Jean's Journal: 'Stop growing!'

By Jean Farrell

In the lovely ‘Mamma Mia’ movie, Meryl Streep meets some of her daughter’s friends whom she hasn’t seen for a while. They have become so very tall that she shrieks, “Stop growing.” That’s just want I want to say to my grandchildren every time I meet them. In this photo my eldest two are aged 14 and 11. It seems no length ago since they were small babies! I’m sure many of you feel the same about your grandchildren.

We had a busy Christmas here with family and dogs galore. It was lovely to have them and I enjoyed every minute spent with my visitors. However, I am getting older, so I don’t seem to have as much energy as I used to have for teenagers, dogs and disorder. My quiet husband and I are glad of peace and ease now that they are all gone home! So is our own dog, Bobby, who was addled by all the people and his dog ‘cousins,’ (as the children call them!)

I’ve been reading various articles in various newspaper and magazines over the Christmas, some of which I will refer to now.

I read that on the night that Nelson’s Pillar was blown up, in March 1966, twenty young Dubliners were injured and taken to hospital. However, these people were not in O’Connell Street at all, they were injured out at Dublin airport. Thousands of teenagers were there to welcome home Dickie Rock from the Eurovision song contest. He had come 4th, singing, ‘Come Back to Stay.’ The big crowd got so excited when Dickie stepped down from the plane that twenty teenagers were injured in the crush. Such was Dickie Rock’s appeal back then! The gardaí were present in big numbers, out at the airport. The bombers who were planning to blow up Nelson’s Pillar, knew this. They had the city to themselves.

I read a great article about Éanna Ní Lamhna. Her enthusiasm and passion for wildlife is wonderful. “You can sleep when you’re dead,” she announced, stating that she has no interest in retiring.

She had a lisp as a child. A teacher forced her, in front of all her class, to repeat a tongue-twister. No one knew a word she said. “Girls,” the teacher told the pupils, “If you don’t learn to speak properly, you’ll end up talking like her.”

Éanna wrote, in the article (still annoyed,) “The nerve of that woman. And I’m the only one in that bloody class who’s earning my living from talking.” Éanna’s voice is always instantly recognisable, with her strong Louth accent.

A teacher friend told me that they invited Éanna Ní Lamhna to their school one day. Éanna arrived at lunch time and sat with them in their staff room. The first thing she did was apologise for the fact that she had make-up on her! She told the teachers that she had come straight from RTE where she had recorded a programme. They insisted she wore make-up, which she said she hated.

Éanna then took a group of children out into the playground and lifted up a big rock. She managed to hold their full attention for ages, as she talked about all the insects and fauna under the one rock. What a woman! Éanna was into saving the planet long before it became fashionable!

I keep thinking of an article written by Sunday Times columnist, Matt Rudd. The point he made in it is so true. Matt wrote that when he was young, he and friends went inter-railing around Europe. Awful things happened to them all. They got mugged, were beaten up, broke limbs, and made many very stupid decisions. Now and then, they sent a post card home saying that they were having a great time and all was well. This is what their parents wanted to hear. He and his friends solved their own problems, survived and learnt lots from doing so successfully.

He compares this to nowadays. A friend invited Matt and others to have a meal in their house over the Christmas. They all knew that the only son of the family, Jack aged 24, had recently left for Thailand, with friends. Just as Matt and all the guests sat down to dine, a message came from Jack, in Thailand, announcing some disaster or other. The meal was forgotten and the guests were forgotten. Mummy and Daddy dashed to their laptops. They spent the rest of the evening online, booking new flights and hotels for Jack. Numerous messages flew back and forth across the thousands of miles, all night, until Jack was happy and safe again. Their guests were ignored.

This is the result of being able to be in touch, every hour of every day. And this is not always good.

Some readers’ comments. A poster advertising dances in The Crescent accompanied my article last week. It cost 7/6 to attend on Saint Stephen’s night. A man, my age, told me that this was very expensive, if you had a date. The boyfriend would have to pay 15/= to get in, and then have money to buy her ‘a bottle of minerals.’ I also note, from the poster, that it usually cost 5/= to attend a dance. The price was raised by 50% on St Stephen’s night!

I’m told that there used to be a chip-van in The Fair Green after dances. This did a roaring trade.

I actually remember having a cup of tea and a slice of jam swiss-roll with a boyfriend, sitting downstairs in The Crescent. This was before he walked me home. How quaint! Innocent times indeed!

jeanfarrell@live.ie