Jean's Journal: Memories and family heirlooms

By Jean Farrell

I wrote, last week, about the type of wedding presents we received, nearly fifty years ago. One reader emailed me, saying: "I got three electric kettles, three toasters and three electric knives. I brought two of each over to Byrne's, The Square.

"Even though PJ Bryne had no idea where these were bought, the kind gentleman allowed me to exchange them for a bread-bin, a mixing-bowl, an ironing-board and more."

Other friends (my age) have been discussing their wedding presents too. The hoarders amongst us have kept some: "I have a box full of hideous ornaments up in the attic," one said.

What most concerned us all is what will our children do with our possessions when we pass away.

Very sadly, we've been at so many funerals lately that we are beginning to think this way!

A complete aside, As I sat in the church last week, at yet another funeral, I thought to myself, 'I must remember to tell my daughter to put a hot water bottle into my coffin!'

This is because I haven’t gone to bed without one for the last 70 years, every single night, summer and winter.

Back to the discussion about our 50-year-old wedding presents. We all gave some thought to what we have. Would you believe, between us, we have 20 sets of china, none of which we ever use. The reason I never use mine is because the cups are much too small. I prefer my tea from a big mug. Another told us that she doesn't use hers because the china would be too delicate for the dishwasher.

"I know exactly what our adult children will do with all our precious processions," the eldest of us said. "The whole lot will be thrown straight into a skip."

One friend was quite shocked by this. "But what about family heirlooms?" she asked.

"Heirlooms?" we all questioned, looking at her.

She told us that when she got married, 47 years ago, her mother-in-law gave her a set of china dessert dishes. Her mother-in-law had been given these by her own mother-in-law.

"We use them once a year, on Christmas Day," she told us. "They are washed by hand, very carefully, and then put away for another year." She told us that she would be appalled if her daughter threw these into a skip.

What would I regard as a family heirloom, I wondered?

My mother's old brown leather writing-case came to mind. I have this and love it, because of the happy memories it evokes.

I see our old living room when we were in national school. Every night, after the rosary was said, my mother would sit down at the table with us. We'd be finishing our lessons there.

She’d unzip this lovely brown leather writing-case and take out a Basildon bond writing-pad. She'd remove the sheet of blotting paper from it, as well as the page with white lines. She'd place this under the first page of the pad. There'd be a bottle on Quink ink on the table, which we would all be using.

Dipping the nibs of our pens into this communal bottle of ink, we'd be writing our compositions about such subjects as, 'An old penny tells its story'. Biros hadn't been invented yet, and we were too young to be using a fountain pen.

We'd watch our mother lower her good fountain pen into the bottle of ink. She would raise a little lever on the side and ink would flow up into it.

We knew that she was writing letters to our granny and aunts, who lived all around Ireland. She wrote to old school friends too, whose names we still remember. This writing case, full of memories for me, is destined for the skip, I imagine.

Another aside. I listened to many people speaking to Joe Duffy on Liveline recently. They were our age and older.

All told horrific tales of being beaten in school. I was almost ashamed of being a teacher. How could adults (many of them religious folk) be so very cruel? How had they no sympathy or empathy towards little children?

Because I was a bright child and a 'goodie-goodie' I rarely got slapped. However, like most of you, I can clearly remember watching other little girls being slapped with a big heavy stick.

One memory I have is of a pupil sitting beside me. She had what we'd now call 'poor motor skills'. She couldn't use the pen and ink to write neatly. The ink always fell off the pen, and her copy was a mess with big blots of ink all over the writing. The nun stood beside her with stick in hand. Each time my little friend made yet another blot, the nun hit her knuckles hard.

On a lighter note, letter writing brings back another memory to me. When we were teenagers, my friend took a great fancy to our postman. She decided that he looked like Elvis.

She was determined that he would call to her house daily, so she posted letters to herself every evening. On the envelopes she added many kisses.

This was to pretend that they were love-letters from an imaginary boy-friend. They were supposed to make 'Elvis' jealous.

I was often in her house, as we awaited the second post of the day. She'd be hanging out the window watching for 'Elvis'. As soon she spotted him, she'd rub on some of her mother’s lipstick and dash out into the garden to accost him.

This was the highlight of our day!

jeanfarrell@live.ie