We may not be very good, musically speaking, but we still enjoy a story, know our history and can belt out “the summer’s gone, and all the roses dying” from Danny Boy. Photos: Eileen Mulligan.
St Patrick’s Day is here so I thought I’d write about growing up in an Irish family.
But first, a disclaimer. I’m not proper Irish. Father is Irish but Mother is (gasp) English and my brother, nicknamed Ructions, and I were born in England.
So I’m a mongrel – and proud of it. Therefore, I can’t speak on behalf of anyone else, only what it was like in our family, with the music, history, stories and pranks. If you have any complaints, please send them to poguemahone@idon’tcare.com.au
Now, back to my Irish father. As in most cultures, food and drink play a big part. For him, it was perfectly normal to treat children’s car sickness with a slug of port wine and brandy.
And we won’t say too much about the bottle labelled “holy water from Knock”. (Knock is a town in the west of Ireland where it is believed the Virgin Mary appeared in 1879.) If you drank too much of Dad’s “holy water” you would be seeing visions yourself, that’s for sure.
As for food, wasting it was a sin. “Wilful waste makes woeful want,” Himself would thunder. “I’ll eat anything,” he’d say. “As long as it shtops the honger.”
Dinner-table conversations included stories of people dying in ditches from starvation during the potato famine, their mouths stained with the grass they were eating.
I must admit, I don’t like wasting food myself and have little patience with fussy eaters. I find it hard not to roll my eyes when people create a song and dance about what they have cut out of their diets this week.
Dad’s stories didn’t quite match the school-approved history. It wasn’t until high school that I learnt Cromwell’s first name was Oliver and not Thatbastard. At home we absorbed the rebel songs Dad played on the stereo almost by osmosis. “A rebel hand set the heather blazing, and the neighbours came from all near and far.” But at school we didn’t have a clue about cricket.
Anyway, enough of the serious stuff. Back to the craic (pronounced “crack”, meaning fun). Sure, aren’t we all craic addicts, anyway?
We love watching Derry Girls and Father Ted because they remind us of people we know. OK, people we’re related to. Mrs Doyle in Father Ted, who is always offering cups of tea and won’t take no for an answer, is real. Very real. If you think the English are renowned for the old tea drinking, then you have never sat in an Irish kitchen.
As for music, cousin Declan in Perth reckons we are the only non-musical family to come out of Ireland. But that doesn’t stop us singing at the drop of a cliche, whether it be in the car, at home or (shudder) in public. “And it’s no, nay, never….”
What else? Oh yes. We’re not that fussed about the Royals. Dad had a pig he called Princess Margaret because he reckoned Princess Margaret had once said all Irish were pigs. And did I mention how Ructions didn’t have a clue when he was expected to play cricket?
Anyway, all of this malarky is in the front of mind because Dad is old now. A few years ago when he was still living on his own, I popped in to see him one morning. He was lying on the couch, pretending to be dead. I thought it was hilarious. But the visiting care worker who walked in behind me didn’t.
Anyway, he’s 93 now, living in a home for the bewildered and is improving worse. His recent memories have faded so we’ve talked a lot about the old times. It’s bittersweet. From the pain of emigration – “You’re moving to the other side of the world and we’ll never see ye again” – to the hope of a new country: “Did I do the right thing, bringing you all to Australia?”
Apart from the fact that the sun burns us quicker than you can say actinic keratosis, yes, Dad. You did.
I feel another song coming on. “So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all.”
