Jean's Journal: Old school books

by Jean Farrell

“Caith muintir an tí lá cois farraige, Dé Domhnaigh.” Literally translated this means “The people of the house spent a day beside the sea, on Sunday.” It was a lovely day, we are told, “Bhí an lá go brea” - weren’t they in luck!

And, a noteworthy point, they only have three children (weren’t they in luck there also!) These have lovely wholesome Irish names, Seán, Tomás agus Brídín. I note that the aimsir fháistineach (the future tense) features heavily.

This story would have been near the end of our Irish reader in national school, because the school year ended on June 30th. We then, with great ceremony “passed” into our new class. We spent a week in it, with a new teacher in a new classroom, before getting our holidays in early July.

My mother often talked about going out to the door of our house, in O’Connell Street, to watch the ‘procession’ of first class boys pass by. On the last day in June, their teacher walked the boys from Saint Peter’s Infant school up to The Dean Kelly School, where the famous Larry Hanley reigned supreme!

As there were five boys in our house, one of them was usually in this ‘procession.’ Standing at our door, with the newest baby in her arms, Mammy would wave at her young son and their pals. These seven-year-old boys felt very important to be leaving the nuns and going up to the big boys’ school in ‘The Batteries.’

As soon as we got our summer holidays all our readers and catechisms were removed from our school bags by our mother. She made sure that these books were in good order - for they had to be used by the next youngest and the next and next for years to come! I remember Mammy sewing pages together when some books were falling apart!

I wrote recently that our mother would have been 100 years old on May 31 last had she lived longer. Two other women were born around the very same time. I’m absolutely sure that neither of these two woman ever spent time sewing pages of old school books together!

One was born in London. She was named Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor. The other was born, on the wrong side of the track, in Los Angeles. She was called Norma Jean Mortenson.

By 1953, these three girls led very different lives. Elizabeth had become queen of the British Empire. Norma Jean (having been raised in a series of bad foster homes) changed her name to Marilyn Monroe and became a famous film star. Our mother, Angela Keating, aged 27 in 1953, had given birth to her third daughter, in Athlone.

My mother followed these two women’s lives with great interest, and therefore we did too. I always admired Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, she was one of the last ‘leaders’ left whom we could still respect.

When so many world leaders fell off their pedestals, Queen Elizabeth held steadfast to standards and morals we value. She died in 2022, aged 96.

Poor Norma Jean had a very different life. She said, “At 13, I discovered the power of my body.” At 17, she could earn $5 an hour modelling, instead of $7 a day working in a factory. The camera ‘loved’ her (as it loved Princess Diana.)

After a very successful career as a movie star, Marilyn Monroe died tragically in 1962, aged only 36. Her full story is still unknown.

These three women, all born 100 years ago, lived very different lives. Who was the happiest? Who knows! They are now dead and buried.

Lines, from another old school book, come to mind. “Sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade.” The poem ‘Death The Leveller’ was written by James Shirley. In spite of ourselves, we learnt lots from our old school books!

The following story, from an English reader, has stayed with me always. I think of it often, especially as I get older!

It was the Aesop's Fable called, "The Miser and his Gold". This is it.

“A Miser had buried his gold in a secret place at the end of his garden. Every day he went to the spot, dug up the treasure and counted it piece by piece to make sure it was all there.

A thief had been observing him. One night, he quietly dug up the treasure and made off with it.

When the Miser discovered his loss, he was overcome with grief and despair. He groaned and cried and tore his hair out. A passer-by heard his cries and asked what had happened. ‘My gold! Oh, my gold!’ cried the Miser, wildly, ‘Someone has robbed me!’

The passer-by was astonished. ‘Your gold! There in that hole? Why did you put it there? Why did you not keep it in the house where you could easily get it when you had to buy things?’

’Buy, buy!’ screamed the Miser angrily. ‘I never touched the gold. I couldn't think of spending any of it.’

The stranger picked up a big handful of small stones and threw them into the hole. "If that is the case," he said, ‘Come out and count these stones every night. They are worth just as much to you as the treasure you lost!’

The moral of the story, of course, that money is no good to you whatsoever, unless you spend it!

We should all heed this and spend, spend, spend whatever money we have, while we can, now, today!

jeanfarrell@live.ie