7
« on: Wednesday 05 December 07 20:29 GMT (UK) »
The Final Dublin Recollections. Laying the Ghosts to Rest.
Sometime in the 1960s
The street of my childhood now stood empty awaiting the demolition crew, its former inhabitants now scattered, like leaves in the wind, to the many new housing schemes in Dublin’s outer suburbs.
At that time the lure of genealogy had not yet clutched me to its bosom. That would come many years later. Yet, the urge to see my old home one last time beckoned me back to the place of my childhood. Had this street and area not played a huge part in the lives of, not just me, but my parents, grandparents and indeed great grandparents? A bright sunny day saw me walking along Mary Street clutching the hand of the fifth generation of our family, my then small son. “Mummy is going to show you where she lived when she was little just like you. “Your granny (who was alive then) also lived there as well as her mummy and daddy” I looked down at the little upturned face, its puzzled expression leaving me in no doubt that this (for me) important occasion would be lost in time for this little boy. How I wished he had been old enough to take an interest and ask questions but that was not to be. I consoled myself, ah; sure didn’t I have my camera with me? I would take pictures of the street, and of course our old house, and show them to him when he was older.. We turned the corner into the street and were met by a high steel fence strung from one side to the other preventing entry! Sadly, the demolition crew had beaten us to it. Even a glimpse beyond the fence was denied us by the wall of thick dust reminiscent of the thick smog of years ago. Undaunted, we hurried around the block arriving at the top end of the street from the Parnell Street end where I knew we would get a better view of our old house. Even before we arrived at the corner the noise of the hammering and banging left me in no doubt as to what I would find. Yet again another fence blocking our way, only this time the wall of dust was not as pronounced and I could just about see half way down the street from where we now stood. I looked to the left hoping against hope I would be in time to get one last look at my childhood tenement home but sadly all I could see was a huge pile of rubble. I could not help but think “If these stones could talk!” Like most small lads, my little boy was more interested in the workmen and their machinery to young to be aware that a part of his ancestors history was been reduced to rubble before his eyes. I took his hand and sadly walked away.
Show Posts
?? As I do not live in Ireland, it is difficult for me Thank you, Bridget x