Thursday 29 January 2015

Paudie Byrne's Wake


Cast a cold Eye on Life
on Death
Horseman pass by.

W.B Yeats



“I still don’t know why I need to go to this funeral.”  I said to my husband when we arrived in the village that balmy summer night.

I was still very new to Ireland, and was only just beginning to realise how important funerals are.  Back in the States, funerals tend to be a very private family business, and a non family member wouldn’t attend unless they knew the deceased very well.  In the rural areas of Ireland, a funeral is a 3 day affair, and the whole Parish will attend to sympathise with the family at either the Rosary, the removal, or the the funeral mass.  I once asked how the family would remember everyone who walked through the funeral home and offered a sympathising handshake, and I was told that they would remember who didn’t show up.

These days, the deceased are kept in the funeral home for the Rosary, and on the second night, they are removed to the church.  The wake in the family home is an old tradition, but there are still a few who, in their final wishes, want to be waked in their home.  The late Paudie Byrne had such a final wish, and was being waked at his home which stood midways in a row of attached houses in the center of the village.  The weather battered, heavy teak door was open, and a few sympathisers lined up to file through the sitting room, where the deceased Paudie Byrne was laid out in an Oak casket.  As I entered the old house, the damp, musty air which seemed to have been trapped inside for years, made me crinkle my nose in attempt to stifle a sneeze.  The doorway to the sitting room was crowded as people attempted to enter and exit after sympathising with the family members, who were seated on a couch and in two arm chairs.  The coffee table had been moved to one corner of the room to make adequate space for the coffin, which was placed in the middle of the tiny room.  My husband went in before me and knelt at the wooden kneeler at the foot end of the coffin.  After his prayer was said, he shook hands with the two older women who were seated on the couch.  I followed and as I shook hands with the lady who appeared to be the older of the two, was surprised when she wouldn’t let go.  Instead she started asking me all sorts of questions, such as, “How do you like it here?”  “Have you settled in yet?”  I found it kind of strange and funny at the same time that family members of the deceased would be asking me so many questions at the funeral.

“Go on, sit down here.”  Her grip became stronger as she pointed to the empty spot on the couch.  The lady next to her smiled and nodded in agreement.  The next few minutes were quiet as more people came in to sympathise.  In front of me, I could see the late Paudie in his coffin all waxed and shiny like a new car.  He had been dressed in his best suit which had probably had been dry cleaned for the occasion.  Wooden Rosary beads, which Paudie had purchased on a trip to Knock, were wrapped around his frail, ashen hands in eternal prayer.  I could hear quiet murmuring out in the hall. “Oh, how we cut the turf with Paudie that year”.

I looked up from Paudie and realised my husband was no longer in the room, and I wondered where he had gone.  I gazed around the room to see an older man, whom I presumed to be Paudie’s brother, falling asleep in an old, faded arm chair.  Directly above him  Pope John Paul II, and JFK smiled down from dusty picture frames on a smoke stained wall.  As I admired JFK’s handsome smile, I was shaken out of the quiet moment by, “So! You must find it different here.”  The two sisters smiled at me, waiting for a reply.  It seemed odd to me, these two sisters of the late Paudie Byrne, who was laid out before us, were so eager to get to know me at a time like this.

“Yes.” I replied softly.

“You’re more used to the town, so.”  Stated the sister who sat furthest from me.

It seemed as though everyone thought I was from a city, and I explained that I was in fact from a country area.  I felt awkward sitting there having this conversation with the mourners. People who came in to sympathise would give me curious looks and when I began to stand up and excuse myself when the undertaker’s wife began to recite the Rosary.  People crowded into the tiny room and the hallway all reciting along with Mrs. Hegarty.  It would be disrespectful to walk out now so I quickly sat back down as the prayer for eternal life began.

“Hail Mary fully of grace the Lord be with thee, blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

Almost chant like and monotone, the Hail Mary’s were repeated over and over for each of the glorious mysteries.  Resurrection for faith, Ascension for hope, and the Descent of the Holy Spirit, inspiring charity and love.  After what seemed an eternity,  I welcomed a tap on the shoulder from Mrs. Murphy.

“Would you like to come into the kitchen and have a glass of punch?” She asked.

Oh good, I was being saved from this awkward situation, and being offered punch...at a funeral?  I envisioned a Crystal punch bowl in the kitchen, complete with sliced fruit and a fancy ladle.  I was soon to discover that “punch” meant hot whiskey.

The kitchen was quite a different atmosphere than the sitting room.  If one would have entered the home through the back door, they would have found a party in full swing, and been completely unaware of the wake in the other room.  Empty bottles of stout sat on the kitchen table and counter tops.  Someone had brought in an extra electric kettle for making pots of tea, and there were a couple of ladies busily putting together platters of various types of sandwiches.  There were relatives of the late Paudie who had travelled from “up the country” and were busy catching up on all the news.  As I was still new to the parish, the interviewing resumed by the people in the kitchen.  Most of them assumed that because I was from the States, that I knew nothing about farm
animals or farming in general.  Several people asked me if I could drive.  A couple of ladies suggested that I find “a little job to get you out of the house.”

An older man, who had probably started drinking very early, was becoming very obnoxious.  He turned me and asked, “Had you ever seen a dead body before?”  His breath reeked of alcohol and made involuntarily back up.  I found the question a little too personal, bringing up tender emotions.  I turned away and began talking to someone else in attempt to ignore him.  “I said have you seen a dead body before?”  He stuck his head into the conversation I was trying to have.  He was not going to go away until he got his answer.  “Well, have you?”  He was clearly going to make a scene and all eyes were on me, all eagerly waiting for my answer.  I don’t know why this was so important for them to know. 

“Yes.” I finally said.  Seeming strangely satisfied in my response, the old fella turned away and started talking with someone else.  I supposed he was happy with this important piece of information he got out of the American girl.  The party continued on and the platters of sandwiches were passed around.

Sometime around midnight someone started the sing song.  That’s when another elderly gentleman asked me, “Do you sing?” and I assured him that I do not sing.  I quickly learned that during a singing session there is a standard etiquette, and that is all chat stops, and everyone listens.  One person stops singing, the chatting starts again, and then “shh shh shhh!” signalling that someone else is about to sing.

The signing went on until the wee hours of the morning, and little by little, people began to quietly leave.  Walking past the sitting room, I saw the two sisters still sitting on the couch, heads bowed.  They seemed to be in prayer, but I suspected that they were dosing.  This wake, as it seemed, was in two parts.  In that quiet sitting room people prayed and kept vigil throughout the night, while in the kitchen the singing and stories about old Paudie and the “grand” times they had was a celebration of the life that was.


Catherine Hughes-Teahan








Tuesday 6 January 2015

Have Yourself a Merry "Little Christmas"

Today I brought down the plastic storage bins from the attic, and began taking down the Christmas decorations.  This is always a bitter sweet chore for me. Sad that once again, my favorite time of the year just flew by, but also looking forward to the new year, like a new beginning.  In Ireland,  the holiday season does not end with New Year's day, but is stretched on a little longer until the 6th of January.  The Epiphany, the 12th day of Christmas, is recognized for the arrival of the three kings.  Here it is celebrated as "Little Christmas" or "Women's Christmas". Traditionally this is the day all the decorations come down, and after all the hard work that has been done throughout the Christmas season, the girls get a night out.

Back home, we always did all the un-decorating the day after new years day, but after my first Christmas in Ireland many years ago when I attempted to pack away Christmas before the 6th of January, I was met with abounding protests. I was even told it was bad luck! Now, after all these years, to put away the decorations any earlier seems premature. So for today, away with the decor and begin to move forward into the new year!

Merry Little Christmas, everyone.

Catherine Hughes Teahan