(Short Story from the pen of author & poet Tom Ryan).
It was not unusual for the poet, Alexander McKenzie, to have strange and inexplicable dreams; dreams like winning the lotto or gaining recognition for his verses and prose. However, the dream he had last night, same “sure bates Banagher”*.
*[An Irish-English phrase meaning inconsistent, absurd or being exceedingly ridiculous, surpassing everything else].
Maybe this lack lustre feeling was fuelled by his overactive thyroid, or his over indulgence in physical exercise for his blood pressure. Then, maybe it was because he had lost his ‘Poetry Corner’ page, in the literary magazine or maybe, he simply felt rejected by his own and had lost faith in all humanity. Alexander had never felt so lonesome and he didn’t understand it, as he had always been a positive and optimistic person who had total faith in the universe.
Now with the voices of the young carol singers, filling the frosty air outside, let’s take a look at life for Alexander, immediately before his recent dream.
Poor Alexander had not been feeling so great this Christmas and was tending to give up on the world and its people. Worst of all, he had even stopped writing poetry and prose. Any way that he looked at it, he was a failure with no work coming his way. No news editors were phoning up, offering commissions and there was little point in blaming his stroke of years ago, which had left him partially disabled. He had not been going anywhere worthwhile anyhow, and he felt tired and irritable. The invigorating freshness of a new morning; the sounds of nature in all of its glory, through the persisting birdsong, the fragrances and other sounds of the seasons, which previously he loved; today lacked any lustre for him.
He was not himself this Christmas and even his wife, Mary, seemed infected by this gloom. When he brought a cup of tea to her in bed that same morning, she didn’t drink it. “Did you not warm the teapot?” she admonished him. She was angry with him when he washed up after breakfast; finding fault with everything. “You have the place in a right mess, now will you stop moping and leave things to me and get on with your writing”, she affirmed.
Christmas and its tinsel coated magic were bypassing Alexander this year, leaving him feeling as cranky as the Dickens character ‘Scrooge’, and worse still, he felt helpless to do anything about it. He tried to think of the good days when they didn’t have so many bills to worry about, and when they could afford a holiday. He thought of the few genuine friends they had met over the years and the happy times and the pleasant past memories. He even reminisced romantically about all the wonderful kind and gentle women he had known in life and whom he’d loved; well for a while at least. He’d met Mary, after he had abandoned his youthful wayward behaviour, for a more responsible attitude to life. “You’re dreaming again, now drink up your tea before it goes cold”. Mary had come into the kitchen “You were restless in bed last night. You took all the blankets to yourself”, she stated casually. “Yeah”, he grunted . “You shouldn’t be staying up late writing. You know how tired you are what with the flu going about these days”, she continued.
He looked at his wife affectionately and felt guilty about not being a better husband. Here he was, hoping for a worldly accolade, when his greatest fortune now stood beside him, always disregarding how tiresome, ungrateful and downright selfish he seemed at times. He winced at the thought. How wonderful she was, good and kind and always there for him and their children, with never a thought, for herself. It had taken voices from Heaven last night to bring him to his senses and to an awareness of reality.
Alexander felt ashamed; though, in fairness, he had worked hard to make a good home for his family. Freelance journalism gave you independence, but you damn well worked hard for it in a highly competitive digital age. In taking care of career and home, maybe he should have given more thought to Mary, his greatest friend and lover.
How many guys had thought about this situation in all the homes on earth, over the centuries? How many had done something about it? Maybe that’s what his dream was about. His folks and her folks, coming into his dreams to try to make him aware that he was not a failure and how dare he think so.
That God had been good to him, and Mary could not have done more. He was an ordinary Joe, plodding along in life as best he could. A guy who, under pressure from without had, for a while, forgotten the great treasures in his own home and in the heart, above all, of the woman he loved.
Brushing gloomy thoughts aside, he took up his empty teacup and rinsed it under the tap. He approached his wife as she was washing up, put an arm around her and kissed her neck, including a mole which had been bothering her. “What’s that for?” she asked, throwing her arms and the damp tea towel around him as their lips met tenderly. It was always her response to his displays of affection. “Oh nothing”, he said “Just that I love you so much, you really are my Xmas dream woman, darling”. She handed him a letter just arrived in the post. “It’s the results of my biopsy”, she said. “I know how you worried about it”. “Well?”, Alexander asked anxiously. “The mole’s benign”, she confirmed. “Everything’s OK so?”, Alexander sought confirmation. She smiled at him knowingly “Yes, quit worrying, you old fool; everything’s OK now, “Happy Christmas, dear”.
Anyway, about this dream, Alexander had.
In it he saw his wife with a mole on her neck. The place she was in had a strange, and enchanting aura . In the dream he slowly approached his wife and kissed her gently on the neck, when suddenly there was what could only be described as an explosion of love that seemed to cast its spell over himself and his wife and everything was so beautiful. He felt that neither his weaknesses nor failures could taint that wonderful aura. As he kissed his wife in this dream, he knew that he had not been looking at real life, but he resolved to change his outlook. He had been like a fool putting his trust in hoped-for fame and wealth, when all the time he had the greatest wealth of all; the love of a devoted wife who had given him her unconditional life and love, without seeking anything in return, but his own happiness.
“Mary”! said Alexander. “Yes, Alexander”! she replied. “Did I really kick those blankets off the bed last night, huh? Dreams can be so crazy, Happy Christmas.” he confirmed “Indeed, darling”! she agreed,
Short Story from the Pen of Author and Poet Tom Ryan, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
The old man watched the towns people coming down the aisles of the little rural church. His tired heart lifted when he saw the old and the young together in all their Christmas finery and quiet and respectful jollity blessing themselves as they filed past the brightly-lit crib with the little statues of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and the animals laid out in the golden straw in tribute to the miracle of Bethlehem on one starry night, long, long ago. A magical night which was to change the way of the world forever and bring peace to men and women of good will everywhere.
For John the miracle and magical joy and romance of Christmas had always been intrinsically linked with what he termed the beautiful romances of his life and with the youthful vitality and enthusiasm for life that not even, age, illness, everyday trials and tribulations, could dampen.
He was glad he had wildly enjoyed his own youth despite discouragement in this regard from many conservative quarters, but never from his parents who had been ahead of their time with their great sense of tolerance and understanding of the human psyche and especially in relation to young people and their first romances. His first kiss, he fondly recalled, was with a fair-haired young Secondary School student, following a carol-singing tour of their local town on an innocent Christmas Eve, long ago. Both very young lover, then every bit as shy as the other, but quite the innocent, when it came to that unforgettable attempt at youthful romance. The occurrence had taken place in the sitting room of the girl’s home, beside the Christmas tree and underneath the mistletoe; with the flames from a blazing log fire rendering golden both the room and the moment. They had both thought that life was full of incredible possibilities, intermingled with warmth and love and oh, such happiness as the world had never known. All the romantic movies they had watched together in the backseat of the local cinema, with their incredibly beautiful heroines, adventurous and handsome heroes, had surely never portrayed such happiness and love as theirs. Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne were not even close.
He had basked in the glow of that delightful first romantic encounter for so long. Perhaps it had always been alive in his memory logged in the deepest recesses of his heart, especially at Christmas time. Christmas after all is a time to remember naturally, but then life and love moves on and there had been so many other girls and his Christmases had always been special with them also.
He had always been fortunate to have met and wooed wonderful young ladies, but it had also been acknowledged by these same young girls that he had treated all of them, with great gentleness and thoughtfulness.
His first Christmas in Rathmines, Co. Dublin was also his first Christmas in fulltime employment and he had bought a humble set of colourful drinking glasses for Breda, his girlfriend then. He winced now at the memory, but it was all he could afford on a Clerical Officer’s salary in the Civil Service. Of course he would gladly have given her jewels and diamonds and even the sun and moon, had it been in his power to do so but she had appreciated the glasses and handled the box containing them like a golden casket. She had kissed him with affection and gratitude at Heuston Station, before he returned home for Christmas that year.
He was then twenty years of age and eagerly looking forward to going home to mingle with his small town folks, now since long departed from this world. Home to the family, the Christmas Mass and the craic in the pubs and the girls and lads he had known at school before heading to the Big Smoke. He loved the exchange of presents and greetings and great camaraderie and the log fire and Christmas tree and the heart -fluttering excitement of his mother, who so wanted everything as perfect as possible for him and indeed all the family. Oh, the joy of it all!
He thought now again of all the girls he had known with a special attachment. He liked to think he had loved them all in a special way and he had always enjoyed his Christmases with them whether with the kindly dark-haired teacher in Dublin or the vivacious blonde secretary in London, with whom he had enjoyed the first Christmas dinner which he had cooked himself in a flat in West London, a long way from the magical sparkle of the Irish Mi na Nollag. There had been so many young ladies in his romance-strewn life, and even after he had married, he had never felt that he was in any way unfaithful to his devoted and beautiful wife, when he took these sweet nostalgic journeys down memory lane. We can, he felt, love so many people in so many different ways in this life; if we are fortunate enough to do so. Indeed, his wife was sometimes mildly amused if somewhat unimpressed by this “ould talk” of his love interests of other years. She had, perhaps rightly, put it down to the doting ways of advancing age, or to the mild and harmless eccentricities of a proud man no longer, except in memory, the virile or wildly exciting and attractive young man of other years. He smiled now as he recalled citing her as ‘ageist’ for uttering such remarks, as the choir and congregation sang ”Joy To the World”.
When people were a joy to each other what else could there be worth having, he felt and he again recalled all the girls of every Christmas of his life, all now gone to Heaven and all of whom had influenced his life so much for the better.
He began to weep a little now at his memories, shedding tears of love and gratitude for such joyful experiences and the wonderful people who had enriched his life. They now appeared to parade, as in a dream before his eyes; each a vision of who and what mattered more than anything else in his world. Each now to him a blissful particle of a vision of a greater love. He thought now also of his dear wife, Elizabeth, whom he had loved so very deeply, for so many years and with whom, he had ever felt, it had been Christmas all year around. He was truly, eternally grateful for all their time together for so many years. He thought momentarily of the dreadful disease which had taken Elizabeth away from him one Christmas some years previously. He wept now, not in sorrow, but in the joy of remembering the good times, the three wonderful children she had given him. The many magical moments all the days of their happy lives together. Oh, yes and the many rows and the making up, of course.
People said Christmas was a time for remembering; yes true, he thought, and a sad time for some, but not for him. With Elizabeth his Christmases were always happy, always loving and caring. Despite the struggles and vicissitudes of everyday living, he had never been anything but in love with his darling Elizabeth. Life had been the living love of an eternal nature beyond words or explanation which neither needed.
He continued to weep, silently now, in the dark brown pew at the back of the little church, as the choir sang “Silent Night” and he thought again of romance. Now, it was not of all the girls he had known, but of the one and only; his special girl – Elizabeth. He so wanted to be with her again; to be together forever and eternally in love. Oh what a happy Christmas that would be.
He suddenly felt a little weak now with the intensity of his feelings and then he saw her; his Elizabeth, his dear and darling Elizabeth. Oh, the joy, the magic, the romance; oh happy, happy Christmas.
Later, after Mass, when the congregation had gone home, the young Sacristan found him slumped forward as if in prayer in the pew, with a photograph of a beautiful young woman firmly grasped in his hand. The young man looked at the name at the back of the coloured print. It was “Elizabeth” and she was pictured beside a Christmas tree, with mistletoe hanging from the ceiling and a brightly burning log fire in a room rendered golden by the light of the flames of a warm and happy hearth. “Lord of Mercy on your soul, John, this Christmas Eve. I guess you sure loved that Elizabeth”, said the Sacristan. “I think he still does” said the wise and insightful old priest who was ministering to John and who had just celebrated Elizabeth’s Anniversary Mass.
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Halloween Lecture – Relics & Reliquaries – Thursday evening, October 31st Next at 7:00pm.
Librarian Ms Maura Barrett will continue her tradition of presenting a Halloween Lecture in Cashel Library.
This year Ms Barrett will looks at relics and their reliquaries in the Irish context, and discusses the enduring belief in their miraculous powers.
You canlocate the Cashel Library building, situated on Friar Street, Lady’s Well, Cashel, Co. Tipperary, HERE. (G487+RX)
Please do remember: Booking is essential by return email or to Tel: 062 63825. In booking, also keep in mind that the Library closes at 5:00pm this evening (Friday October 25th), and will not reopen again until Tuesdaymorning, October 29th at 9:30pm sharp.
“Oíche Shamhna faoi mhaise”. (Irish – Happy Halloween).
Ms Maura Barrett, (Cashel Library) reports on two upcoming events:-
Event No.1
Following on from the wonderful Cashel, “Our Playground” project with Cashel Arts Festival this year, Cashel Library will screen the documentary by Mark Fitzell in the Library building, on tomorrow morning, Saturday October 12th, beginning at 11:00am until 12:15pm.
So, please do drop in and take a trip down memory lane, while enjoying a ‘cuppa’ with the liberary tomorrow morning.
Event No. 2
Cashel Library will host a talk entitled “Harry Gleeson and the Criminal Procedures – was Harry a saint?” by Eddie Dalton, on Tuesday evening, October 29th at 6:30pm.
Eighty-three years after he was wrongfully executed for murder, the remains of Harry Gleeson were laid to rest in his native village of Holycross, this summer, to the accompaniment of music from his own fiddle. He was granted a posthumous pardon by the Irish State in 2015, having always protested his innocence.
You canlocate the Cashel Library building, situated on Friar Street, Lady’s Well, Cashel, Co. Tipperary, HERE. (G487+RX) Note: Booking for this FREE event is essential please to Tel: 062-63825.
UPDATE OCTOBER 16th:The “Harry Gleeson and the Criminal Procedures” lecture by Eddie Dalton, due to be held in Cashel Library on Tuesday 29th October at 6:30pm, is now fully booked out, with an existing waiting list, so unfortunately we have reached max capacity for this event.
FREE Culture Night Event in Cashel Library “An evening with Patrice Davern”. Friday 20th September from 6.30pm.
Ms Maura Barrett, (Cashel Library) Reports:-
You canlocate the Cashel Library building, situated on Friar Street, Lady’s Well, Cashel, Co. Tipperary, HERE. (G487+RX) Please Note: For this free event hereunder booking is essential to Tel. No.:- 062, 63825
Ms Patrice (O’Connor) Davern studied music at Maynooth University at both degree and Masters level, before taking up a place at the world-renowned Sorbonne University in Paris, where she attained a professional Masters in both music and performance.
She has toured extensively with both ‘To Dance on the Moon’ and ‘Spirit of Ireland’, performing at home and in Germany, Denmark, New Zealand and Australia.
She sang as a soloist at the Eucharistic Congress in Croke Park and at the opening Mass for the ‘World Meeting of Families’ and also performed for the visit of Pope Francis to Ireland, along with regular performances on RTE’s televised Masses.
Feels Like Home To Me.
Lyrics: American singer, songwriter, pianist, film composer and conductor, Randy Newman. Vocals: Patrice(O’Connor)Davern.
Feels Like Home To Me.
There’s something in your eyes, Makes me wanna lose myself. Makes me wanna lose myself, In your arms. There’s something in your voice, Makes my heart beat fast. Hope this feeling lasts, the rest of my life. And if you knew how lonely my life has been, And how long I’ve been so alone. And if you knew how I wanted someone to come along, And change my life the way you’ve done. It feels like home to me. It feels like home to me. It feels like I’m all the way back where I come from. It feels like home to me. It feels like home to me. It feels like I’m all the way back where I belong. A window breaks down a long dark street, And a siren wails in the night. But I’m alright, cause I have you here with me, And I can almost see the dark, there is light Well if you knew how much this moment means to me, And how long I’ve waited for your touch. And if you knew how happy you are making me, I never thought that I’d love anyone so much. It feels like home to me. It feels like home to me. It feels like I’m all the way back where I come from. It feels like home to me. It feels like home to me. It feels like I’m all the way back where I belong.. It feels like I’m all the way back where I came from.
END
Ms Patrice (O’Connor) Davern and her sister have performed as a duo and their wedding rendition of the ‘Rattlin Bog’ received world-wide attention, receiving over 100 million views on-line; earning them an invite to perform at a music festival in Wisconsin, USA.
Ms Davern regularly performs with the ‘Fuaimlaoi Choir’, based out of St Teresa’s Church, Clarendon Street, Dublin and has recorded a studio album and composed music for liturgical celebrations, along with recording individual songs released with her sister.
This is an evening of entertainment truly not to be missed.
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