The Reverend Dan O'Dea. Longest serving Curate in the Diocese of Killaloe.
Eventually they had to make him a Parish Priest. A beautiful Parish but
an equally poor one. His sin? Following his heart and his beliefs. Not siding
with his Bishop, when his Lordship did a U- turn in his political allegiance.
All the clergy did an about turn with their Lordship. All good "yes
men and true". Two didn't. The O'Dea brothers. John the elder and Dan.
Their reward? Banishment across the water. Curate John to the poorest parish
in the mountains of Wales. Curate Dan to the Gorbels in Glasgow. Whom did
they give their allegiance to? "That blackguard De Valera".
When the political dust of the Civil war died down they were recalled. A
succession of curacies followed for both. John eventually got a parish (a
poor one). He was a personal friend of the "blackguard". Their
friendship was based on a mutual love of the Irish language. The "blackguard"
had been in power for a number of years at that stage. John was a rather
domineering handsome man. He was kind and loved his nieces and nephews.
This is not his story. I don't have enough memories of him. This is about
Dan and Peter.
As the years rolled by, all the good "yes men and true" became
parish priests. Dan remained a curate. John died of a tragic accident. Everyone
said, "Dan will get Coolmeen". He didn't. Had to wait another
three years.
There is an old studio photograph of my four uncles. Dan is in it. He was
the second youngest. He looks the youngest. He was also very good looking.
My Mother in her typical Northern way declared-"Dan should never have
become a priest-he should have got married". That's Northerners for
you. Straight to the point. No messing. My father in sotto voce said "God
help the woman who would marry Dan". My mother didn't hear him.
Both Dan and she had common interests. Reading and music. She was a very
good pianist. Fully trained. Poor Dan never received any training. He taught
himself. Theory. The lot. He struggled. My Mother tried to help. I still
have all his music books -Beethoven, Chopin- You name them. He became a
senior curate in Corofin. What did he do? Bought himself a baby grand piano
(second hand). The curate's house in Corofin was rather grand. It had its
own grounds and garden. I've a memory of that garden. Micklo tying up runner
beans. Yes they had their own gardener. From the Drawing room, with its
big bow window wide open, the sound of a piano. Butterflies flitting around
the garden in the sunlight. The music? "The flight of the bumble bee".
1939 The Second World War broke out. Dan got his parish. Flagmount-Killanena.
With it went Peter. Flagmount -on Lough Greinne. Lough Greinne, the land
of Brian Merriman. "The Midnight Court". "Ba gna me a shiubhaille
cluais na h'abhainn, an bhainseach filuair is an druacht go throm".
A miniature Killarney up near that mysterious part of the County known as
Clare-Galway. The Slieve Aughtey Mountains. Now graced with a Telefis Eireann
transmitter. Everybody has to have a television.
No television in those days. No Electricity. Radio -dry and wet batteries
-in order to get the B.B.C. The Parochial house, overlooking the lake had
water tanks on the roof. They were filled from barrels of water drawn up
from the lake. Hand pumped to the storage tanks. There was a bathroom. Hot
water came piped from the kitchen range. More than we had at home. Drinking
and cooking water was collected by pail from a spring well by the roadside
about a hundred yards up the road. Well, I remember that well.
The house. A bungalow. Two-bed roomed. Dining room, living rooms and bathroom.
Red tiled kitchen and pantry. Large square hall. Glassed entrance porch.
Terraced front garden. Essential to every Parish Priest's house -one overgrown
Pampas grass. The view from the dining and living rooms was magnificent.
Especially in the evening as the sun set. The lake with its magic island
in the middle, in a shimmer of gold. The mountain on the far side changing
from a cobalt blue to a deep purple, as the sun slowly sank behind it. Breathtaking.
Father Dan had the right idea. Peace perfect peace. He wouldn't have exchanged
it for all the money in the world. The nearest thing to Heaven on Earth.
He didn't breed greyhounds in his curate days. Now being a Parish priest
he had no interest in whiskey. He did hold, however, that "a drop of
gin was good for your kidneys -medicinally". At this stage he was a
failed pianist. Always an optimist he knew there were other things to be
sampled in life. Apart of course from tending to his flock. This he did
with aplomb. Within a year, he was regarded with a little quizzicalness
by his parishioners, as being a bit of a saint. The ladies of the Parish
thought so anyway. For all that the men might think, they agreed with the
ladies.
His new interests were many. The old one -reading- remained. The new ones
were collecting. Art, china and glass. Also literary -writing poetry. His
local fellow Parish priests stopped calling. "There was no understanding
that man". In the collecting part he was ably assisted by Peter.
Peter. Where does one start? Official title? Parish clerk. Had lived with
his Mother and Father and his brother Mattie in their cottage on their farm
on the lakeshore. Struck out for himself as a porter in the only hotel in
Gort. Decided that was not the life for him. Came home and became Parish
clerk. Fr. Dan inherited him. It was the best thing that ever happened to
him. My Father always said so. Peter became one of my best friends.
He could turn his hand to anything. He was never afraid to try. Low sized,
thin and bespectacled, he had the wickedest grin in the world. He may have
been born, bred and reared in that mountainy parish, but you'd want to be
up early to get the better of Peter. Had a wonderful sense of humour. A
perfect foil for Fr. Dan. For fun he would become pompous. With a wry grin
Peter would prick the pomposity. Both would explode with laughter, like
two schoolboys. It was uncanny. Almost a perfect father/son relationship.
Peter's family. Mr. Conway, a true gentleman in every sense of the word.
Old world courteous and gentle. A man with the minimum of so called education.
His hobby? He had a well-thumbed complete edition of Shakespeare's plays.
Read them every night by the light of an oil lamp. Was able to quote from
the lot. Be it Corialanus or Timon of Athens. Regarded Peter with an amused
knowing look. He broke stones at the roadside to subsidise the farm.
Mrs.' Conway. There are living saints. Mother Theresa is one. Mrs. Conway
was one. I have reason to know. At the age of fourteen I got my primary
T.B. Some children get it. Get over it and never knew they had it. Later
on they have a lung X-Ray and the scar shows up. True to form that didn't
happen to me. I got thinner and thinner. Sicker and sicker. Weaker and weaker.
I was brought down to the back garden on a settle bed of some kind. I looked
up at the blue summer sky. Everything started to go black. I remember saying
to myself- "oh well! If this is dying it's not so bad". It was
so peaceful. The good Dr. Counihan (the non-child psychologist) was called
in. A shot of I don't know what brought me back to reality. No nonsense.
Fr. Dan was in the following day. "What that child needs is plenty
of fresh air". I was whipped off to Flagmount for the whole of that
summer.
Mrs. Conway became the doctor. "Just look at the poor crature, nothing
but skin and bone. He needs fattening up". Mrs. C reared many a sickly
calf. Every day she arrived at the Parochial house with her can of creamy
milk and griddle scones. Mary Warren the housekeeper regarded her with suspicion.
Mary had been Fr. John's housekeeper for years. She had a vested interest
in the O'Deas. Grim faced and given to tantrums, but with a heart of gold.
She thought that Peter and myself were up to too much "divilment".
Mrs. Conway took no notice. As a young woman she knew Fr. John well, when
he was a curate in her parish of Bodyke. She thought that the O'Deas' (especially
the two priests) something special. I was lucky to come under that aura.
I got stronger and started to put on flesh. The bicycle was brought out
from Ennis.
It was a poor parish. The people were most kind-hearted. What they couldn't
give in cash to their Parish Priest, they gave in kind. The turf shed was
never empty. There was always chicken for lunch on Sunday. Fresh free-run
eggs for breakfast every morning. I learnt a lot about true humanity and
sense of community that summer. I also learnt about humour and sadness of
a people that had little but their simple faith and a will to live. I learnt
what emigration to the U.S. meant to such a community. "Money from
America'. I also learnt something from Peter. In the face of all odds try,
try anything. Imagine trying to sell life insurance and dry battery radios
to such a community. He did -on a bicycle. I helped him. Up hill down dale.
There was a popular song then. We used to sing it as we coasted down dusty
roads. "There's no man with endurance, like the man who sells insurance".
We didn't sell many dry battery radios nor much life insurance. I was getting
stronger and stronger every
day. It was a magnificent summer. The sun obliged. I went from a ruddy
red to a freckled sort of tan.
The magic was working. The three of them, Mrs. C., Fr. Dan and Peter were
achieving what no medical doctor could do in those days. They didn't even
know what was wrong with me.
Mattie helped too. I made hay. Saved the turf and partook of hurling bouts
with the local young lads in Conway's big meadow beside the house. I may
have been the Priest's nephew, but the "pullin" was all the same.
Mattie the elder regarded Peter with the same sardonic humorous smile as
his father. They were the best of friends.
Alone I swam in the peaty waters of Lough Greine. I rowed Packie Brady's
boat out to the island. His. I listened to Packie make music with his fiddle
on his knee. I fished with him for pike. The long line with the shiny spoon
baits. Every day was a new experience. Most of all I loved to talk to Fr.
Dan. He was starved for conversation. Even that of a questioning adolescent.
He did most of the talking. I learnt of early nineteenth century Irish paintings.
Porcelain, Meissen and silver. I was shown book upon book on these subjects.
The house was full of such objects. Acquired through years of careful buying
at auctions in the "Big Houses". His enthusiasm for anything beautiful
knew no bounds. It's hard to explain how a fourteen year old felt.
I had learnt some of the early English Poets. Shakespeare, John Dune, Shirley.
"The glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things".
And a lot of others. We discussed the merits of Robert Herrick versus William
Blake "Tiger, tiger burning right". One day at lunch. We took
a walk afterwards, and came upon Mickie, the other stonebreaker. Fr. Dan
was waxing enthusiastic. "Ah Mickie, my nephew and I were just discussing
the merits of Harrick and Blake, what do you think"? Mickie pushed
his sweat-stained cap back on his head. Spat on his right hand and cracked
another flagstone. "Yerra I dunno Father, sure I'll lave it to yerselves".
Fr. Dan passed on. I don't know whether he heard the reply or not. It took
me quite a while to catch up with him.
My Mother, the pragmatist, claimed that he didn't live in this world. He
hadn't the faintest clue about money. Thrift, economy and managing on ones
resources were not within his ken. She swore that if it weren't for Peter
"God knows what would have happened to him". It was widely held
within clerical circles that the real power behind the throne was Peter.
Certainly as regards the finances of the parish. I don't know how many things
he organised. Dances (illegal) Card drives, Sports, you name it. He organised
the lot with the aid of willing committees. "We must all help out the
poor man". Dan was the Father figurehead. He was revered by the whole
parish. You could say spoiled. They were that kind of people.
The illegal dances. The Sergeant in the "next parish knew all about
them. He knew Fr. O'Dea well, and indeed all the O'Dea brothers. Why wouldn't
he? He came from Quin. The schoolhouse was the venue. He came out himself
to inspect the premises. Satisfied that there were sufficient fire exits,
he gave Peter the nod. There was one stipulation.
I can still see it. A hot Saturday Summers afternoon. The blue figure in
the distance toiling up the mountainy road on his big upright bicycle. Collar
of his tunic undone. Red of face from cycling six miles uphill from Feakle.
In the cool tiled kitchen. Slumped in the kitchen chair. Mopping the perspiration
from his face and neck. "Peter, the Sergeant said to tell you that
we'll be raiding the school tomorrow night at one 0' clock in the morning".
"Don't forget now like a good man, everybody out promptly at midnight".
Assurances given. Two bottles of stout produced and washed down with gusto.
Up on the big upright bicycle. Happily free- wheeling the six miles down
to Feakle. Job done. That was the way to administer "The Law".
What were the dances? Set dances. Music supplied by Packie on his fiddle.
With push button accordion by Mickie Kane. No drums.
The annual Flagmount sports were held in Francie O'Mearas field. It was
opposite the Parochial house and sloped down towards the lake. Most of the
fields sloped down towards the lake. Again we had a committee but Peter
was the chief bottle washer. I was appointed commentator. Peter with his
usual efficiency erected a squeaky squawky Tannoy system on poles around
the field. A platform was erected for the commentator, so that he could
see down the field. Especially where it sloped. Peter was an ambitious sports
meeting organiser. Along with all the usual events, running, jumping high
and low, pole vaulting and weight throwing we had cycle racing. He believed
in giving the punter value for his money. There were the usual stalls selling
lemonade, biscuits and sweets.
It was a tough job being a comentator. I had the official programme with
all the events and competitors. Like all these events things got a bit jumbled.
It didn't really matter though. . The slope in the field helped. One thing
did matter. Below that slope some spectators were partisan. They would invade
the field to hassle their favourites rivals. Apart from trying to give a
clear commentary, I was continually appealing to the authorities. "Would
the stewards please clear the field". Fr. Dan who had been talking
to the ladies of the committee went down to investigate. He came back boiling
and became pompous. He berated the Organiser and the Commentator. "It
was disgraceful". Marched back to the ladies and his cup of tea. Peter
looked at me. I looked at him. "Oh dear" I said, "we seemed
to have ruffled Claude's feathers". That's what we called him when
he became pompous. Peter chuckled. That night we counted the takings and
showed them to Fr. Dan. He was delighted. "Both of you did a great
job". "Sorry about the crowds Father". "The what"?
Then a grin. "What did that nephew of mine say to you when I left"?
Peter told him. The three of us exploded in laughter.
It was like that with the man. He may have been "His Reverence"
but there was a total irreverence about him. You'd never know what he'd
say next. Years later Peter decided the house needed a pet. Mary Warren
was long since dead. In her time there would never have been such a thing.
A pet in the Parochial House. Indeed. Peter got a budgie. Light blue. He
couldn't think of a name for it. Fr. Dan did. "How about B. V. -Eh"?
"B. V. -Blessed Virgin". B. V. it became. Was rarely in its in
its cage. Only at meal times. The rest of the time it spent flitting from
open room to open room. Twittering happily. Tired, it settled contentedly
on Fr. Dan's shoulder as he read his books on Porcelain and Silver. He talked
to B. V. pointing out the various illustrations of Meissen and the divil
knows what. B. V. whistled appreciatively.
John wrote poetry (in the old style) for the Diocesan Magazine -Muluagh.
Not exactly Wordsworth. Fr. Dan decided on free verse. The slim volume published
at his own expense, was called "The Quiet Way". A nice title.
The poems completely unintelligible. My Father was stuck for words. The
first time in his life. My Mother just snorted. Poor Peter had it hardest
of all. Luckily I was in Dublin. He didn't sell any. St. Anthony's got four
copies. Various clerical "friends", who knew more about horses
and greyhounds received complimentary copies. Solidifying their concept
of "the man". Eventually I got a copy. I showed it to a friend
of mine in the Civil Service. Dominic wrote poetry, which was published.
Yes, there were poets in the Civil Service. These were true Civil Servants
not "Snivel Servants". See my treatise on the two. Dominic read
one or two including the eulogy on Churchill. His eyes blinked. He handed
me back the slim volume. He said nothing. He was a very polite man. No money
was made on the project. Fr. Dan wrote no more poetry.
Peter decided that there was money to be made in photography. Did Peter
know anything about photography? He did not. Did it stop him? It did not.
Like brother Mattie, who wired the old house when rural electrification
finally came. Both learned from books.
A digression. I had a friend who was a friend of my brother-in-law. Both
his friend and I worked for the E.S.B. Paddy decided to do his B.A. and
B.Comm. at night in Trinity. He had to do his "Littlego". They
stood around in a circle. The examiner examined Paddy in Physics. "Very
good" he said. "You must have done a lot of Physics in school".
"There was no Physics in our school," said Paddy. "Oh indeed"
said the examiner "and where did you learn your Physics"? "From
a book" said Paddy. "Who wrote the book? "I don't remember".
Paddy passed his "Littlego" with flying colours. Books are marvellous
things.
Peter became' a Photographer with a very imposing second hand camera. His
speciality? Wedding photographs. It worked. Albums of wedding photographs.
He became well known far and wide and was very much in demand. He abandoned
life insurance and dry battery radios. He was a full time photographer.
He did not neglect his duties of running the finances of the Parish. He
organised a "friendly" seven-a-side hurling match. It was held
in a sloping field halfway between the two Parishes. Fr. Dan thought it
was a splendid idea. "Nothing like a little friendly rivalry between
the two Parishes". Hurling -according to him -dating back to the time
of Cu Chullain -showed the grace and beauty of the Celtic race. I don't
believe Dan ever held a hurley in hands.
I was designated to bring him to the "Match". Warnings were issued
"to stay up at the top of the field. Well away from the dip".
The field was marked out. No stand. No seats. Fr. Dan didn't mind. He stood
at the top of the field with his nephew. Most of the spectators (male) went
below the dip. He warbled on about Cu Chullain, the Fianna and hurling.
It's the only time I wished that my uncle were not there. I'd have been
below the dip.
Flagmount were defending the lower half of the field. The ball seldom came
over the dip. After half time they defended the top half. Again the ball
seldom came over the dip. I did notice that there were a number of new faces
on both sides. Subs? There certainly seemed to be a lot of excitement on
the lower half of the field. The match ended. There was no presentation
to the winners. Whoever they were. This was a "friendly" seven-a-side.
Peter brought Fr. Dan home, still waxing lyrically on the grace and beauty
of hurling. I stayed on. In the setting sun, the hay dray carrying the Feakle
side set off downhill. Bloody bandaged heads abounded. Cu Chullain.
Fr. Dan became more immersed in his antiques. Everyone was happy. B. V.
flew from room to room chirping happily. Bishop Michael made his annual
visit. Followed by his red faced entourage of ' 'yes men". Fr. Dan
regaled them royally. The Spode dinner service was brought out and dusted.
The company had their wines and spirits. The flush-faced entourage said,
"Dan kept a good table". Michael, the Bishop slept in "The
Bishops Room".
We were married three and a half years. Still no sign. Da died despairing.
Giving me that queer look. We went on holidays to Clare and were invited
out to Flagmount. I told Rita what it was like on a Sunday. Both sides of
the road from the church up to the parochial house, lined with traps and
horse and carts. We looked out that Sunday. Both sides of the road lined
with cars. Time had moved on -and so had Flagmount. We slept in "The
Bishops Room". Nine months later it happened. Peter maintained, "It
was the Bishops bed"."Rubbish" I told him. It had to do with
the magic of the Merriman country. "The Midnight Court" Peter
scratched his head "Court" he said. "Peter" I said "how
do we pronounce court ~ in Clare"? The light shone through. "Ah
yes now I see -"The Midnight Coort". "I dunno though, Bishop
Michael mightn't like that" 'Divine intervention'. "Would you
get away out o' that" I said.
Fr. Dan rarely came to Dublin. When he did he always brought me, a student
to Mitchell's Cafe in Grafton Street for afternoon tea. It's long since
gone. In its place is a McDonalds. People with money went to Mitchell's
for afternoon tea. It was the place to be seen. That did not stop Fr. Dan:
Mitchell's cakes -rich and filling. Mitchell's cakes filled the void of
digs grub. Afterwards we would stroll down Bachelors Walk perusing books
in the barrows and bookshops. I remember once, Dan bought a book in a barrow.
He claimed it was quite rare. He got it for next to nothing. It had to do
with the translation of something Latin or other. He became quite excited.
On our way back to his hotel -The Four Courts -he was accosted by a beggar.
Dan let him into the secret of his purchase. Your man backed off with an
apprehensive air. A half a crown was handed over. More than he paid for
the book. "God bless you, God bless you Father". A touch of the
forelock. One last bewildered look and he vanished in the crowds. That was
Fr. Dan. Everyone lived in his world.
Something went out of my life when they died. A sense of innocent fun was
lost. The magic was gone. Tir n'Og had vanished over the purple mountain.
Because of their sense of humour, I know they'd hate me to end on a sombre
note. Through Fr. Dan, Peter became an antique collector. What his nephew
wouldn't learn, Peter did. When he died Fr. Dan left the lot to Peter. Quite
rightly. My Father saw to that.
Everyone has his or her own conception of what it's like in the great beyond.
For both of them - whom I loved so much -it is this. There is this "Great
Antique Shop in the Sky". Proprietors -Messrs. Dan and Peter. A bluebird
chirping flies happily around the shop every day. They wouldn't part with
one of their precious antiques for all the money in the Cosmos.
