Pound Road
There was a place in dear Castleisland,
Pound Road it was its name,
It housed the finest people,
Kind and caring just the same.
There were Murphys, Sullivans and Brosnans, Berminghams and Morans too,
Danahars, Conways and Buckleys and McCarthy to mend your shoe.
There were Dennehys, Griffins and Savages and Prendivilles - who are our kin,
We'll not forget those people for that would be a sin.
There were carpenters, and undertakers, cobblers and a bell-man too,
Fishmongers and horse barbers - none were idle I assure you.
Times were tough back in the 40s to make a bob or two,
No bother to these people - they were smarter that (sic) me and you.
One day there came a letter, their little homes would have to go,
They'd be moved to better houses - away from heil and snow.
But their way of life had ended, 'twas the end of an era you see,
They had to leave their little cottages - where they never used a key.
In my home I hung a calendar with their names and history,
I smile and think about them when recession blares from TV,
Those folks survived in harder times but their hearts and minds were free,
They lived each day as best they could with a chat and a mug of tea.
When in your cosy beds at night, will you say a little prayer,
For all who've gone before us, in whose footsteps we will dare,
Their simplicity and their courage an inspiration to us all.
We think of our relations, bould Tom and Sonny Bawn. from The Kerryman
This offering might not pass the poetry finger test , but County Kerry has the most (37) GA football titles and Castleisland is once again the widest street next to O'Connell Street in Ireland. Dactyls and spondees and rhetorical flourishings aside, the vocation of the horse barber grabbed me.
County Kerry, ladies and gents! And you wonder how I got this way.
All babies are alike, so long as they managed to stay out of the way of Planned Parenthood and educated butchers like Dr. Kermit Baron Gosnell.
There is no ugly baby. They are all precious -male, or female; king, or commoner, healthy, or afflicted.
A miracle comes to pass that changes this tired old planet with new foot prints to be and perfumes the atmosphere with breath and cries echoing God's contract with mankind.
At 4:25 PM CST, we got the news that the Duchess of Cambridge gave birth to a little boy weighing in at 8 Lbs, 6 ozs, Well done, Kiddo. If Prince Willie is any kind of a man and all signs point to the positive, he was there at the miracle and I hope he helped a bit. Child-birth is the most humbling experience a male can endure.
The Little Guy Royal has to be yet named, or announced to the public. I am sure the Windsors have the little man's handle all wrapped up.
I imagine, like my own family, there will be pressure to maintain geneological cognomen templates We Hickeys follow the naming frames of the Batty-Lars of Crinnie Hill Castleisland, County Kerry: Identified by the the sept of Hickeys generated by Bartholomews/Laurences; thus, Batty's son Larry married Nora and their first child was Laurence & etc. the other twelve followed pattern as well.
The Little Guy Royal will no doubt be named according to his lineage, or in recognition of the four kingdoms - George, David, Patrick Andrew & etc, or the Teutonic Carpetbaggers of Bradenburg Victor, Louis, Albert, Edward.
In time the little man will be publicly known by the names chosen for him and many more will follow. That is our all too human fate. Our deeds often brand us.
One of the coolest names that I have ever encountered in my two score years belonged to one Timothy Devlin of the vast Red Devlin Clan,west of Damen Avenue at 78th Place. Timmy-Guts Devlin was few years younger than me, but had reputation for fierce daring-do that would have made Errol Flynn pale timorously when challenged to follow Timmy-Guts anywhere.
Timmy-Guts would enter burning box-cars on the CSX rail lines that commanded Rum Valley at 79th Street in order to retrieve treasures untold and immeasurable, because they were there. Timmy-Guts Devlin scared mad dogs away from his little sisters and climbed the Rheem Water Tower long before he entered Little Flower Grammar School.
Timmy- Guts Devlin was the template for anyone claiming a pair. The Young Royal might be well served with name Timothy somewhere in his official handle - the world could use another Timmy-Guts.
The earliest known tornado to hit Ireland took place on April 30, 1054 near Kilbeggan in County Weatmeath - it was the earliest known European tornado.
Last Wednesday, a tornado hit the ancestral grounds of the Hickeys -Castleisland, County Kerry. The event was recorded publican Tom McCarthy.
Castleisland publican, Tom McCarthy re-living the town's tornado ordeal ...
By MARISA REIDY mreidy@kerryman.ie Wednesday December 21 2011 A FREAK tornado tore through the centre of Castleisland at lunchtime on Friday last, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
The terrifying twister, which measured approximately 100 feet in width, ripped through the town in a matter of minutes, uprooting roof slates, knocking over walls and fences and breaking trees and shrubbery.
The majority of the damage was centred in the Cahereen Heights estate in town, with one local resident describing the phenomenon as one of the most frightening things he had even witnessed. The local man told The Kerryman that as he made his way from his car to his house, the sky darkened before he was confronted by what appeared to be a tornado.
"To be honest, I don't know what it was but as I made my way into the house I saw this black/purple coloured thing in front of me, shaped like a horse shoe. It was about 50 yards away from me and about 100 ft wide and it took over the whole green [in the estate]. It was about five foot off the ground and the force of it was so intense. "I tried to make my way into the house and could hardly close the door with the force of it," he said.
You may say. . . Us Yanks have a shower them bastards, too, so.
Tom McCarthys 40 Main Street Castleisland Co Kerry Phone 066-7141313
"If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold -- one of the strangest ..." James Joyce
Now, my father was hung for sheep stealing My mother was burned for a witch My sister's a dandy house-keeper And I'm a mechanical switch
It's forty long years I have traveled All by the contents of me pack Me hammers, me awls and me pinchers
I carry them all on me back
Tommy Makem
When Teddy Sullivan died in May , his boy, Mossie, went through his boxes of treasures. Teddy kept letters 'from home' in Castleisland County Kerry.
Teddy came to the States and settled in Chicago in 1960. Me met Meg Joyce from Galway at a dance at Cannon Hall of the Hibernians on Halsted, courted and married the girl. Teddy had a good job working at the Audi Home, first as a boiler fireman and then as a Stationary Engineer. He and Meg moved out of their small apartment across from Sherman Park on Garfield Blvd when the girl was expecting Mossie. The Sullivans now lived in St. Ethelreda Parish in a two flat at 85th and Wolcott. It was there that the Sullivans of Chicago took shape.
However distant and cold about Ireland in his musings, Teddy kept close touch with those 'back home.' Teddy treasured his roots and never wanted to return to them. Teddy kept tickets from the small Kerry movie house where he saw The Searchers in Ireland. Among these trinkets, Mossie found a ticket-stub for a pair of dress shoes that had been paid ( £ 1,three shillings, eight pence) for but never been picked, before Teddy emigrated to Chicago. Today that would be about £ 17 Irish Pounds -very dear, or expensive as Hell!
Teddy and the late Meg Joyce-Sullivan never returned home to Ireland.
Mossie tucked the ticket into his wallet and with his young family went 'home' in July 2011 - it was Mossie's first trip back to Ireland.
The Sullivans enjoyed their time in Galway and county Clare took the Tarbert Ferry across the Shannon River and drove over and down the far-famed Kerry Mountains and into Castleisland County Kerry.
Mossie's wife Kerry and the three little girls shopped the second widest street in Ireland and enjoyed ice cream with a generous spike of Flake Chocolate, while Mossie searched out Old Dan Brosnan's Cobbler Shop out near the new market pens.
He found and entered the Georgian shop with a charming ring of the tiny bell above the door. Dan Brosnan's is a tight dusty and leathey space filled with brogans, boots, loafers and four generations of ladies boots, pumps and sandals. This was a history of Twentieth Century footwear.
Out of the back room shuffled a tiny man in his 90's interrupted of the next bite of his Noon Tea who wiped a bit of Chef's Sauce from the corner of his gray whiskered mouth with a "God Bless, Yank."
"Hello, are you Dan Brosnan?'
" I am, so."
"My father was from here."
" What Yank never tells me the same?"
" He left here in 1960 . . ."
" A Castleisland Engineer from Chicago, so!"
"Yes, sir he was."
" He's gone on, then."
"Last May."
" God be good to him."
"His name was Teddy Sullivan and he . . ."
" Mick the Dairyman's boy and brother to Dec, Turney, and Sarsfield who all went to Canada."
" You have a remarkable memory, Mr. Brosnan."
" I do so. How else can a man make a living in this vale of tears."
Mossie dug the yellowed cardboard ticket-stub marked S-786.
" In fact, I found a receipt ticket for a pair of dress shoes that my Dad had made in 1960 and paid in full £ 1,three shillings, eight pence."
The ancient cobbler shuffled to his shop counter's files and pulled the partner of the emigrant ticket seperated by force of his powerful fingers and fifty years and joined at this moment in geneological magic. Dan Bosnan smiled broadly.
'Take a good grip on it,now, so. You've a long scamper up that cnoc beag beyond the Church and she's a Fat Heiffer at that, so. You rest it down half a mile on the cónra cloiche (Coffin Stone)above that mile.'
We Chicago Irish carry the coffin for about eighteen inches from the back of Bob Sheehy's Hearse to the coffin gurney - sometimes if the occupant were a career lard ass that heft is more than enough. However, our Irish Cousins ( invest in Mike Houlihan's New Documentary) continue to employ the full force of six men and true all the way to the Church and the Parish graveyard.
Here is an interesting oddity, learned in the pages of The Kerryman Newspaper.
"I also came across the fascinating phenomenon of coffin rests while interviewing people in Bonane outside Kenmare. If, say, a woman married into a neighbouring parish it was the custom that she would be buried with her own people when the time came. So the coffins were carried back on foot and the cortege made use of specific rocks as coffin rests," he explained." The Kerryman
"Thank God, she was a thin one. 'Tis a long hike up hill, so"
HICKEY (Crinnie, Castleisland, Co. Kerry*) May 15, 2011, Laurence (Larry), (peacefully), beloved husband of Mary (nee Keane) and much loved father of Bart, Marina, Helen, Noreen and D.J.; sadly missed by his loving wife and family, sons-in-law, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, all extended family, relatives and friends. R.I.P. Reposing at Tangney's Funeral Home, Castleisland this (Monday) evening from 4.30 o'c. to 7 o'c., followed by Removal to Castleisland Parish Church. Requiem Mass tomorrow (Tuesday) at 11 o'c. Burial afterwards in Kilbanivane Cemetery, Castleisland. House private please.
When I got home from Leo High School last night, my son Conor interrupted his study of The Principles of Air and Ventilation Systems for his class at Local 399, to tell me that my cousin Larry Hickey had died. There are a number of Larrys, as there are a wealth of Pats, Mikes, Barts, and Sylvesters. Conor said, " Larry of Crinna." He was not a 399 Hickey, nor am I. Larry was a dairy farmer on an ancient family farm that sits on a mountain above the town of Castleisland, County Kerry Ireland. I am one of the very few Hickeys without an Engineer's license, or a membership -card in Local 399. I was determined 'useless' at a very early age and consigned to a vocation that did not require attention to mechanical detail and the sweat of the brow. " Jesus, Man! You had better get into a college or you'll sh-tarve,so!" was the dictate of my grandfather
Local 399 of the International Union of Operating Engineers was started by my grandfather sometime after the 1912 stockyard strikes. Many of the engineers were from County Kerry, Ireland and it was a lousy job back then - hauling coal and shoveling cinders for the packing houses of Cudahy, Armour, Swift and the smaller concerns.
Today, it is a skilled trade that requires a command of operating systems that maintain the quality of air, water and gases required to heat, conduct clean air and provide air conditioning. The trade evolved. Where once brute strength and a willingness to suffer and strain within furnaces to clean out cinders and ash, shovel coal, maintain boilers and then battle company goons for a few quarters a day were all that were required of young immigrant fresh from the bogs of Kerry. Today a sharp and scientific understanding of air and water systems as well as brute strength and a willingness to fight for one's job with skill, a sound work ethic and attention to detail is necessary.
The Kerrymen who remained in Ireland, when my grandfather left at fifteen years of age, were the elder sons who would inherit the patch of land in the name of the family. The youngsters emigrated to England, Canada, Australia, Hong Kong and America.
Larry was the eldest son, of an eldest son - my grandfather's older brother Bartholomew son of Barthlomew, or Bateen -'little Bart.' Larry was a big man like my grandfather Laurence ( Larry), but a gentle and soft-spokenly understated man where Grandpa Hickey was a pioneer Rage-aholic and an unparalleled blaspheming wild bog-man. He was a powerful gent even well into his seventies and could lift a long coal shovel from the tip of the pole with his arm parallel to the floor and bring the flat end to perfect geometric tangent and all at arm's length. Try doing the same that with the end of push broom.
Larry of Kerry operated the ancestral farm on the side of a mountain - Crinnie, or Crinna. He raised dairy cattle and formed a syndicate with his neighbors that eventually became Kerry Ingredients - Kerry Gold butter, cheese, and dry products. Larry did well.
When my wife died, I took Nora and Conor to visit Crinna ( Crinnie Mountain) and Conor helped Larry's son Bart work the cattle and dig in the bogs. Irish turf was burned in the hearth and in the cast-iron stoves for warmth and cooking fuel. Cutting and Footing turf, or digging the product which was spade-shaped into ingots of flecked black peat and dried on pyramidal reeks, made the early Kerryman engineers adepts at handling the coal shovels and could work like automatons for hours. My grandfather's greatest compliment would go, not to one who acquired a university degree, won medals in a war, hit a homerun in little league, or ran for office. His only encomium was " That man can dig, so."
Here is Tom Lally cutting the turf -
And "Your man" footing the cut turf -
Cousin Larry could dig! He had powerful hands and sinewy forearms. He could operate farm machinery. Develop and maintain a business and household budget. Understand the Irish economy and EU dairy futures and be a sweet-natured and generous soul into the bargain.
Larry visited Chicago in 2007 and that was the last time that I spoke with this lovely man.
I re-read Seamus Heany's wonderful poem The Tollund Man in tribute to Larry.
The Tollund Man concerns an archaeological dig in the Jutland region of the Baltic. A perfectly preserved corpse was taken from the Jutland bogs - a Viking. The soupy bog preserved something of a person whose soul no longer drove his muscle and bones.
This Memento Mori poem is wonderful. Our families are wonderful. Life is wonderful.
The Nobel Prize Winner's Poem about the Tollund Man
Heaney purposely writes that he will go to Aarhus to see the Tollund Man even though he knows that he is on display in Silkeborg. But in Heaney's opinion "Aarhus" goes better with the metrical feet. Here is the original poem in English I Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap.
In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach,
Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess,
She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices working Him to a saint's kept body,
Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings. Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus.
II I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bog Our holy ground and pray Him to make germinate
The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers, Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards,
Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepers Of four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines.
III
Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names
Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue.
Out here in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.
*Castleisland is often considered the Gateway to Kerry, as the main road to all towns in Western and Southern Kerry passes through here - the N21 from Limerick continues on to Tralee while the N22 goes to Killarney and other towns in Southern Kerry.
The Glenaruddery mountains to the north and the Stacks to the west define the beginning of the 'Vale of Tralee', at the mouth of which Castleisland is situated. Most of the land around Castleisland is pasture for dairy stock, with bogland located at various locations around the town, particularly to the east and south.
It is in the barony of Trughanacmy.
•County Kerry is the most western part of Europe. •The current popoluation is about 140,000. Just before the famine it was 293,880 . •Thousands of years ago Ireland had two glaciers. One that carved out Kerry and one that covered the rest of Ireland.
There is nothing in the least bit funny about the state the American economy. Unemployment has surged past 10%. In Europe things are worse and the idiot politicians want to make America more like Europe.
Ireland's Celtic Tiger Economy has been put down, like the cat I owned that used the baby's crib as a litter box.
Two cousins of mine from the once economically robust County Kerry(Farranfore and Scartaglen townships - the suburbs of Castleisland) visited briefly after a two years in Canada and have now departed in search of work in Mexico as bartenders.
Paddy Scanlon and Mick Prendergast are healthy and tough young lads -graduates of Meanscoil Phadraig Naofa, Castleisland and played for the Castleisland Desmonds (GAA) football club. They worked for Kerry Ingredients,Ltd. in Listowel in the powdered cheese division, but were laid off in 2006. Subsequently the two went to Dublin and later Liverpool as laborers. Their economic fortunes tanked and they sought brighter horizons far over the foam. They went to Canada in 2008.
Once in Newfoundland, Mick and Paddy worked on fishing trawlers and in local industry, but Dame Fortune smiled not on the likely lads and, sad to relate, which they did, nevertheless;it was time for unemployment insurance to pay them back.
Paddy Scanlon & Mick Prendergast worked together in St. John's, Newfoundland and were both laid off.
So off they went to the unemployment office together. When asked his occupation, Paddy answered, "Panty Stitcher. I sew da elastic onto ladies cotton panties and tongs".
The clerk looked up panty stitcher on his computer and finding it classified as unskilled labour, and gave him $80.00 a week unemployment pay.
Mick was next in, and when asked his occupation, replied, "Diesel Fitter". Since a diesel fitter was a skilled job, the clerk gave Mick $160.00 a week.
When Paddy found out he was furious. He stormed back into the office to find out why his cousin and co-worker was collecting double his pay.
The clerk explained "Panty Stitchers are unskilled and Diesel Fitter's are skilled labourers".
"What skill?" yelled Paddy. "I sew da elastic on da panties and tongs; Mick puts 'em over his head and says: 'Yep, diesel fitter ..........'"
In the words of Slappy White,"The trouble with unemployment is that the minute you wake up in the morning you're on the job."
Dad always said that I couldn't find my butt with both hands. I can. Allow me to add this imperative -“Defend the unborn against abortion even if they persecute you, calumniate you, set traps for you, take you to court or kill you." - Pope Francis to celebrate Pro-life Mass, Vatican
"You stand up for what you believe in, even if it gets in the way of what other people think. You are proud of yourself and your accomplishments and you enjoy letting people know that."
A peach of a guy with all the sweetness one could expect from a life well-spent and in good company: short on brains but a terrific dancer!
Author:
Every Heart and Hand: A Leo High School Story
The Chorito Hog Leg, Book One: A Novel of Guam in Time of War
