24 August 2014
Story #753
R. Linda:
All this talk about hair brought to mind an incident that happened some years ago in a little mountain village in Wicklow. It hit the newspapers, it did as a curiosity story, and I remember most of it to share with you. I think you'll find it amusing, and if you're a male, take it as a warning that if you meet a pretty Irish lass from Wicklow named Angelica, you might not stand too close and when you can -- get the hell out of there!
The story goes that a pretty young bride named Angelica lived in a particular village and unleashed an old-time curse upon the male population. It was St. Paddy's day in the Republic, and Angelica's husband, Aiden, as usual, celebrated the day not in church but in the local chugging back of all things green beer. It seems the local was owned by an American who brought the stateside tradition of green beer to Aiden's little village deep in the Wicklow Mountains, along with the American tradition of celebrating St. Patrick's Day by drinking all day and all night, without attending church at all. Now Aiden and his chums had been busy at the drink for the entire day while their wives thought they were in the rectory helping Father O'Reilly after all the morning services were over, putting things tidy.
What ye may not know is that the chapel be open all day after the St. Patrick's Day morning masses for those paying prayerful homage to the ancient Saint. Father O's presence wasn't essential, and where would the good Father be? I ask ya now, but I'd rather tell you he'd be at Tamlian's Pub with the rest of the male population. There be nothing in the church laws that says a priest can't imbibe if he wants to.
So while the ladies went in and rearranged the flowers or cleaned the benches with Murphy's Oil or scrubbed the floors for the next day's morning services, the men who were supposed to be in the rectory were in Tamlian's rectory cleaning the jars of beer after beer, they were.
Now, Angelica was a bright lass, and she knew where Aiden was, along with the rest of the male miscreants of the village. She knew making a special dinner was a waste of time, as Aiden would appear long after the dinner hour and be too drunk to eat it anyway. But being the good wife she was, she did wait up to make sure he didn't end up asleep in the fireplace or under the couch with the cat.
Well, Aiden made it home at a quarter to four in the morning. You'd think you would, that Angelica might be fit to be tied at that hour, but she wasn't; this was one day a year, except, of course, Aiden's birthday, when he took it upon himself to overdo it on the alcohol. I don't want to give you the impression old Aiden was a drunkard, no, no, he just overdid it twice a year, and this was all right with his bride. As long as it wasn't a constant money-draining habit, well, she let him have his two days of drinking.
As I say, it was quarter to four in the morn when Aiden lurched in, but he was feeling rather randy for a change and this was not lost on his wife. She, having sat up most of the night in wait, was somewhat exhausted, what with scrubbing the church floor, and actually doing work unlike Aiden, she had an excuse to be worn out, so his amorous overtures were the last thing she wanted. But he was determined; the sweet talk and his attempts to pull her to him, along with her moving behind a table or a chair to keep him at a distance, were rather more tiring. Then, racing around the table with Aiden after she had further tired herself. Finally, because they were both near breathless, he panting and waiting to catch a second wind to chase after her, and her thinking how to stop him because she was truly not in the mood, they stood thinking strategy.
She noticed behind her in the press were the wedding plates and crystal champagne goblets, the topper from their wedding cake, the garter she had worn, and something else —a glass box containing Aiden's wedding present to his bride, a genuine four-leaf clover. Now, a few words about this particular clover, because it had a history. Seems the witch of the Wicklow Mountains had found this clover and had given it as a present of sorts to a man who came to her, saying he was unlucky in everything (much like meself) and he was at his wits' end on what to do. Could she help him? He understood she had magical powers. Well, yes, yes, she could help him, but as all gifts come with a string attached, she'd make him lucky, but if he lost, abused, or traded the clover, something terrible would befall him.
As you can imagine, the man wanted to know what the something terrible would be. The witch came close to him and she said in her hag's whisper, "Ye will lose all yer hair if ye do anything to ruin this fine specimen of luck. As long as it be intact, your luck will hold, but if you lose it, your hair will not."
"Pshaw!" The man declared, "Give o'er the clover and what instructions I need to keep it safe."
"Ye sure?" She asked, and he nodded. "Ye must give it to your bride for safekeeping inside this glass case. Ye are never to take it out to show or wave it around. Ye must give it o'er to yer eldest son on his weddin' day and he to his wife for safe keeping, and they will have a long, lucky and happy marriage and he, a full head of hair as long as the clover stays in its case."
"What happens if me wife or his wife takes it out of the case? Me and he's hair fall out?" The man asked.
"Every man that cooms near the women who fusses wit it will lose his hair. She'll be cursed to a bald man all her days, and any man cooms near her will suffer the hair loss."
"Any man?
"Any man!"
The man thought a moment and then told the witch hair loss was a small price to pay. He had a bride he would take if his luck was as good as she promised, who he trusted would never take the clover from the glass box.
And so, for generations, the story was told, the wives of all the eldest sons vouchsafed to keep the clover in its protective case, and the luck continued... that is, until Aiden's wife decided it was all a humbug story. She opened the press, took out the case and held it up. Aiden stopped dead in his tracks and then started laughing. He believed the tale as much as you and I. So he started forward, and Angelica opened the case, taking out the clover. He laughed and ran a hand through his good head of hair, and not a follicle came out.
So at a full sprint, he came round as Angelica took off out the open door, and as she did, she fell over the cat, and Aiden fell over her, and the clover drifted through the air and came down in the grass. As Angelica pushed her husband off, she noticed he had passed out. She also noticed his hair was in the grass, and he was bald!
She got up quickly, looking around for the errant clover; it was dark, but dawn was on the horizon. She ran in, got a torch, and flashed it around looking for the clover. Just about then, Father O'Reilly was walking by, or should I say wobbling by, as he was filled to the brim with drink. He saw the torchlight and heard frantic breathing. He looked over the gate of Aiden's cottage and saw the missus on hands and knees looking with the aid of torchlight for something on the grass. Then he spied Aiden fully laid out, cold and looking odd. Was that Aiden? Father asks himself, not recognising the bald man. Not sure, he opened the gate and lurched through at the same time, asking Angelica if she had lost something and who the man in the grass was. Well, our bride explains it all to the now red-in-the-face priest, who offers to help her.
It wasn't long after that Angelica's neighbour, Jamie, who was on his way to work at the dairy, saw her and what he thought might be Father O'Reilly. However, the priest had no hair, and in the limited torchlight, he spied a bald man stretched out on the grass. He decided something was decidedly amiss. He came running through the gate to help, and Angelica explained, but Jamie laughed at the superstition. However, he stayed to help look for the clover.
"This be a right craic of a jape it be," Jamie said, looking in the grass not very hard as he didn't believe a word that Angelica and Father O' had said. "Ye shaved their heads. His," he said, pointing at Aiden, "because he came in late. I don't get Father here but maybe ye shaved his so when Aiden wakes he won't be too angry about ya shaven' his head, seein' Father 'ere got shaved too."
The three of them were crawling in the grass, and Angelica noticed that Jamie's hair was drifting by her like snowflakes. She pointed this out to good neighbour Jamie, who jumped up and instantly did not find the superstition funny at all, no, not when he felt his bald pate. He started running around, not knowing what to do, shouting at the top of his lungs about his hair. Well, this got the notice of the Garda who were driving by and saw the commotion. They pulled over, got out and shouted for Jamie to calm down and explain the problem.
He did, and Angelica backed him up and pointed at the passed-out bald husband, the bald priest still on hands and knees looking for the missing clover, and then at Jamie and then at the two policemen because . . . well, you know, because.
Not a second to lose, they asked Angelica where she thought the cursed clover had fallen, and she pointed. There was a general loud ruckus, which attracted the neighbouring males to come out to see what was going on, and well, you know what happened, don't ya? Now all the men were on hands and knees with torches chattering up a hysterical storm, all of them bald, and Angelica was looking curiously at the family cat. He had found the clover and was eating it. Unfortunately, too far gone was the clover to rescue, so Angelica did the next best thing: she slowly and silently backed her way out of the front yard, got in the car and drove off, never to be heard from again.
The clover is gone, but the bald men are not. Almost every single one in the small village, except the three who slept through the excitement, now wears hats that cover the missing hair. The name Angelica has sort of disappeared as they refer to her now as Lillith, the demon wife of the poor sod Aiden. Others, more pious who live outside the village, say the men got their just desserts, including the priest, for not observing St. Patrick's Day as holy and reflective. Uh-huh. If that were true, we'd all be bald on St. Patrick's Day.
Yes, the O'Sullivan household has a clover too!
R. Linda:
All this talk about hair brought to mind an incident that happened some years ago in a little mountain village in Wicklow. It hit the newspapers, it did as a curiosity story, and I remember most of it to share with you. I think you'll find it amusing, and if you're a male, take it as a warning that if you meet a pretty Irish lass from Wicklow named Angelica, you might not stand too close and when you can -- get the hell out of there!
The story goes that a pretty young bride named Angelica lived in a particular village and unleashed an old-time curse upon the male population. It was St. Paddy's day in the Republic, and Angelica's husband, Aiden, as usual, celebrated the day not in church but in the local chugging back of all things green beer. It seems the local was owned by an American who brought the stateside tradition of green beer to Aiden's little village deep in the Wicklow Mountains, along with the American tradition of celebrating St. Patrick's Day by drinking all day and all night, without attending church at all. Now Aiden and his chums had been busy at the drink for the entire day while their wives thought they were in the rectory helping Father O'Reilly after all the morning services were over, putting things tidy.
What ye may not know is that the chapel be open all day after the St. Patrick's Day morning masses for those paying prayerful homage to the ancient Saint. Father O's presence wasn't essential, and where would the good Father be? I ask ya now, but I'd rather tell you he'd be at Tamlian's Pub with the rest of the male population. There be nothing in the church laws that says a priest can't imbibe if he wants to.
So while the ladies went in and rearranged the flowers or cleaned the benches with Murphy's Oil or scrubbed the floors for the next day's morning services, the men who were supposed to be in the rectory were in Tamlian's rectory cleaning the jars of beer after beer, they were.
Now, Angelica was a bright lass, and she knew where Aiden was, along with the rest of the male miscreants of the village. She knew making a special dinner was a waste of time, as Aiden would appear long after the dinner hour and be too drunk to eat it anyway. But being the good wife she was, she did wait up to make sure he didn't end up asleep in the fireplace or under the couch with the cat.
Well, Aiden made it home at a quarter to four in the morning. You'd think you would, that Angelica might be fit to be tied at that hour, but she wasn't; this was one day a year, except, of course, Aiden's birthday, when he took it upon himself to overdo it on the alcohol. I don't want to give you the impression old Aiden was a drunkard, no, no, he just overdid it twice a year, and this was all right with his bride. As long as it wasn't a constant money-draining habit, well, she let him have his two days of drinking.
As I say, it was quarter to four in the morn when Aiden lurched in, but he was feeling rather randy for a change and this was not lost on his wife. She, having sat up most of the night in wait, was somewhat exhausted, what with scrubbing the church floor, and actually doing work unlike Aiden, she had an excuse to be worn out, so his amorous overtures were the last thing she wanted. But he was determined; the sweet talk and his attempts to pull her to him, along with her moving behind a table or a chair to keep him at a distance, were rather more tiring. Then, racing around the table with Aiden after she had further tired herself. Finally, because they were both near breathless, he panting and waiting to catch a second wind to chase after her, and her thinking how to stop him because she was truly not in the mood, they stood thinking strategy.
She noticed behind her in the press were the wedding plates and crystal champagne goblets, the topper from their wedding cake, the garter she had worn, and something else —a glass box containing Aiden's wedding present to his bride, a genuine four-leaf clover. Now, a few words about this particular clover, because it had a history. Seems the witch of the Wicklow Mountains had found this clover and had given it as a present of sorts to a man who came to her, saying he was unlucky in everything (much like meself) and he was at his wits' end on what to do. Could she help him? He understood she had magical powers. Well, yes, yes, she could help him, but as all gifts come with a string attached, she'd make him lucky, but if he lost, abused, or traded the clover, something terrible would befall him.
As you can imagine, the man wanted to know what the something terrible would be. The witch came close to him and she said in her hag's whisper, "Ye will lose all yer hair if ye do anything to ruin this fine specimen of luck. As long as it be intact, your luck will hold, but if you lose it, your hair will not."
"Pshaw!" The man declared, "Give o'er the clover and what instructions I need to keep it safe."
"Ye sure?" She asked, and he nodded. "Ye must give it to your bride for safekeeping inside this glass case. Ye are never to take it out to show or wave it around. Ye must give it o'er to yer eldest son on his weddin' day and he to his wife for safe keeping, and they will have a long, lucky and happy marriage and he, a full head of hair as long as the clover stays in its case."
"What happens if me wife or his wife takes it out of the case? Me and he's hair fall out?" The man asked.
"Every man that cooms near the women who fusses wit it will lose his hair. She'll be cursed to a bald man all her days, and any man cooms near her will suffer the hair loss."
"Any man?
"Any man!"
The man thought a moment and then told the witch hair loss was a small price to pay. He had a bride he would take if his luck was as good as she promised, who he trusted would never take the clover from the glass box.
And so, for generations, the story was told, the wives of all the eldest sons vouchsafed to keep the clover in its protective case, and the luck continued... that is, until Aiden's wife decided it was all a humbug story. She opened the press, took out the case and held it up. Aiden stopped dead in his tracks and then started laughing. He believed the tale as much as you and I. So he started forward, and Angelica opened the case, taking out the clover. He laughed and ran a hand through his good head of hair, and not a follicle came out.
So at a full sprint, he came round as Angelica took off out the open door, and as she did, she fell over the cat, and Aiden fell over her, and the clover drifted through the air and came down in the grass. As Angelica pushed her husband off, she noticed he had passed out. She also noticed his hair was in the grass, and he was bald!
She got up quickly, looking around for the errant clover; it was dark, but dawn was on the horizon. She ran in, got a torch, and flashed it around looking for the clover. Just about then, Father O'Reilly was walking by, or should I say wobbling by, as he was filled to the brim with drink. He saw the torchlight and heard frantic breathing. He looked over the gate of Aiden's cottage and saw the missus on hands and knees looking with the aid of torchlight for something on the grass. Then he spied Aiden fully laid out, cold and looking odd. Was that Aiden? Father asks himself, not recognising the bald man. Not sure, he opened the gate and lurched through at the same time, asking Angelica if she had lost something and who the man in the grass was. Well, our bride explains it all to the now red-in-the-face priest, who offers to help her.
It wasn't long after that Angelica's neighbour, Jamie, who was on his way to work at the dairy, saw her and what he thought might be Father O'Reilly. However, the priest had no hair, and in the limited torchlight, he spied a bald man stretched out on the grass. He decided something was decidedly amiss. He came running through the gate to help, and Angelica explained, but Jamie laughed at the superstition. However, he stayed to help look for the clover.
"This be a right craic of a jape it be," Jamie said, looking in the grass not very hard as he didn't believe a word that Angelica and Father O' had said. "Ye shaved their heads. His," he said, pointing at Aiden, "because he came in late. I don't get Father here but maybe ye shaved his so when Aiden wakes he won't be too angry about ya shaven' his head, seein' Father 'ere got shaved too."
The three of them were crawling in the grass, and Angelica noticed that Jamie's hair was drifting by her like snowflakes. She pointed this out to good neighbour Jamie, who jumped up and instantly did not find the superstition funny at all, no, not when he felt his bald pate. He started running around, not knowing what to do, shouting at the top of his lungs about his hair. Well, this got the notice of the Garda who were driving by and saw the commotion. They pulled over, got out and shouted for Jamie to calm down and explain the problem.
He did, and Angelica backed him up and pointed at the passed-out bald husband, the bald priest still on hands and knees looking for the missing clover, and then at Jamie and then at the two policemen because . . . well, you know, because.
Not a second to lose, they asked Angelica where she thought the cursed clover had fallen, and she pointed. There was a general loud ruckus, which attracted the neighbouring males to come out to see what was going on, and well, you know what happened, don't ya? Now all the men were on hands and knees with torches chattering up a hysterical storm, all of them bald, and Angelica was looking curiously at the family cat. He had found the clover and was eating it. Unfortunately, too far gone was the clover to rescue, so Angelica did the next best thing: she slowly and silently backed her way out of the front yard, got in the car and drove off, never to be heard from again.
The clover is gone, but the bald men are not. Almost every single one in the small village, except the three who slept through the excitement, now wears hats that cover the missing hair. The name Angelica has sort of disappeared as they refer to her now as Lillith, the demon wife of the poor sod Aiden. Others, more pious who live outside the village, say the men got their just desserts, including the priest, for not observing St. Patrick's Day as holy and reflective. Uh-huh. If that were true, we'd all be bald on St. Patrick's Day.
 |
| It looked something like this, but dried up |
Yes, the O'Sullivan household has a clover too!
Gabe
Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved
Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved
someone should warn Lucky about this lmao
ReplyDeleteRoflmao now as you know, bald doesn't bother me much . I've had my head shaved at least three times. LOL thinking about doing again before winter. Am I crazy? Yep I guess I'm not vain.LMAO
ReplyDeleteAs for the man with good hair? STAY AWAY FROM CURSED CLOVER! LOL
ReplyDeleteIs this rip an Irishman week? Preferably this Irishman? I know the hair is quality, but jealously does not become you, LOL. Might I suggest you tell the story of a certain someone drinking green beer (in I believe) their basement when a water pipe exploded and a rainbow appeared along with a lot of microphones? You know of whom I speak? Do it Gabe. ;)~~~~~
ReplyDeleteOh you are going to get me in trouble you are -- but I do know the story. LOL
ReplyDelete