking his sides laughing as he looked down on his family searching in vain for his ‘insurance cover’.

A wonderful image and a parable for all parents: the family that hopes together, stays together!

SEÁN THE GROVE

‘Sugar spilt is profit lost.’

My grandfather, Seán the Grove, had a cautionary tale, if not a parable, for every little incident. He would carefully tip the last few grains of sugar from the large scoop into a strong brown-paper bag on the scales. It was one of those old-fashioned balances with the pound weight on one side and the bag of sugar on the other. Finally the sugar would have the measure of the weight and would gently seesaw itself downward as the weight went upwards, until they were in perfect balance. Granda would stop the flow of sugar exactly on the mark.

‘Don’t do the customer and don’t do yourself.’ And then would come the question. ‘How many should we have?’

‘Half a hundredweight is fifty-six pounds. There should be fifty-six bags.’

‘Good. Good. You’re not wasting your time up there with the Brothers. Now we’ll count them, to be sure.’

There would be a restatement of the lecture during the count.

‘Don’t waste. Be honest. Give every man his due.’

Of course there wasn’t the slightest need for him to be filling bags of sugar. There was plenty of help around if he wanted it. But he undertook the task for a number of reasons. Firstly, few things irritated him as much as spilt sugar. The sound and feel of grains of sugar underfoot grated on him to an irrational degree. Taking charge of the sugar himself ensured that it would not be spilt. Secondly, it kept him in the centre of things and it meant that he wasn’t idle. Also – and this was important – it wasn’t hard work. I don’t think I ever saw him break sweat.

In fact, Seán the Grove had a great lack of confidence in the potential of people with the reputation for being hard, physical workers. He held the view that they would never get much further than where they were. A great believer in exploiting and making the best of any given situation, one of his better moves was to acquire the heart disease angina in his late middle age. He minded it and nursed it for about thirty years and at any moment would explain to you the importance of ‘minding the ticker’. Mind it he did, and it improved the quality of his life. When he finally died, in his late eighties, it was not from angina but ripe old age.

He was a most successful businessman, but he rarely took his hands out of his pockets. What he excelled at was buying and selling. He would purchase quality at a bargain and sell at a profit and all parties in between would be treated fairly. He made money without making enemies. There was nobody he did not have word for, he was a great talker and his popularity was legendary. The people he did business with tended to trust him and become his friends. Commercial travellers warmed to him. One of them, Denis Guiney, asked him to become a partner in acquiring a substantial drapery business. My grandfather declined. Guiney went on to build his business, Clery’s, into one of Dublin’s great department stores. A very rare missed opportunity for Seán the Grove.

My grandfather was born in 1885, or so he told me, and christened John Moriarty. As often as not he was called Jack. He acquired the name of Seán the Grove from the name of his farm, The Grove, just on the edge of Dingle town under Cnoc a’Chairn, where he had been born, and to distinguish him from all the other Moriartys. It is hard to describe his daily activity in a manner which reflects his success. Every day he would walk up to the farm in the Grove and look around. I can never remember him to work on the farm, but he would question Uncle Benny, or give directions. In the shop, which was quite small, he would talk to the customers while my grandmother did the work. All he ever seemed to do was to sell men’s shoes and caps and to weigh and pack the loose sugar and tea. I have no doubt but that he was given the task of fitting the shoes because my grandmother, who was spotlessly clean, refused point-blank to be subjected to the olfactory onslaught from feet and socks just released from the hot and sweaty confines of heavy leather boots or rubber wellingtons. In fact, my grandmother would regularly advise people with smelly feet that the best cure for them was to bathe them regularly ‘in your own morning water’. I never tried it myself, but I know that ‘morning water’, that first urination before breaking fast, was commonly advised as a cure-all for things like chilblains and other foot problems. Anyway, grandfather sold footwear to all, smelly feet notwithstanding. Nothing pleased him more than the customer who walked in in a pair of shoes, stuck one big foot on the small footstool with the request, ‘Same again, Jack, size eleven.’

‘You got good value out of them,’ he’d reply, ‘they’re a great shoe and they’ll last forever if you keep them soled and polished. Clark’s make them well.’

‘I’ve no complaints, Jack. I wore those shoes at every Mass, funeral, wedding and races these last five years.’

Every night he would call down to our house. Every night he would play cards with us and every night there would be political talk. Seán the Grove loved politics. Even though they held differing political views, he got on great with my father, Myko. The happenings of the day would be recounted and lessons drawn from them. He mixed general advice on living with specific advice on playing cards: ‘Trust every man if you must, but always cut the cards,’ or the caution, ‘The two worst payers are the one who pays beforehand and the one who does not pay at all.’

No two nights were ever the same. The card game that was played in our house was ‘31’, the West Kerry version of ‘25’, with the best trump being worth eleven. It was a game in which every deal was a test of judgement, skill, cooperation and survival tactics. The decisions were complex; it was not just a matter of winning a ‘trick’ and it was not simply about winning out. There was also the consideration of whether or not it would be better to allow someone else to win in order to prevent the leading player from getting out. But in allowing another player to take one ‘trick’, you had to question whether your own trump card was good enough to take the next one. We were required to take the broad view. Seán the Grove expected you to make judgements on the quality or potential of a player’s hand from the early tricks and plays.

My moves came under particular scrutiny. Every mistake I made would be analysed during the next deal. ‘If you had held back the knave until the following trick you could have taken the last two and Myko wouldn’t have won.’ ‘Only a fooleen would have led with the Ace of Hearts. Didn’t you know the Five was still in play? If you had waited you could have taken two tricks with a sporting chance of the last!’ At the time it was humiliating, but in reality it was no more than learning and teaching through the group method and typical of my mother’s people, the Moriartys. For them, everything was a lesson to be learnt. Each day’s experience layered on yesterday’s. I can still hear my grandfather’s voice when I had made some mistake. Shaking his head in mock sadness, he would sigh, ‘Níolagan wouldn’t be such a fooleen, John Pheadaí would be cuter.’ This was a pointed reference to two of my schoolmates, Pat Neligan and John Francis Brosnan. If the truth were known, they were two of the easiest-going of all the gang and would be horrified to think that they were being held up as examples that would show me to disadvantage. They are the same and every bit as decent today.

Myko would relate the latest views and happenings from his colleagues in Tralee Garda Station, the ‘experts and the philosophers’ as he always referred to them. Many of the stories originated with District Justice Johnson, who also sat in the Dingle court. He had a wry sense of humour and was forever trying to unravel pub brawls, fair-day fights and neighbours’ quarrels about rights of way. Whereas the protagonists were introduced to the court by their full baptismal names, the oral evidence from witnesses in the box would refer to people by their pet names and nicknames, so, for example, Mr Patrick James Coffey became Red Padger in the telling. The defendant might have been baptised John Savage, but nobody ever heard him called anything but Daggers. Confusion reigned. Blank looks on the faces of witnesses. Lawyers trying to relate nicknames to official names. On these occasions the good judge was in the habit of interrupting the proceedings and cross-examinations with a plea to the lawyers that they ‘read out the cast in order of appearance’ so that he might interpret the evidence by knowing their names both as ‘players and characters’.

No doubt his experiences in the courtrooms of Kerry provided the inspiration, but Justice Johnson went on to write a play called TheEvidence I Shall Give, which was popular among amateur dramatic groups around the country for many years.

Our house was across the road from the courthouse, so we were right in the middle of the excitement on the Wednesday court sittings. As children, we often managed to slip past the garda on the door and sneak in to the back of the courtroom to listen to local scandals and see justice being doled out. We shared that space with every layabout from the town. They were all there to glory in the discomfiture of publicans who served after-hours, the ‘found-ons’ as the illegal drinkers were officially termed. This was all the stuff of meaty gossip later in the evening, none more so than fair-day fights and rights-of-way disputes.

My first visit to a dentist was at approximately five years of age and for some reason, which has been long forgotten, it was Seán the Grove who brought me. All that remains in my memory is the pain of the experience and the soft, patient voice of the dentist, Michael Fitzgerald. My grandfather was a firm believer in the importance of young people minding their teeth and constantly cautioned against losing them, as he himself had done. That was quite forward-thinking at that time inasmuch as dentists were still seen as a sort of modern-day luxury and convenience. People would do anything rather than attend at the dentist. Every conceivable method to kill the pain of toothache was tried, from whiskey and poitín to witch hazel and cloves, and it was only when all else failed that the dentist was brought into play. Even then it was never to save the tooth, but to ‘pull the damn thing and give me some peace’.

The accepted wisdom was that by middle age we would all be losing our teeth, to be replaced by dentures, or ‘false teeth’ as we called them. People used to take pride in their perfect false teeth and show them off. It was the introduction of school medical examinations that brought a new education and awareness to a generation as to the importance of dental health and hygiene. Seán the Grove made sure that his own children appreciated the importance of good grinders. Teresa always insisted that we brush our teeth at least twice daily and with Euthymol toothpaste, which at the time could only be purchased in a chemist’s. That confirmed for her that it was the best!

My recollection of that first dental visit is that it was occasioned by a minor playground accident, which resulted in an injury to my front teeth and gums. Eventually, three of my upper front teeth were extracted to allow adequate space for two adult teeth to come down. And indeed the two buck teeth did eventually make their appearance. My grandfather insisted on weekly reports as to how the new teeth were doing. They did fine. For a quarter of a century after that he would ask me, ‘How are Michael Fitz’s teeth?’ They gave no trouble for over forty years, at which point it became necessary to crown one of them. They are still grinding. And when the time came, Michael Fitz always voted for me in elections. Two victories at age five.

Being a practical man, Seán the Grove gave great consideration to the future employment of his family and his grandchildren. Any of his family who were interested in getting into business could count on him for a hand-out. At one stage four of his children, including my mother, had thriving businesses around the town and another had the farm. My grandparents were unusual for their time in that they made very little distinction between sons and daughters; they each got their opportunities, regardless of gender. Third-level education was an option for all of them, even though he would prefer to see them in business. My mother, Teresa, insists that the week she matriculated and was set on doing pharmacy, he convinced her to change her mind and gave her the shop on the Mall, which he had just purchased.

Although he was certainly a practising Catholic, Seán the Grove never struck me as being particularly religious and he tended towards the iconoclastic. One of his daughters, who was a qualified and practising pharmacist, surprised us all by joining a religious order and becoming a nun. My grandfather did not appear best pleased, but said very little. He would be the kind of man who, after investing significantly in her qualification, would feel cheated that the Medical Missionaries would get all the good of it. It was not that he was mean. He was not. But he was thrifty and practical and liked to enjoy the results of his investments.

Previously, this aunt, Aunty Ita, had been in a relationship with and on the point of engagement to a most interesting man who had been a bank official but had given it all up to become an artist full-time. They were committed to each other and it seemed as though they would marry and spend their lives together. They never did. She felt the call of her religious vocation around this time and she answered it. It was the most difficult decision.

As a nun, she spent almost all of the rest of her life in Africa, returning only when she was well past retirement age, while the former bank official went on to become the leading and most celebrated Irish artist of his day. The week of his death the newspapers carried various reports and obituaries. In one of the accounts it was reported that as a young man, Tony O’Malley’s heart had been broken by a woman whom he loved, but who had rejected him, asking, ‘What would she be doing with a man who had given up his steady job, had only one lung and a few old paintings?’

The report was upsetting, untrue and unfair to Aunty Ita. As far as I can establish, the statement was made, but never by her. It was Seán the Grove who apparently said it. Why? Not from any animosity towards the man himself, but no doubt because of a concern that his daughter might not be provided for by a husband in seemingly indifferent health who had given up a secure job for a precarious profession. Those were different times, when neither the State nor all of its citizens had matured to an appreciation of the contribution of art to the community.

So the pharmacist and the artist split up, but each went on to make a significant contribution in their different areas. Still, throughout our lives we have derived great pleasure from some of the early works of the young Tony O’Malley, which he gifted originally to Aunty Ita and which hang to this day in my parents’ house.

One of Seán the Grove’s great heroes was his uncle, his mother’s brother, Fr John Martin. For some reason, within the family he was always referred to as Fr Martin rather than as Fr John. Fr Martin was a scholar and linguist, well-versed in the Classical languages and in German. He had travelled through the Continent and had been a curate in Lancashire as a very young priest. In the first decade of the last century he was appointed parish priest of Tarbert, north Kerry. Immediately prior to that he had been a curate in Cahirdaniel, in the southern end of County Kerry. As a curate he had established a reputation for taking a great interest in the affairs of the community and the welfare of the people. In fact, in an effort to stabilise prices, each Sunday he would read out, at Cahirdaniel Mass, the average prices of food by the merchants in the neighbouring towns of Sneem and Cahirciveen so that parishioners could decide in which town to spend their money that week. Clearly he had no Moriarty blood in him. The Moriartys would have been best friends of the merchants. Having no interest in wealth for himself, it was said that he left Cahirdaniel without even the travel cost to Tarbert. On his elevation to PP it was important that his new status be reflected in his trappings. As a gift for his uncle, my grandfather bought a horse in Dingle and rode all the way to Tarbert, a journey of about sixty miles, to deliver the animal. When he arrived at the presbytery, wasn’t there a trade-union picket, placed by the Irish National Teachers’ Organisation (INTO), outside the priest’s house!

Apparently, when Fr Martin arrived in Tarbert there was a vacancy for a teacher in the local school. A very popular local teacher expected to be offered the job, but Fr Martin had a different idea and he was the school manager. Sure, he knew a mighty good teacher from Cahirdaniel who was available and came highly recommended. Her family were the best of people. He duly proposed her for the job. Clearly the poor man wasn’t very political. There was outrage. The school principal and the teachers were incensed, as was the community, that a runner-in would take a job earmarked for the local and said that they would oppose his proposal – no light undertaking in those days when the clergy’s word was law. Fr Martin was determined to stamp his authority on them and insisted on having his way. There was an immediate strike.

Seán the Grove was allowed through the picket line to his besieged uncle, who told him how he had made the choice of the Cahirdaniel girl above the local. He finished his story by asking, ‘What would you have done, Jack?’ My grandfather, who knew that all business is local, replied that, if it were up to him, he would have ‘given it to the local girleen’. Fr Martin had no doubt been expecting the full moral support of his nephew, and snarled, ‘Well, maybe then you should go outside and walk up and down with that crowd!’

Seán the Grove loved telling that story and would finish it by saying, with more than a degree of satisfaction, ‘and in the end he had to give in and give it to the local’. Things obviously improved after that first contretemps, as Fr Martin spent the rest of his priestly career in Tarbert, which he grew to love. He became popular and respected. He also had the support of a very loyal housekeeper and there was a whispered family rumour, never proved, that perhaps the relationship was more than platonic. But then those were the days when it would not have been unheard of for a parish priest to ask his housekeeper to go up and warm the bed for him. It would be an easy and understandable thing to get so cosy and comfortable that she might still be there when the priest arrived in the bedroom.

When eventually he died, Fr Martin was buried in the graveyard beside the church in Tarbert. If you are driving past, it is easy to pick out the grave by the Celtic high cross that marks its location, to the left, at the very back of the cemetery. I find it very ironic that, while his headstone stands authoritatively and imposingly at the back, anyone wishing to visit it must first walk past the first grave to the left of the entrance gate. It is the last resting place of a former INTO president, Brendan Scannell. Brendan was a larger-than-life character and a friend of mine. He would have appreciated the quirk of fate that has him providing a perpetual picket to the man who did battle with the INTO and who was my great-granduncle.

Seán the Grove was always looking ahead and planning. One day, when I was a young child, he asked me what I would like to be when I grew up.

‘A bishop or a carpenter,’ I answered innocently and enthusiastically, sure that my choices would satisfy him.

‘Not bad. Not bad.’

But before I could bask in the afterglow of his approval, he astonished me by advising me to become a parish priest. He claimed it was the best job of all. My childish protests that prayers and praying did not really appeal to me were dismissed as being utterly irrelevant. This had nothing whatever to do with religion. He did not even bother to explain that a bishop was also a priest, a linkage that had clearly escaped my assessment of career options. The point about being a PP was that it was a well-paid and respected position that brought with it much influence and a good house. Nobody could order you about, not even the bishop. In fact, in his estimation it was better than being a bishop, who was answerable to a number of layers of higher power. Times have changed somewhat on this one, the bishops have wised up and nowadays parish priests have to sign a contract with the bishop before being appointed. However, long before that alteration had occurred, my mind was made up that a clerical life was not for me. And Seán the Grove knew that well.

My grandfather’s world was one of farming and business, and if he had his way that’s where he would have wanted to see all of us. Sometimes he took a mischievous delight in presenting himself as being a bit naive. ‘Tell me now, girleen,’ he said to Joan the first time he met her, ‘are ye in business or have ye land?’ When Joan explained that, yes, her father had a farm, but that she was the youngest in a family of four boys and four girls and had no entitlement or expectations in that direction, he completely dismissed her protestations. ‘It does not matter, girleen, some of it will fall to you.’ Dingle friends loved that story. And indeed, maybe he was right. Joan’s father very generously gave us the site on the farm where we built our house.

Seán the Grove always maintained that any young lad could learn a lot from being given a ten-pound note and a map of the world and told to come home in five years. He felt that every new experience should fit into a steep and continuous learning curve. I remember being with him at the Dingle races when he took me to see the ‘Trick o’ the Loop’ man. This particular gent operated out of sight of the police. He carried with him a small wooden box on which he placed a cloth of green baize. Taking a longish, soft leather belt, he brought the two ends together, put a pencil in the resulting loop, then wrapped the doubled belt around the pencil and laid it on the table for all to view. I could clearly see the pencil in the loop.

He kept up a great chit-chat all the while.

‘Now, keep an eye on the pencil. Nothing could be easier. Keep your eyes open and make a fortune. Don’t ask me why I do it, but I’ve given four half-crowns away in the last half-hour.’

On removing the pencil from the loop he most foolishly offered the audience an even-money bet against them returning the pencil to the correct loop. He even showed us how easy it was, by holding the pencil, pulling the belt straight and, sure enough, the pencil was trapped in the loop. No wonder he was losing money, I thought. It was simple, anyone could do it.

‘That man is going to lose more money foolishly, Granda.’

The bet was offered again. A man who was not a local placed a bet and won a red ten-shilling note. The Trick o’ the Loop man looked worried.

‘You’re making a poor man of me!’ he protested. ‘But I’m going to give you one more chance.’ Carefully and in full view he rolled up the belt again with the pencil in the loop.

‘I’m going to leave the pencil in the loop so you can all have a look. Now, any bet?’

Sure, you couldn’t lose. It was money for nothing. My grandfather finally conceded to my earnest requests for money and granted me a loan of half-a-crown. I rushed forward to make my fortune.

‘Are you sure, young fellow?’ he said doubtfully, looking around when I handed him the half-crown. I never noticed my grandfather nodding to him.

Taking the pencil from the foolish fellow I stuck it in the obvious loop with more certainty than anything I had previously done in all of my young life.

‘You can still change your mind,’ said the Trick o’ the Loop man.

Hah! He knows he’s lost and is trying to talk me out of it. ‘No, it’s this one. This is the right one,’ I said smartly.

‘All right, young fellow,’ he conceded. He pulled the belt smoothly. It came clean; the pencil was outside the loop. Someone shouted, ‘Guards.’ In one simple movement he lifted my bright half-crown and ran off with his table, muttering ‘damned Peelers’ under his breath.

There I was, bereft of fortune and naked in my scarlet embarrassment; the object of much comment and ridicule from the passing public.

There was not a day during the following month nor a week during the following year when my grandfather did not find some reason to refer to my foolishness at the races – losing a ‘lorry wheel’ to the Trick o’ the Loop man. The story became a parable to the younger generation. As a learning experience I would have to concede that it was a far more impactful lesson than a puritanical lecture on the evils and dangers of gambling.

As soon as I was old enough – and that might have been before the legal age – I was deputised to drive Seán the Grove to funerals in the estate car belonging to his son, Foxy John. These were never dull outings. Burying the dead with due respect was important and was a co-operative effort. It was done in Dingle in the same manner as the biblical civic responsibility. Attendance at funerals was much more than a mere political or business-related drudgery. Certainly, it was discharged out of a sense of duty, but it was also genuinely part of neighbourliness and community. It would be unthinkable not to attend the funeral of a neighbour, and ‘neighbour’ was a loose term that actually meant anyone in the locality. Contradictory as it may sound, dying was an inexorable and inevitable act of living. It is a purely logical fact that one has to be alive to die.

As youngsters we saw death being greeted as a natural part of life. We were never shielded from it. Young children would be brought gently to the coffin of their grandparent and spoken to in a soft voice.

‘We’ll say goodbye to Granny.’

Even the use of the colloquialism relaxed the tense and timid child.

‘Goodbye, Granny.’

‘Do you want to give Granny a kiss?’

A step too far, maybe. A slow shake of the head.

‘That’s all right, a ghrá. Say a small prayer.’

But sometimes there would be no demurring when the mother, holding the child’s hand in her own, would quietly reach across and in the most natural way in the world place both their hands on Granny’s. Curiosity satisfied and fear banished. It was a learning experience.

There always had to be a report on the funeral for those who were unable to attend. It was a reckoning of popularity; a noting of surprising absences, or perhaps surprise attendances; a naming of extended family and far-out relatives, particularly arrivals from overseas.

‘Was it a big funeral?’

‘The cars were stretched back around Milltown Bridge and up the High Road. In fairness, all the nephews and nieces came back for it. They gave him a fine send-off.’

Most aspects of Dingle life were competitive, and this included funerals. The language had to be carefully chosen. ‘That was the biggest funeral I can remember’ would be all right to say to a family member or relative of the deceased on the day, but if it were said to neighbours it could easily put them into the position of having to defend family honour by reminding the listeners of the huge gathering at their last funeral.

Because they were such a common feature of our lives, funerals did not tend to be very sad occasions. All the good done by the dearly departed would be recalled and celebrated and any bad would be hidden away. ‘Never speak ill of the dead’ was a given on these occasions. As a sign of their grieving and as a mark of respect to the dead, close family relatives would wear a black cloth diamond sewn on the upper arm of their jackets for a mourning period of months. Afterwards, life went on as normally as circumstances would allow.