The Quiet Man
So many things remind me of my Father.
For example, it’s hard to listen to Ennio Moricone’s “The Ecstasy of Gold” without thinking about him, longing, wanting him to be still in my life.
I think about him every day.
I love music. I love the way it can make me (you) feel. A song or piece of music can trigger memories.
My husband Philip and myself went to (see) the Ennio Morricone concert with the National Choir at Royal Hospital Kilmainham in Dublin on the 27th of July 2013.
His music cast a spell on me that summer night. I thought about my father during the concert, wishing he was there to share in this magical experience. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell him all about the night, describing/explaining that I expected to see Clint Eastwood galloping across the stage with the bad guys in hot pursuit. This made him laugh as he loved Spaghetti/Westerns.
The Gypsy Women by Don Williams, I can recall being in my father’s post van, (him) tapping his ring finger on the gear stick, going around the bad turn by Cunningham’s haunted house on the Coach Road, “Rhinestone Cowboy” by Glen Campbell and “You’re my Best Friend” by Don Williams were very familiar to me when I was out on the post Daddy, humming along, and then singing the words he knew of the chorus.
These same songs were sung by Pat Mclean on a Saturday night at The Shamrock Bar Glenfin Street Ballybofey. In our wee world in the 1970’s/80’s when Daddy would only have been in his 40’s.
As much as I enjoyed getting sweets and money from the folk on the post round, I could never understand why my father wouldn’t let me have the lollipops from the women that was always so friendly to him. Popping her head in the post van window, “Ah hould on a wee minute John to a get some wee thing for the cutie” running back into her cottage through the front door- which was the old style half door with big stone slabs on the floor.
In the meantime Daddy would turn back to me, shaking his head, turning back in time to greet her holding a lollipop, handing it first to Daddy, he in turn handing it back to me, all while good-bying and reversing, “OK Cheerio John and the wee cutie, she is getting big now John, aye surely she is, aye the time is flying John, see ya tomorrow John”.
Daddy had the Post Van facing the gate at this stage- this all happened within a minute or less, or more. I’m not sure now but I do remember that pop didn’t touch my lips because the minute we were through the gates as quick as you like the hand was pulling that pop from me. Down the window went and out went the pop.
Asking “Why did you do that Daddy?” “Ah she sucks them pops herself.” I was glad he threw it out the window/
I used to pretend I was driving the Post Van, steering, changing gears, while cycling my bike around Ard McCarron, where I lived.
Later I progressed to the Green Volkswagen Car, recreating scenes from previous post runs in my imagination, indicating left and then right, navigating narrow country roads, chatting to all the folk on my rounds - “Good day-bad day”. It was either a “Good day” or a” bad day”. “Not a bad day today, sure that’s some day John- der’s great drying, aye if that keeps up the turf won’t be long drying.”
In the winter of the big freeze of 2011, he drove me (everywhere) from my house to his. I stayed with my parents during that time and during that time he drove to my house everyday to light the fire- he even brought an electric heater (the last one from Alexanders) for the attic, climbing up there daily to check that the water tank wasn’t frozen. On the way back to his house, he told me to control the car with the gentle breaking and low gears. Easier said than done. He was retired by now, but still commanded the road as we slipped slided our way home.
He used to have a spade in the back of the Post van to dig himself out of the snow. He also had cement blocks in the back of the Post van to weigh himself down when the weather was really bad. Sometimes during spells of bad weather, Daddy would be the only person people would see and sometimes he was asked to read letters from loved ones from across the seas to the parents, they thought highly of daddy to let him read their loved ones letters.
As a child I loved the Hawthorn hedgerows around the winding country roads of the post run with my dad.
I finally started to drive and I tortured him to take me out- he did. I can laugh now but he didn’t have the patience to teach me. It’s one thing to sit behind the wheel and play driving but another thing altogether to actually physically drive. Slowly but surely I did learn to drive and I loved it. Freedom! Ah but there was the wee matter of insurance, or lack of. Well that did not stop me oh no. I drove anything and everything anywhere- and guess what?...I drove him mad- literally. He tried hiding the keys, closing the gates, and even putting the car in the shed (garage) but I always found a way to take the car out at night. One night after I had taken my father’s car, I picked up my friends- (my brothers christening us at the “Vampires”-) passing the night in Main Street, Ballybofey, eying up the talent, ‘having the craic’ when suddenly he appeared out of nowhere on foot, not looking happy I might add. Saying nothing- giving me the look. After dropping off my friends, going mad at me on the way home, I was mad at him- he was spoiling all my fun, how inconsiderate of him.
I got him into trouble one time with his work. Every-time my parents would leave the house, I would take out his Post van and drive it around the house. When I got bored driving around the house, I would reverse around the house. The same routine applied: he would hide the keys and I in turn would find them until eventually he would just take the post van keys with him. On one of the occasions where he didn’t take the keys, I found myself driving around the circuit (house) - laps, maybe 10 and alternating to revering, I took the corner too sharp and scraped the side of the Post van. “Oh no!” or words to that effect. I was in big trouble now and rightly so he was mad!.
I remember him filling out the incident report form. I felt bad for putting him through the ordeal of lying and I promptly stopped my driving activity or at least paused it until the dust settled.
I don’t think he knew how much I wanted to be like him. He was so big in my world and I was so proud of him in his post van and his chats with folk, who always seemed to have a big smile for him.
He had the warmest big smile and the most beautiful, sparkly blue eyes. He was gentle, mild and modest with a love of nature. He could name all the wild flowers, plants and native Irish trees. He had all the rhymes about the seasons and all the stories about the little people (fairies), opening and closing gates on lanes to the country homes. I remember the last house on the post run- John Breen and Lizzie Davies. Lizzie and John lived in a very old Irish house on the Dergline with a heart in which Lizzie boiled the spuds and made bread every day. Stone slabbed floor, long wooden stools on both sides of the room in front of the heart with a bed behind and curtains around it.
Lizzie to me was a very kind old-looking lady with white hair in a bun and a black crocheted shawl.
I always got money, 20p or 50p if I was lucky. I remember Daddy telling me not to tell Mammy that Lizzie gave him a bowl of spuds with butter and salt. He loved his spuds. There were always houses where we got nice things, sweets and money. Maggie Lynch always gave him pastries which he loved too. She would give him a wee list of stuff to get, always, Post letters and 20 Sweet Afton's cigarettes.
Nellie Gallagher Meenglass gave him duck eggs and on my birthday at Christmas each year she gave him a goose, Kitty Doherty of Carrickmacgrath gave him a Turkey. Christie of Glencovitt had the cure for sprains.
Recently my son Donnacha was chatting about his day at school, emptying his uniform trousers pocket on the table, explaining to me the remains of some green stuff, long since wilted. “Look Mammy- smell- doesn’t it smell like onions?” “Oh yes” I said. “It’s scallions”. “Yes, it’s delicious! We were eating them from the school garden.” I laughed at the thought of him and his friends out around the garden, tasting the scallions and bringing them home to back up his wee story. It reminded me of some of the stories my father told us of when he was a wee boy playing with his friend Brendan Gillespie around Dreenan and Knock, stealing lettuce and scallions from the garden and later in the season robbing apple orchards.
In later years, he used to go to visit an old man called Henry Gillespie down a lane by the side of Jackson’s house at Navneey- he was a very neat and tidy man.
He always talked about the Winda Gillespie repeating a wee rhyme about Mahatma Gandhi through a stone and cut the Winda to the bone. I don’t know the rest.
The same man “The Winda” was stealing apples from an orchard. He was eating an apple and when he bit into it there was a bee on or in the apple and the bee stung him on the tongue. I think he was what you would call a local character.
The love he had for my mother can be measured in the evening cups of tea he always made her. Her personal loss is beyond my comprehension. He was the love of her life and he was hers.
Sitting on his knee at mass, he always called Me ColaMarie “wearing his chequered sports jacket”. Getting a lift in the Post van to the town to catch the bus to go to London outside the Butthall, getting a heartfelt hug goodbye- “God bless, look after yourself”. Returning from London telling him I was pregnant. The comfort I got from him with his reply “It will be ok…there’s worse things” - it meant the world to me at that time. His joy that turned into a life-long love affair with his granddaughter Elizabeth Maí affectionately known as “Biddy Woman”, when he first seen her on Christmas Day in 1992.
I kissed him on the lips on Christmas morning in Letterkenny Hospital 2018 and he told me he loved me. He was very ill. I didn’t want to believe, how…could this be, he had so much more to do with us all. Seven days later he passed away.
My Father’s “Post Run” covered Donegal Street, Donegal Rd. and the townlands of Meenglass Sessiaghoneill, Dreenan, Navneey, Corgary, Knock Corfrin, Kinlitir, Glencovit, Cairn Dergline with Marley’s, the last house before/on the border with Tyrone.
My father served as a Postman for over 40 years.
I always look for kindness in everyone because of my father and I was lucky to find it in my husband who my father very much approved of.
Today I drive for a living I am a bord Fáilte Approved National Tour Guide.
Touring the highways and byways in my VW Transporter happily showcasing beautiful Donegal.
I dedicate this to the ones I love.
