The Loanshark.

In an earlier entry I mentioned something about a man who made my mother cry. I want to speak a bit about that man, the situation that caused my Ma to cry, and what happened after that.

The man was a loanshark. But this time my mother didn't have a loan from him. You see he also went around offering to colour old black & white family pictures and for that you repaid him weekly. The weekly repayments never seemed to end. This guy was well known and disliked in the area. But he was tolerated. They had to tolerate him because so many people depended on the money he used to lend, even if it was at an astronimical interest. At that time there was no legal protection from these guys. They could charge what interest they liked on loans.

Anyway, my Ma gave him a black & white picture of her mother and father to colour and he did the job. Not a great job, but to have a family picture in colour and in a nice frame was a thing to be proud of back then.

He called every week for his payments. A small bald headed man who wore thin wire rimmed round spectacles, always carried a thin briefcase, some kind of folder under his arm and he always seemed to carry his hat in his hand rather than on his head. I remember noticing that his head seemed to be perpetually sunburned. He would rap on the door and call out, "The picture man!" and Ma would open the door and give him his weekly payment. He never spoke, just took the money, wrote something in a notebook and went on his way.

But one week Ma was short of money and couldn't pay. He stood back from the door and shouted that he wasn't doing this for nothing. That he wasn't a charity! I remember him shouting that he knew my Dad was working and that Ma was well able to pay. And they were just the printable things he said. I was just a kid but I could see that Ma was very upset and that she was crying. I remember wanting to hit that guy, but he went off still calling over his shoulder that she better have it (the payment) next week, and on the double or there'd be trouble. Ma sat at our one table with her head in her hands and cried and I saw how she shook. She asked me not to say anything to Dad when he came in, so I kept quiet.

But I brooded about what had happened, and especially about how upset Ma had been.

Meet my three my pals from that time. In no particular order there was Sean (Seanie) who was the oldest, he was about a year older than me and I thought he was very wise. He read a lot of books. So did I but his were never fiction. He was a mine of information on WWII which he seemed to read about an awful lot. He was the quiet one, but the one who no one crossed because he spoke quietly and struck out if you annoyed him. Someone who could frighten. But like I say, I liked him and sort of looked up to him too.

Then there was Jimmy (yes another one, I was called Jimmy then too). Jimmy was the skinny one, or at least he was skinnier than me. But Jimmy was a great singer. I liked him for that, he seemed to sing all the time and sometimes Seanie would give him a wallop to shut him up. It wasn't a hard wallop, just hard enough to shut poor Jimmy up. Jimmy always took it in good part and now that I think of it I don't think I ever say him in bad humour. In fact he used to slag off Seanie just for the hell of it.

Paddy made up the third of the four of us. Paddy was a dreamer. He lived the western movies that we used to go to see at the local cinemas, or picture houses as we called them. We never called them cinemas. There were three main ones that we went to. The Maro (in Mary Street), The Plaza (in Granby Row) and The Lec (the latter short for the grand name of "The New Electric Cinema", which was in Talbot Street) If we saw a movie (oh yeh, we didn't call them movies, they were 'the pictures') about Zorro for instance then Paddy would be wearing a Zorro mask and cape and carrying a sword (home made of course) until we went to see the next western. There was one I recall about the Alamo and Davy Crockett. Well Paddy had to get that furry hat too, the one with the tail hanging on the back. I know they had a proper name but we just called them Davy Crockett hats.

Then there was me of whom you might know enough, and if not I'll talk more at a later date.

Now, the four of us used to sit on the steps outside the tenements in Summerhill. I think they call those steps 'the stoop' in the US. Seanie told me that. So a few nights after what had happened to Ma I talked about it as we chatted on the steps. Seanie said we should do something. Jimmy agreed, but then again Jimmy always agreed with Sean, it was good for his health. Paddy said he should be run out of town. I definitely wanted something done. So we talked about it and made a plan that I honestly didn't believe would work, and also I thought it would take too long and I wanted justice now.

But we carried on with the plan. Out at the back of where we lived there was a very big yard, long grass growing through the skeletons of rusted bits of bikes,old iron bedsteads, a place where kids weren't allowed to play and grown ups didn't go. And there was one big feral cat living amongst this junk. We set out to make friends with the cat. We brought it bits of food and we sat nearby while it ate until eventually it's fear of us seemed to go away and it would come and beg food from us, and rub itself against our legs. I remember that although the cat had become more or less friendly that I was still a bit wary of it.

The day dawned, as they say in all the best stories.....

Along one side of that yard I spoke of there was a high (to us) wall, and running beside the wall was the lane that led from The Diamond to Gardiner Street, where we lived. We sort of hung on the wall, leaning partly over it with our legs hanging inside so that only our heads and part of our shoulders could be seen from the lane. Beside us sat The Cat. He (or she) had never been named, it was always The Cat. We knew that the loan shark (or the picture man, take your pick -- he was both anyway)came from The Diamond, up the lane and into Gardiner Street, on foot of course, only the wealthy had cars. He may have been wealthy but didn't have a car. I remember what he was wearing. He had on a long overcoat that was called A Crombie, an expensive coat at the time, and as usual he carried his hat in his hand. His bald head like a beacon as he drew closer.

We remained very quiet until he drew level with us who were now above him, along with The Cat. Just as he was immediately below us Seanie dropped the bomb, which was The Cat! Maybe it was because of all those war books he read or something, but his bomb aiming was perfect. The Cat landed right on the picture man's bald head! Ever see a cat when it's scared? It sort of makes a hump and digs it's claws in? Well that's exactly what it did. Only when it dug in it's claws they were into yer man's bald head. He actually screamed, which I suppose frightened the cat even more with predictable results and when he tried to knock it off his head that cat dug in for dear life. The result to the picture man was that his bald pate was lacerated with cat scratches. His head was covered in blood and I remember seeing it on the shoulder of his Crombie coat too. The Cat took off and jumped the wall beside us and the picture man ran in the direction of Gardiner Street. We ran through the house and into the street to see where he was heading, and a woman had already stopped him and she applied first aid. It was just scratches but they bled a lot, and most of all the whole thing gave him a major fright. I mean it's not every day that a cat lands on your head out of the blue.

We remained friends with The Cat, or maybe that should read The Cat remained friends with us even after how we had treated it so mean that one time. It followed us about until eventually we saw it no more and assumed it had either died or had run off with a mate.

The picture man? Yes he came back the following week and he had sticking plaster still covering his scratches. We were standing at our hall door when he called and Seanie told him not to call anymore. Jimmy got a fit of the giggles, Paddy told him to get out of our street and I remember him looking at me and I think even then he knew why he had been ambushed by these four kids. But Seanie took it upon himself to explain anyway.

I don't think Ma ever paid for that picture (no one ever called afterwards for the money), and as far as I know someone in the family still has it.

So that was the tale of a cat and four boys, who as it happens didn't turn out to be gangsters after all. Close but not really. The picture at the top is the scene of the 'crime', X marks the spot.

Next time I think I'll talk a bit about The Four Corners of Hell and how we used to have a ringside seat after the pubs closed and the fights started.

Till then.... look up if passing a high wall!

Happy New Year 2007

Hello everyone, and a Very Happy New Year to All.

I'm sorry it's taking so long to continue with the story, but since my last post here I had a bit of a relapse in that I haven't been feeling the best. But then again it's that kind of weather here in Ireland, the kind where it seems everyone has colds and sniffles of some kind. As well as that the doc did tell me that it would be about 6 weeks before I'd be back to my old self again, so I'm trying to be patient (no pun intended :-)

But all of this has given me a lot of time to do some thinking and remembering and that has resulted in more stories that I have yet to tell.

Then too, just the other morning I was taking a short walk and met an old schoolfriend. Philly and me started primary school in Rutland Street on the same day, we were in the same classes and had the same teachers. Back then you had to have a 'partner' in school (think it was to make it easier for the teachers to keep us under control) and anywhere you went either in the school, in the playground, or on outings to the local church you had to hold hands with your partner. Philly was my 'partner' in school.

Anyway, Philly and me (should that be Philly and I? My grammar was always the pits) got to chatting after greeting and wishing each other the compliments of the Season. We must have looked like two lunatics standing there in the biting wind chatting like two old..... (oops better not say that or I'd be in trouble with the wimmin :-) We were on a trip down memory lane and didn't notice the weather as we remembered the good days and the bad ones. That chat with Philly has reminded me of things I had almost forgotten, and later I'll be talking about them here. Thanks Philly, may ya never want!

As we parted I said to Philly, "As I remember the things we got up to I wonder how come we managed to stay outta REAL trouble at all?" Philly's answer was a good one. "We caused our share of mayhem.... but we never actually hurt anyone." Maybe THAT'S why our memories are all mainly good ones.

On that note I'll take my leave for now and I look forward to getting back to the writing. Remember where we left off? I have to tell you about how we kids settled a score with a man, a loan shark, who made my mother cry. Coming soon.

Just a note to my loyal friends......

Hello all! :-)

I feel I must thank everyone who dropped in here while I was away and kept the blog going just by your presence alone. I knew you were dropping in because at first the reason I wasn't able to keep the blog up-to-date was because I didn't have a working computer, but I was able from time to time to look in on the site anyway from a friends's house.

I must say that it was truly heartening to see that people, and you my friends in particular, were dropping in, even while you knew that I wasn't keeping the blog as up to date as I should have been. This is true loyalty! You know who you are, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your belief in me and for your friendship.

Then I had the computer fixed and up and running again. But still my being able to continue the story was frustrated because I became ill. At first I put it down to tiredness, lack of interest. Yet I knew I wasn't not writing through lack of interest because I really and truly enjoy sharing my stories. In a nutshell I felt pretty much... or rather that should be pretty NOT much myself :-)

So then one evening I discovered that my breathing apparatus seemed to be packing up. Scary business! If I made the smallest effort I felt as if I'd ran a marathon and was breathing like a bull.

I did the usual (bad) thing. I figured if you ignore it it will go away. It didn't.

So at last the breathing just seemed to stop! Yep, just like that. To say it gave me a fright would be to greatly understate it. I called my son (Jimmy the Paramedic.... sounds like a Mafia name that doesn't it?.... Like Jimmy the Fish.... ahh you know what I mean :-) in the middle of the night and asked him if I might have pneumonia or something. He gave me the advice that I should have had the good sense not to need anyway.... he told me there were no short cuts.... I had to see the doc and get properly checked out.

So next morning (I was a bit surprised to actually make it to the next morning) I called the doc and told her that either she see me now or else send an ambulance to take me to hospital. (That was just me doing my panic bit) and she replied that if I came to her now she'd see me immediately. I told her I could hardly walk. She insisted. She's so nice.

To make this long story short I did make it to the doc's office and she had a listen to my breathing (almost non existant), heart and so on. Then she said the words that every hypochondriac wants to hear. "Okay, you're bad, but not as bad as you think. Lungs a bit tight (a BIT? I thought they'd shrunk and disappeared!), so lets go in here and see what we can do."

Off we went to a different office and she placed one of those jet pilots face masks over my face, and told me to breathe normally. (Missus, if I could breather normally I wouldn't be here!) But I tried anyway.... and in minutes I was so relaxed that I almost fell asleep. God bless whoever invented oxygen! The doc left me in charge of a rather pretty and chatty nurse and off she went saying she'd be back soon. Funny how a pretty nurse can take your mind off what you believe may be your imminent departure from this vale of tears. Few minutes later the doc came back, put some stuff into the face mask and in a matter of moments I was breathing like a kid again. I swear, I sort of shuffled into that surgery like a man in chains, and after my treatment I walked out like a soldier on duty! Amazin' what they can do these days.

Bottom line (hah... I know who's saying now "Awww thank gawd, I thought he was never going to shut up!") is I had some kind of lung infection, a chest infection just for good measure, and my first ever asthmatic attack.... all at once.

Well the good news is I'm on the road to recovery. At the mo I'm still a bit under the weather but I suppose that's to be expected. I'm taking so many pills that if I jumped now I'd rattle.

And the even better news is that I'll be continuing the story very soon.... just as soon as the doc tells me I'm free of whatever it was that made me ill in the first place.

So till then, and I hope this will be very, very soon. I want to say a huge heartfelt thank you to all of my friends who never gave up on me. You're the best!

Soon.

Remembering today.......

Our Ma who went to her reward on this day. 2nd July 1979 Aged 52 years..


On the wings of a memory we see a vision of you there,with a smile in your eyes, heaven's light in your hair.

We feel your presence on the wind we smell you on the rain,

And the memory of your laughter eases all pain.

To see that wonderful little grin on your face,

To have your smile light up even the darkest place.

If it were possible, we'd pray you back home with the dawn,

But Ma, on the wings of our memories you're not really gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ma. You fought the brave fight and were valiant.


Thank you for your love. Thank you for being our Ma.


Remembering you today, Ma... and for always.

Jim ~ Tony ~ Marie ~ Chris ~ Ellen ~ Paul

The Turf Depot

Returning to the Turf Depot, here's a different view of it above. To see a bigger photo click on this one.

Here we see it from the opposite end from the last photo. To help us get our bearings here, the photographer would be standing with his back to The 27 Steps. Slightly to the left (out of picture) would be the back of our old flat as seen in another, earlier photo. This picture looks like it was taken in the early morning or else shorly after a delivery of turf, because normally that weighing scale you can see was just inside the door, and so was the pile of turf. While the turf was lying outside like this, people hoped it wouldn't rain because wet turf was nearly impossible to burn. I remember how my parents used to make little piles of wet turf either side of the fireplace in an attempt to get it dry. If they made little piles of turf sods on the hobs either side of a blazing fire I used to sit there staring at the drying sods because they'd scorch and the tiny loose hairy bits used to catch fire and this used to remind me of the Christmas lights downtown. Funny the things that stick in your mind.

As can be seen in the photo that little girl is waiting for her turf to be weighed. She has a small baby walker (we called them go cars) and it was on this little car that she'd have struggled home with her 8 stone sack of turf. Sometimes, if there was a decent man working the scales and you didn't have a sack (a sack was compulsory) he'd tip the scales so that your turf allowance filled whatever mode of transport you happened to have. In this case the little girl has that small baby car which was never designed to carry 8 stones of weight, so as you can imagine baby cars didn't last very long from being used to carry home the turf. I've seen big expensive baby prams (prambulators) being used and the weight of the turf causing the wheels to buckle, and whoever was pushing it would wind up pushing and pulling in turns just to get that precious turf home safely.

But the turf was also a springboard to another money making little job. I've already mentioned that the standard payment for delivering a bag of turf was 1 shilling. Well as you couldn't carry much turf in a baby pram we made box carts so that we could carry more at one time, thereby saving on trips and increasing our earnings. These carts were made of wood and a pair of old pram wheels, or any kind of wheels we could get our hands on. The body of the cart was a simple wooden box, often made up of old orange or apple crates with two shafts for handles. These boxcarts were in great demand and if we could get enough scrap wood and some old wheels and made up some boxcars we could sell them. The going rate was whatever the market would take. On average this was between a half crown (two shillings and sixpence) and 4 shillings. So making boxcars was a good little earner. Of course they didn't carry any guarantee and if the cart happened to collapse while someone was taking home or delivering some bags of turf... tough luck. In that case we, (the manufacturers) either went into hiding for awhile or else we simply legged it and hoped we weren't caught. Ah well, some you win, some you lose. But we were diligent in making these carts so they seldom collapsed.... maintaining our good names as boxcar builders.

But in Summer it was a different story with the boxcars. Then they became chariots and the chariot races around Summerhill, and Gardiner and Sean McDermott Streets were legendary. The race in Ben Hur never even came close to the excitement of these races. A kid would stand between the shafts of the boxcar (the chariot!) and a piece of rope was strung over his shoulders, around his neck and back to someone sitting in the boxcar who was the driver. The driver had one important piece of equipment -- a whip! And that whip was used too!! Though I can't remember it ever really hurting. On race day the chariots would line up. The starter would harangue the drivers to get the carts into a proper line.... no cheating allowed... at least until after the race had started. Then he's signal the off and away we'd go! The ankles of innocent pedestrians were in dire peril while this race was in progress because the drivers threw all caution to the wind in the excitement of the race... and not a few of the cart wheels had spokes sticking out at all angles, so being a pedestrian on a race day was a perilous business. After the off no holds were barred. There weren't any rules! You could trip any kid between the shafts if you could manage to do that. Or if there happened to be a bit of turf or coal, or even a few stones in the body of the boxcar then these made good throwing weapons to be used against other charioteers. There was no prize for winning except the right to brag about how well you done in the race. And you got a lot of mileage out of these bragging sessions, and naturally as each story was told it was gilded slightly until by the time it had been told a few times the race became an epic, and the winning team were heroes held in awe by their pals.

Next time I want to talk a bit about the time a man (a moneylender) made my mother cry and how we, my friends Paddy, Seanie, Jimmy and myself avenged her. And the lane in the photo above was where it happened.

But as I say, that's a story for next time... and coming up too a story about the junction of Parnell Street, Summerhill, Gardiner Street and Middle Gardiner Street... known to the older folk at that time as The Four Corners of Hell.

Drop in again soon.... some good stories coming up.