This old mind of mine reminds me of a volcano, sometimes latent, yet other time erupting like Mount Etna! Like lava, the memories come pouring out hitting objects along life’s way thus evoking particular memories of events, places and times in no particular order! Strange, how something as insignificant as a song, playing in the car as you drive along or even as background music in the supermarket, can, in one moment cause a tiny rip in the fabric of time allowing a glimpse into a past memory long since forgotten. It so happened I was selecting some fruit at our local supermarket when over the Tanoy came the strains of the song “Begin the Beguine”. I, and indeed all our family members associate this song with my late mum’s brother Paddy. Although a quiet man who did not have a lot to say, when he did speak he was possessed of a most wonderful dry wit. While all around him were doubled over laughing, he would sit there, a face like granite and not a smile. He had the most amazing singing voice and was never happier than when at a party to sing all night without prompting. I recall one occasion when we had all returned to Ireland for a family funeral. Later, at a gathering in the local bar male family members each paid for the “rounds” When it was Paddy’s round he gave the waiter the order but on receiving the bill his face visibly paled as he squinted at the bill total, (drinks are a lot more expensive in Dublin although you get a much larger measure) Reaching into his inside pocket, he withdrew not his wallet but his O.A. pension book and throwing it on the table proclaimed to the astonished waiter “You robbing ba----ds, take this and cash in next weeks pension while you are at it, that should cover this bill!! Luckily, this type of wit was acceptable in the Dublin of my youth! One of my earliest memories of uncle Paddy again revolves around death. As stated in an earlier story, my mum was the one called upon to wash and lay out the bodies of people who had died in our street. In those far off days there were no fancy undertakers or funeral parlours and even had those services been available we, and our neighbors would have been too poor to take advantage of them. Mr. Sullivan, a wonderful kind old gentleman who lived in the basement of our house, died. Having lost his wife some years earlier he lived alone and had no family or relations. Mum had “adopted” him and as well as doing his washing and shopping made sure he had a hot meal each day. As Mr. Sullivan was of the protestant faith, (the only one in our street) mum went and fetched the vicar. He assured mum he would make all the funeral arrangements and mum offered to wash and lay the old man out. The vicar duly arrived next day with the most elaborate white shroud with the front embedded with small seed pearls and lace! Mum had never seen anything like it. We had only ever seen the plain brown shroud with the I.H.S. emblazoned on the breast. She set to and washed the old chap but when it came to putting on the shroud discovered the arms would have to be “threaded” through the front as the ties were at the back! A tiny lady, mum was having great difficulty trying to support the body while trying to tie the back ribbons. Gently laying him down she went to the door and shouted upstairs for uncle Paddy to come and help. “What do you want me for? I am not going down there” he answered. “Come down here you coward, poor old Mr. Sullivan can’t harm you, he’s dead “ After much persuasion, and with hesitant footsteps, uncle Paddy arrived in the basement. “Now this is what I want you to do Paddy, you lift and hold the body up while I get the shroud on and tie up the back” said mum. A very reluctant Paddy did as he was told pulling Mr. Sullivan up by the arms thus enabling mum to fit the fancy shroud. All that was left to do was tie the back ribbons
