14 April 2011
Story #385
R. Linda:
On returning to work last week, I told me sad tale of woe and was told by another Irishman that this luck of the Irish business be not true, me being a case in point. He said he read somewhere that we are as lucky as the English. No comment from me on THAT bit.
I tried to figure this phenomenon out on me off hours as to why we of lucky green shamrocks, beautiful scenery, good-looking Irish boyos and pretty dancing Irish lasses, can be so unlucky. We have the lucky four-leaf clover, the lucky horseshoe, the lucky penny, the lucky rabbit's foot, and the lucky wishbone. To top it all off, we place a Saint Brigid's cross over the door for a bit more luck, and a bit of blarney stone in your pocket would also be considered good luck. We may have these symbols because we need their luck since we don't seem to be able to draw them to our unlucky selves.
I also realise we are a super superstitious lot, we are. We don't step on cracks in a sidewalk, we turn from a black cat in our path, on hearing a crowing hen we cover our ears, a girl whistling we look all askance and jittery, all unlucky stuff that. Oh, and me fav is the unlucky event of meeting up with a lame old woman on me way to work. Be unlucky for weeks that happens. Then there be the superstition that if you hear a cuckoo on your left -- watch out, bad luck be comin' so turn to your right quick, where it be considered good luck to hear a cuckoo on your right side, and a few unexpected pence may be coming your way. The best one is what this bit be about. Maybe best left for Hallowmas, but I was thinking about it and decided, nah, now's the time.
Me Uncle Shamus McGee, twice removed, and who lived long ago and far away in southern Ireland, was a bit of a boozer, he was. What Irishman isn't ye say? Oh, come on now, R. Linda, not all of us succumb to the drink. But me Uncle Shamus, well, he did. He'd start his morning with a "bit o' a nip" and by mid-morning, he'd have himself "a wee shot a what be good fer ya," and by lunchtime, he'd be on top of a table in some pub expounding the virtues of "genteel society" as if he knew what that was. One and two in the afternoon might roll around, and not an Uncle Shamus in sight. Then the hour of three pops up along with Uncle and a few jars of the black stuff, and the afternoon roll call would lead into the liquid dinner hour, and about 8 p.m., Uncle would get the munchies he would, and a late supper would be served with more jars of that liquid Irish gold. By 11, Uncle would be dancing like he was a Riverdance alumnus, and dance his way out the door, a jar slopping over with more Guinness or a bit of Kilian's or Murphy's, it didn't matter, after a day of it, they all taste the same. Then Uncle would crash in someone's hay barn, and the whole process would start again the next morning.
Between the hours of one and two, Uncle worked odd jobs for his "drinkin' money." Yes, he did. He was best known for shovelling horse and cow manure and wasn't shy about cleanin' up after the rabbits and sheep. He'd do stable work, or help plant a garden, or just tend to it, which he wasn't all that good at because the tending didn't take much time, and well, the drink was on his mind, so . . . not much tendin' goin' on.
But the family legend goes that around harvest time, Uncle spent more than his two hours of "work" bringing in a corn harvest for a local farmer he did. Every harvest season, any able-bodied man that could be had was paid enough drinking money to harvest this, that and everything for the winter, if he put in the time. Uncle wasn't one to shrug off a hard slog when it meant his drinking reserve was in need. So off he went for a week of shucking corn and tying up cornstalks, and every night at six, he'd have worked up a peckish need for an earlier supper than usual and then spent the rest of the time enjoying the chat and the drink in the pub.
Now, one harvest season, he had been toiling in the weak sun and worked up a powerful thirst, which was on his mind more than anything else. He worked by rote, he did, so used to the way the corn was done up and in. It was the last day of harvesting, and it went well past six o'clock to nearly 7:30 before all was down in the harvesting sheds and wagons by the barn. But this last night was a special one as farmer O'Grady and his wife would hold a harvest feast for their workers. So big goings on in the barnyard. As the workers finished, they could smell that good repast that would soon be theirs, um, mum, yum. And of course, the beer be a flowin' along with the good rustic and wholesome feast.
As you might imagine, there was a lot of eatin', a lot of drinkin' and dancin' and a lot of gapin' going on that night. The moon was full and rising, and the breeze was just enough to play the leaves in the trees. The clouds raced across the moon, and you had that first chill in the air. The workers and the farmer had lit an enormous bonfire, and there they toasted the good earth, St. Patrick, St. Brigid, any saint they could recall that heavily in their cups; many new saints made up because no one knew the difference. After all was said and done, the party broke up, Uncle Shamus being one of the last to leave.
Buttoning his almost threadbare jacket up around his neck, collar turned up, cap as far over the tips of his ears as he could manage, and hands jammed in pockets, he set off on the moonlit path for the town stable where he bedded down every night. He had a parting gift of Paddy's under his arm, and as he walked, he'd take a pull every so often to ward off the chill.
Now there be a superstition that if ye chance upon an evil spirit in the dead of night, ye need to get to running water and cross it because the spirit can't follow over water. Well, Uncle had one pull too many, he did, and as he came round the bend on his way to the town bridge, he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was the sound of moaning and thumping like something walking heavily and groaning. Hum. Another pull on the whiskey and ears pricked, eyes skinned . . . but nothing there. He put the bottle in his jacket pocket and proceeded on when he heard it again, but he also saw something wispy move near the road ahead, not far from the small bridge. He stopped all alert and felt a chill run up his spine. The leaves rattled in the trees, the dust was swept up by a gust of wind, and the moaning and thumping seemed louder.
Cautiously, walking on tiptoe, or at least trying to (Uncle Shamus wasn't exactly steady on his feet), he moved slowly forward. He could see a log not far from the end of the bridge, and he heard the thump thump thump like feet. Steeling himself, he moved forward again slowly, and the moaning was louder as the breeze picked up. He stopped and looked ahead. This called for another pull of the Paddy's, and in small steps forward, Uncle Shamus went, but then he saw it, a white misty thing in the middle of the moonlit road, just up from the bridge next to an almost leafless tree. Its robe flapped in the breeze and twirled and danced in the moonlight. HOLY MOLY A GHOST!
Uncle measured between the dancing spirit and the bridge end. If he could get his feet unglued from where they were glued to the path, he was sure he was closer to the bridge than the spirit and could outrun the thing. And this he did, like a bat out of hell, holding on to his almost empty bottle of Paddy's he took off, his heels kicking his arse as he high-tailed it in a skid to that bridge and then over to the other side, taking a last swallow of the whiskey as he clamoured over the bridge. He didn't stop running until he got to the old town stable. Poor Uncle! He had suffered quite a fright, he did.
When he told anyone who would listen about his terror the night of the harvest feast, they all laughed at him. Said it was too much of the drink. Well, it must have been what he needed because Uncle Shamus swore off drink forever after that and became a store clerk. Yes, he did. At the time of the swearing off of the drink, he had a wife who had thrown him out because she thought him a ne'er-do-well. When she heard this story and saw the results, she wondered what he saw in the dead of night. Thinking that Shamus would revert to his old ways as soon as his nerves settled, she took off a few nights later to the same bridge. As she came across it, she heard the moaning and the thumping, and that took her by surprise, but being a bright lass, she saw within a short time what was causing it. The cat tails hitting the log in the steady breeze played a tattoo of their own that sounded like feet thumping. The moaning took a few more minutes of listening and looking, and she realised it was caused by the wind blowing through the hollow log. Then she looked down the road and saw nothing. She turned toward the moonlight, and yes, R. Linda, there it was, leaning against a tree, the white sheet flapping under the moonlight in the light breeze. As she stood and watched, the wind blew a fierce blast and animated the sheet to whirl and dance the scarecrow it covered underneath to leave the tree where it had been loosely anchored, to do a merry turn in the moonlight. Annie stood and laughed.
A few days later, Uncle Shamus, still stone-cold sober, was caving. Thinking he needed a bit o' the dirty dog was finding his way to the pub when Annie saw his arse crossing the street towards it. She was a quick thinker, and seeing her brother Morgan, not far off, she called him over. Words were hastily exchanged, along with a few snickers from Morgan, and off she ran in the opposite direction. Morgan hailed Shamus and told him he needed something done quickly and would ask Shamus to help.
Shamus was torn, he wanted the booze but Morgan was always good to him, and he was hoping his new found sobriety and doing a good turn for Morgan would get him back in his house with Annie. But the drink . . . or Annie, which was it to be? Well, maybe both. If he could help, he'd do it, Morgan would tell Annie, and Shamus could sneak a drink. So he said he'd do whatever Morgan needed, but he became reluctant when he heard what it was.
"Now, man, ye must do dis fer me, it won't take ya more'n an hour. Just run over ta farmer O'Grady's and get sum of dat sheep salve. I have a sick cow and da salve will soothe her, but I can't leave her fer fear she'll go doown. Be a good man and hurry."
Shamus looked suddenly pale. He swore to himself never to go over that bridge. He shuffled from one foot to the other when Morgan said, "Look Shamus, it be still light, ye can make it dere and back befer night."
Shamus thought, maybe he could. He slowly set off with Morgan grinning at his retreating back. BUT Shamus took a quick turn and made his way hastily to the hay barn, where he had a quarter of a bottle of whiskey left. He downed a good bit and put the bottle in his pocket. Then he took off, thinking he had outsmarted everyone. Of course, after not having a drop for a wee bit, the whiskey made him slightly loopy, but he staggered off despite his buzz.
Another problem for Shamus was simple, he never really knew what hour the sun went down, and distance was not a strong figuring point. He couldn't calculate time with distance to save his life, and both Morgan and Annie knew this. So off he went, believing his brother-in-law. He got to O'Grady's, got the balm, and started back, but it had grown dusk by the time he had got to the farm. As he walked back to town, it was growing DARKER. Well, he'd put all that goblin stuff out of his mind by thinking of a tall frothy Guinness he would, and so he did. But as happens when one's faculties are nearer to clear and sober, and with the wind up a little stronger than last time, and the sound of the moaning and thumping, the sounds were much louder. On hearing the familiar sound that put him in such fear for his life, he stopped again. He craned his neck to see up the road, but nothing, only the waning moonlight. To bolster his courage, he took the last of the drink and downed it. Refortified and refreshed, onward he went, thinking there must be some logical explanation for the sounds.
He felt pretty brave when he approached the bridge, at least that feeling was there for a fleeting minute until the THING came wooing out of the woods at him. The poor man stood shocked still for a second before he ran forward, trying to avoid the oncoming ghost. It came at him, and he promised the saints if they would deliver him safely across the bridge, he'd give up the drink forever. He made the bridge to the other side. He stopped long enough to make sure it wasn't his imagination and saw the thing dancing and cavorting on the other side of the bridge at him. Off he took, and so it was that he never was tempted to take another drop of liquor for the rest of his born days.
Doesn't take me to tell you it was Annie under the shroud, and with her reminding Shamus for a very long time about his ghostly encounters, she thus ensured he wouldn't be tempted, and he wasn't. It wasn't until he hit his 92nd birthday that the 87-year-old Morgan told him what Annie had done. By then, all was forgiven, and Shamus got a good laugh from it and at himself. But he would never go by that bridge all the rest of his days, even knowing the truth.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
On returning to work last week, I told me sad tale of woe and was told by another Irishman that this luck of the Irish business be not true, me being a case in point. He said he read somewhere that we are as lucky as the English. No comment from me on THAT bit.
I tried to figure this phenomenon out on me off hours as to why we of lucky green shamrocks, beautiful scenery, good-looking Irish boyos and pretty dancing Irish lasses, can be so unlucky. We have the lucky four-leaf clover, the lucky horseshoe, the lucky penny, the lucky rabbit's foot, and the lucky wishbone. To top it all off, we place a Saint Brigid's cross over the door for a bit more luck, and a bit of blarney stone in your pocket would also be considered good luck. We may have these symbols because we need their luck since we don't seem to be able to draw them to our unlucky selves.
I also realise we are a super superstitious lot, we are. We don't step on cracks in a sidewalk, we turn from a black cat in our path, on hearing a crowing hen we cover our ears, a girl whistling we look all askance and jittery, all unlucky stuff that. Oh, and me fav is the unlucky event of meeting up with a lame old woman on me way to work. Be unlucky for weeks that happens. Then there be the superstition that if you hear a cuckoo on your left -- watch out, bad luck be comin' so turn to your right quick, where it be considered good luck to hear a cuckoo on your right side, and a few unexpected pence may be coming your way. The best one is what this bit be about. Maybe best left for Hallowmas, but I was thinking about it and decided, nah, now's the time.
Me Uncle Shamus McGee, twice removed, and who lived long ago and far away in southern Ireland, was a bit of a boozer, he was. What Irishman isn't ye say? Oh, come on now, R. Linda, not all of us succumb to the drink. But me Uncle Shamus, well, he did. He'd start his morning with a "bit o' a nip" and by mid-morning, he'd have himself "a wee shot a what be good fer ya," and by lunchtime, he'd be on top of a table in some pub expounding the virtues of "genteel society" as if he knew what that was. One and two in the afternoon might roll around, and not an Uncle Shamus in sight. Then the hour of three pops up along with Uncle and a few jars of the black stuff, and the afternoon roll call would lead into the liquid dinner hour, and about 8 p.m., Uncle would get the munchies he would, and a late supper would be served with more jars of that liquid Irish gold. By 11, Uncle would be dancing like he was a Riverdance alumnus, and dance his way out the door, a jar slopping over with more Guinness or a bit of Kilian's or Murphy's, it didn't matter, after a day of it, they all taste the same. Then Uncle would crash in someone's hay barn, and the whole process would start again the next morning.
Between the hours of one and two, Uncle worked odd jobs for his "drinkin' money." Yes, he did. He was best known for shovelling horse and cow manure and wasn't shy about cleanin' up after the rabbits and sheep. He'd do stable work, or help plant a garden, or just tend to it, which he wasn't all that good at because the tending didn't take much time, and well, the drink was on his mind, so . . . not much tendin' goin' on.
But the family legend goes that around harvest time, Uncle spent more than his two hours of "work" bringing in a corn harvest for a local farmer he did. Every harvest season, any able-bodied man that could be had was paid enough drinking money to harvest this, that and everything for the winter, if he put in the time. Uncle wasn't one to shrug off a hard slog when it meant his drinking reserve was in need. So off he went for a week of shucking corn and tying up cornstalks, and every night at six, he'd have worked up a peckish need for an earlier supper than usual and then spent the rest of the time enjoying the chat and the drink in the pub.
Now, one harvest season, he had been toiling in the weak sun and worked up a powerful thirst, which was on his mind more than anything else. He worked by rote, he did, so used to the way the corn was done up and in. It was the last day of harvesting, and it went well past six o'clock to nearly 7:30 before all was down in the harvesting sheds and wagons by the barn. But this last night was a special one as farmer O'Grady and his wife would hold a harvest feast for their workers. So big goings on in the barnyard. As the workers finished, they could smell that good repast that would soon be theirs, um, mum, yum. And of course, the beer be a flowin' along with the good rustic and wholesome feast.
As you might imagine, there was a lot of eatin', a lot of drinkin' and dancin' and a lot of gapin' going on that night. The moon was full and rising, and the breeze was just enough to play the leaves in the trees. The clouds raced across the moon, and you had that first chill in the air. The workers and the farmer had lit an enormous bonfire, and there they toasted the good earth, St. Patrick, St. Brigid, any saint they could recall that heavily in their cups; many new saints made up because no one knew the difference. After all was said and done, the party broke up, Uncle Shamus being one of the last to leave.
Buttoning his almost threadbare jacket up around his neck, collar turned up, cap as far over the tips of his ears as he could manage, and hands jammed in pockets, he set off on the moonlit path for the town stable where he bedded down every night. He had a parting gift of Paddy's under his arm, and as he walked, he'd take a pull every so often to ward off the chill.
Now there be a superstition that if ye chance upon an evil spirit in the dead of night, ye need to get to running water and cross it because the spirit can't follow over water. Well, Uncle had one pull too many, he did, and as he came round the bend on his way to the town bridge, he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was the sound of moaning and thumping like something walking heavily and groaning. Hum. Another pull on the whiskey and ears pricked, eyes skinned . . . but nothing there. He put the bottle in his jacket pocket and proceeded on when he heard it again, but he also saw something wispy move near the road ahead, not far from the small bridge. He stopped all alert and felt a chill run up his spine. The leaves rattled in the trees, the dust was swept up by a gust of wind, and the moaning and thumping seemed louder.
Cautiously, walking on tiptoe, or at least trying to (Uncle Shamus wasn't exactly steady on his feet), he moved slowly forward. He could see a log not far from the end of the bridge, and he heard the thump thump thump like feet. Steeling himself, he moved forward again slowly, and the moaning was louder as the breeze picked up. He stopped and looked ahead. This called for another pull of the Paddy's, and in small steps forward, Uncle Shamus went, but then he saw it, a white misty thing in the middle of the moonlit road, just up from the bridge next to an almost leafless tree. Its robe flapped in the breeze and twirled and danced in the moonlight. HOLY MOLY A GHOST!
Uncle measured between the dancing spirit and the bridge end. If he could get his feet unglued from where they were glued to the path, he was sure he was closer to the bridge than the spirit and could outrun the thing. And this he did, like a bat out of hell, holding on to his almost empty bottle of Paddy's he took off, his heels kicking his arse as he high-tailed it in a skid to that bridge and then over to the other side, taking a last swallow of the whiskey as he clamoured over the bridge. He didn't stop running until he got to the old town stable. Poor Uncle! He had suffered quite a fright, he did.
When he told anyone who would listen about his terror the night of the harvest feast, they all laughed at him. Said it was too much of the drink. Well, it must have been what he needed because Uncle Shamus swore off drink forever after that and became a store clerk. Yes, he did. At the time of the swearing off of the drink, he had a wife who had thrown him out because she thought him a ne'er-do-well. When she heard this story and saw the results, she wondered what he saw in the dead of night. Thinking that Shamus would revert to his old ways as soon as his nerves settled, she took off a few nights later to the same bridge. As she came across it, she heard the moaning and the thumping, and that took her by surprise, but being a bright lass, she saw within a short time what was causing it. The cat tails hitting the log in the steady breeze played a tattoo of their own that sounded like feet thumping. The moaning took a few more minutes of listening and looking, and she realised it was caused by the wind blowing through the hollow log. Then she looked down the road and saw nothing. She turned toward the moonlight, and yes, R. Linda, there it was, leaning against a tree, the white sheet flapping under the moonlight in the light breeze. As she stood and watched, the wind blew a fierce blast and animated the sheet to whirl and dance the scarecrow it covered underneath to leave the tree where it had been loosely anchored, to do a merry turn in the moonlight. Annie stood and laughed.
A few days later, Uncle Shamus, still stone-cold sober, was caving. Thinking he needed a bit o' the dirty dog was finding his way to the pub when Annie saw his arse crossing the street towards it. She was a quick thinker, and seeing her brother Morgan, not far off, she called him over. Words were hastily exchanged, along with a few snickers from Morgan, and off she ran in the opposite direction. Morgan hailed Shamus and told him he needed something done quickly and would ask Shamus to help.
Shamus was torn, he wanted the booze but Morgan was always good to him, and he was hoping his new found sobriety and doing a good turn for Morgan would get him back in his house with Annie. But the drink . . . or Annie, which was it to be? Well, maybe both. If he could help, he'd do it, Morgan would tell Annie, and Shamus could sneak a drink. So he said he'd do whatever Morgan needed, but he became reluctant when he heard what it was.
"Now, man, ye must do dis fer me, it won't take ya more'n an hour. Just run over ta farmer O'Grady's and get sum of dat sheep salve. I have a sick cow and da salve will soothe her, but I can't leave her fer fear she'll go doown. Be a good man and hurry."
Shamus looked suddenly pale. He swore to himself never to go over that bridge. He shuffled from one foot to the other when Morgan said, "Look Shamus, it be still light, ye can make it dere and back befer night."
Shamus thought, maybe he could. He slowly set off with Morgan grinning at his retreating back. BUT Shamus took a quick turn and made his way hastily to the hay barn, where he had a quarter of a bottle of whiskey left. He downed a good bit and put the bottle in his pocket. Then he took off, thinking he had outsmarted everyone. Of course, after not having a drop for a wee bit, the whiskey made him slightly loopy, but he staggered off despite his buzz.
Another problem for Shamus was simple, he never really knew what hour the sun went down, and distance was not a strong figuring point. He couldn't calculate time with distance to save his life, and both Morgan and Annie knew this. So off he went, believing his brother-in-law. He got to O'Grady's, got the balm, and started back, but it had grown dusk by the time he had got to the farm. As he walked back to town, it was growing DARKER. Well, he'd put all that goblin stuff out of his mind by thinking of a tall frothy Guinness he would, and so he did. But as happens when one's faculties are nearer to clear and sober, and with the wind up a little stronger than last time, and the sound of the moaning and thumping, the sounds were much louder. On hearing the familiar sound that put him in such fear for his life, he stopped again. He craned his neck to see up the road, but nothing, only the waning moonlight. To bolster his courage, he took the last of the drink and downed it. Refortified and refreshed, onward he went, thinking there must be some logical explanation for the sounds.
He felt pretty brave when he approached the bridge, at least that feeling was there for a fleeting minute until the THING came wooing out of the woods at him. The poor man stood shocked still for a second before he ran forward, trying to avoid the oncoming ghost. It came at him, and he promised the saints if they would deliver him safely across the bridge, he'd give up the drink forever. He made the bridge to the other side. He stopped long enough to make sure it wasn't his imagination and saw the thing dancing and cavorting on the other side of the bridge at him. Off he took, and so it was that he never was tempted to take another drop of liquor for the rest of his born days.
Doesn't take me to tell you it was Annie under the shroud, and with her reminding Shamus for a very long time about his ghostly encounters, she thus ensured he wouldn't be tempted, and he wasn't. It wasn't until he hit his 92nd birthday that the 87-year-old Morgan told him what Annie had done. By then, all was forgiven, and Shamus got a good laugh from it and at himself. But he would never go by that bridge all the rest of his days, even knowing the truth.
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
