Peggy's Rock

"Even when they have nothing, the Irish emit a kind of happiness, a joy."

  -Fiona Shaw

Peggy Foley only left her Parrish a few times in her life.  There was an occasional trip into Kenmare for fair day, and once, when she was much older, she attended the wedding of a niece in Cork City.  This was the most momentous outing for Peggy, especially since she had the opportunity to travel by train.  The only means of transport available Peggy was a horse and trap, but the condition of the roads would often interfere with the wheels of the trap which were on the verge of breaking down from the constant rolling through the deep pot holes that littered the dirt and gravel lanes. The weight of the trap was also a hindrance, as it carried a family of 12 who relied on an old, skewbald, cob to pull them weekly to Mass through all kinds of road conditions.  Muddy roads would cause the old mare to lurch forward, and the older boys would be expected to dismount the trap and push.  By the time they reached Mass, their Sunday clothes would be splatted with mud, but no one took any notice, as most families made the same journey.  The year was 1955.

Peggy, who had never married, lived with her sister Hannah, Hannah's husband Ger, and their 9 children in a small farm house which during the winter months seemed out of reach.  Heavy rains would cause the river to swell, and one would not dare to attempt to cross the raging water over the stepping stones.  The lane would be impassable for the trap, and the Cob had the winter off.  Peggy spent her time looking after her sister’s children, and as the winter months continued on, she would devise games for the them to play to relieve their boredom. 

Although she was 30, Peggy was sometimes like a child herself and her sister worried that Peggy’s naivety may lead her to trouble.  It was well recognized in the family that Peggy was a little slow to understand things, but it was never discussed among the family members. It was an unspoken rule that every member of the family should mind her to keep her out of trouble and harm.  Peggy had little experience of the world, and Hannah feared that her younger sister was a little too trusting of people. She felt it was her duty to protect Peggy from the local bachelor farmers who may take advantage of her innocence.

Peggy's world only extended to the boarders of her Parrish, and during the balmy days of summer, she would often walk the stony, fields, making observations of the various kinds of birds, animals, and foliage in her surroundings.  If anyone was looking for her, they knew they would most likely find her perched on a rock in the high field, the rock the family had named, "Peggy's Rock".  She was happy in herself and her world.

While Peggy seemed to have no worries, Hannah did worry about what would become of Peggy's future.  There were many years in age difference between the two sisters, and it wouldn't be long before the children will have married or emigrated. How would Hannah care for Peggy in her old age?

Brendan Hallissey was a recent widower who lived alone at his small farm in the valley. He and his late wife Mary, never had children, and Hannah knew Brendan needed help in maintaining the household. Brendan was a quiet, older gentleman who tended to his own business, and did not have an unkind word for anyone. Hannah saw this as a great attribute as she would not wish for Peggy to spend her life with anyone who may be unkind to her.  She would have the security of her own cottage, someone to look after her, and she would also be closer to the village.  Hannah made a firm decision about this situation and discussed it with Ger, who agreed.  That evening, Ger found the half bottle of whisky which was at the very back of the cupboard and headed down the hill to visit Brendan.  Later on that night, as Peggy, who knew nothing of this plan slept, an agreement affecting her life as she knew it was made between Ger and Brendan.  Peggy and Brendan were married two weeks later.

The years rolled on.  Hannah and Ger had long since passed away, and the eldest son, Tadhg, inherited the farm. Two of the girls had emigrated to New York during the recession in the early 80's, and the rest were now married with their own families. Brendan had only passed away a couple of years before, and his nephew, who now ran the farm, was kind enough to allow Peggy to stay in the cottage. What was once only a lane fit for no more than a horse and trap, was now the main road to the village.  Peggy enjoyed watching the cars pass back and fourth, but sometimes life in the valley felt so far removed from her days on the mountain. The cottage had been modernized with plumbing and electricity in the late 70's, but Peggy did not have much faith in the electric cooker, which sat in the corner of the kitchen with a light dust from the turf fire covering it.  She thought the oven was the ideal place to keep bread, cakes and biscuits since she preferred to cook over the open fire.

I was first introduced to Peggy after I was assigned as her home help by Nurse Healy. It was a crisp, autumn day in October, and as Nurse Healy and I pushed open the front gate, I could smell a mix of smoke from the turf fire, and cooking chicken.  The front door of the cottage was wide open, and Peggy excitedly welcomed us in.  It was then, I stepped into another time.  The iron crane held the weight of a black pot over the fire, in which the chicken was stewing. Peggy immediately told us to sit at the table and offered us a cup of tea. I was amazed that although she looked quite elderly, she seemed to have a lot of energy. She chatted about the weather as she picked up an old kettle which sat inside the hearth of the fire. Peggy made certain there was always boiling water for pots of tea which she made only from loose tea. Peggy couldn't understand the fuss around tea bags. Nurse Healy observed that new linoleum had lain on the floor, which to me looked very unlevel and had the appearance of hills and valleys.  She told us that Brendan's nephew, Paudie, had put it there for her.  The lino, as it turned out, had been lain directly onto a dirt floor.

Although Peggy had little, she had enough and was very happy with her life. My assignment as her home help meant that I went to her three mornings a week to make sure she keeping well, having hot meals, and to help her with any household tasks she might not be able to do any more.  The truth was, she needed little help, but loved the company.  She told stories about her days on the mountain, and how she missed going to "Peggy's Rock".  Her legs would not allow her to make that climb anymore.  Her relations had long grown bored of her stories, but for me, each visit to her was like stepping into the past.  Those mornings were spent drinking tea while Peggy's dinner cooked over the fire suspended by an iron crane.

The year was 2005.

Stations for the Masses

"He'd bless this house and give us all a sermon."

 -unknown

Driving along the twisting, narrow, lane, I see a line of cars parked tightly into the hedgerow.  My husband, who is driving, stops in the middle of the lane. My two children and I know the routine, so we step out of the car into the soft, misty rain, and wait for him to park. He pulls the car up as close to the ditch (Irish for hedgerow) as possible, and I hear the all too familiar
scratching of the briers against the side of the car. An effect that is like someone scratching their fingernails down a chalk board, but it doesn't phase me any more.  There isn't a car in Kerry which doesn't have lines of brier scratches etched along it's passenger side.

We walk up the lane towards a farmhouse, which looks as though it has had a fresh coat of paint. The wrought iron gate, beacon red against the white washed wall, is open and welcoming to all who enter.  The neighbours from the parish who are gathered near the front door are engaged in conversations about the weather and farming, quietly greet us with a nod of the head as we approach. The Stations Mass is about to begin and everyone makes their way into the house. The kitchen, being the heart of the home, is where the mass will take place, and everything is set up there as it is in church. Folding chairs are set up in two rows and I sit down next to my brother-in-law, who is dressed smartly in his Sunday best.  Mary Keane, who is hosting today's Stations, gives me a quick "hello" and tells me that it's grand the weather is "soft".  Mary Keane looks frazzled.  She has no doubt been cleaning every corner of her house in preparation in having the house blessed.

Father Mahony arrives in, and the kitchen falls silent as those who are seated rise for mass to start.  

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Begins the priest.

All in the room bless themselves, and then there is a quiet pause as Fr. Mahony looks around the kitchen.  Most of his life has been spent in his vocation, and as time moved forward, Father Mahony did not.  He was by the book (literally) and still believed that everyone should be creating large families and the mammys should stay at home with all their offspring.  These values were always being preached by a man who never once had to pay a mortgage, buy groceries, or send a child to University. 

His face etched in a stern expression, Fr. Mahony slaps his hand down on the alter, and everyone jumps.  "Ian Paisley, and his gang of Presbyterians in the North..." He spits, every word being enunciated with strong emphasis on the words, PAISLEY, GANG, and PRESBYTERIANS   I feel my face flush, and as I look up, I see Mary Keane, who was standing over next to the Stanley range, looking completely mortified as a few eyes cast in my direction.  (By the way, did I mention that I'm a Presbyterian?)  My brother-in-law, who is sitting next to me, is shaking in silent laughter, and I throw my hand up to my mouth to stifle a giggle as Fr. Mahony rants and raves about the Orange Men marching around in the North.

The stations mass being celebrated in a family home has been a tradition in rural Ireland since the 18th century, when Penal Law created oppression in the Catholic church and Catholics were forced to hold mass in secret.  The tradition still continues to this day.  This was not my first time attending a Stations Mass, and in my past experience, the sermons have always been about the home, the family, and the neighbours, and though I am not a Catholic, I have always found them inspiring and spiritual. I was finding this mass a little disturbing to say the least, but I was thanking God for my good sense of humour, which was showing me the funny side of this.

Mass was said, Holy Communion given, then sandwiches and tea were served. When the priest had his fill of tea and butterfly buns, he bid goodbye and left. The hot whiskey soon appeared there after, and, in true Irish fashion, no one mentioned a word about the sermon.

Catherine Hughes Teahan

Mid Ocean: A Definition

"Ireland is where strange tales begin, and happy endings are possible."
 -Charles Haughey

You may be asking yourself what I mean by "mid ocean". Mid ocean is a term that I have borrowed from another expat friend of mine.  I thought it was a very clever description of what it's like to be torn between two worlds, and never feeling like you completely belong to one or the other. 

Imagine you are in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, in a boat which has no means of propulsion.  Drifting to and fro, you rely on the tide to carry you to your destination. You will the boat to sail west towards the land you call home. You long to be taken in, embraced, and comforted in her warm arms. Life is ideal there.  Home is family, security, and rich with opportunities. But, the tide turns and the boat navigates it's self towards an island which is hanging off the edge of the Atlantic.  A shoreline of white cliffs appears in the distance and it's strange beauty pulls you in like Sirens.

On this enigmatic island of rough, rocky, landscapes, and rolling hills of green, is where I anchored roots all those years ago.  It's the place my Irish children call home.  For me, Ireland is a place in which I hold a delicate relationship. On a sunny day, it is pure Utopia, I wonder why I would ever consider leaving. Then, the rain comes...

This blog I call Mid Ocean: Oregon to Eire, is a collection of stories of my life in Ireland. Some true, some fictional, but always real.

Oh, and you're probably wondering why I would quote the late Charles Haughey?  I'm not political by any means, so never mind the persona that was.  I just thought it was a brilliant quote, and so well suited to my story.

Catherine Hughes Teahan