The ballroom swayed to the sound of Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey. From the balcony, the colours and glitter were mesmerising. Bodies moved back and forth, arms in the air, legs going in all directions. Smiling faces as they twirled, others close together to the sound of Moonlight Serenade, oblivious of people around them. Jack had them eating out of his hand.
Bealtaine Festival
Bealtaine Festival
Celebrating Creativity as we Age
I Remember, I Remember ………
In May of this year, I joined a class at the local Library for a six week session. I didn’t know what to expect, except that the purpose was to recall early memories of childhood, good, bad or indifferent. Our local Library is very diverse. Naturally, there are books for every age group, for small children up to pensioners and every subject you could think of. I think the staff have been the same since my children were small. One of the interesting things I’ve noticed, is that groups of people meet at the library. There are different areas where you can see people studying or groups sitting around talking quietly. Exhibitions are often held there. I was part of one this year where our framed posters of stories and poetry were exhibited.
Our first session with Brigid, our teacher/facilitator, was getting to know the group, which numbered about nine, mostly women and one man. Brigid brought along some items to engage our senses and memory. There were some wild flowers, a bar of carbolic soap, a Dinky car, some old “Secret Seven” children’s books by Enid Blyton, and a few other things. When I saw the soap, I immediately thought of Life Buoy soap, the big bars of red soap that my mother hand washed the clothes with years ago. The Dinky toy and the children’s books certainly evoked memories of my childhood. My mum actually worked for a while in the factory in London where they made the Dinky toys!
Each week Brigid brought along something new to get our thoughts flowing. We wrote what we were thinking, and we took turns reading out our memories. It was fascinating to hear how parents had met, what the husband did for a living (women rarely worked outside the home in those days). There were heart-warming stories about family holidays and recollections of different things that happened during the family’s early years. One lady who grew up in Birmingham, remembers the bombing during the Second World War.
One week we were asked to draw a map showing where the house we were born in was. That was a bit daunting for most of us. It was one thing talking about early memories and writing about them. Drawing was entirely different. The week after we were asked to draw the first house we lived in. That was easy enough, though my family standing outside the house looked like matchstick men. (When my son called in that evening and saw the drawing on the worktop he said “Did Beth do that?” Beth is my six year old granddaughter!) I really laughed!
On our last session, Brigid brought along blocks of wood for us to paint with acrylic paint. This was the real deal! I was getting a bit nervous at this stage about expectations. Brigid did a quick painting to show us what we could do. The only stipulation was that we had to paint something we remembered as a child. A few people did memories of the seaside, caravan holidays, one abstract, one of a house that had been bombed in a row of houses during the war. Mine was of a neighbour, Mrs. Doyle, who lived opposite us when we lived in Ireland, standing at the door of her cottage. My memory was of the beautiful scarlet rhododendron bush in her front garden.
During our sessions, the lovely people in the Library supplied us with tea, coffee and biscuits. Brigid varnished each of our paintings, and they were hung in the Library for a few weeks. Some of us typed a little piece explaining what the picture was about. Carmen Cullen, Writer, (a friend and neighbour also), opened the proceedings for us, and did a wonderful introduction.
It was a most enjoyable exercise and none of us thought at the beginning that we could produce something worth hanging in the Library. Brigid organised an evening to launch our paintings. She brought along bottles of wine and a jug of the most refreshing drink I have ever tasted, made from sparkling water, orange juice, crushed strawberries and pieces of orange. Gorgeous. What a wonderful six sessions we had from the start, and our thanks to Brigid for the experience. I was delighted one of my daughters, Andrea, and son Dylan came along for the launch. They said they really enjoyed it, and the paintings weren’t too bad either!
Write or Wrong
Iarnrod Eireann has come together with Little Bray Writers group to support a poster exhibition by writers from the Little Bray Family Resource and Development Centre at Bray DART Station. Part of the exhibition is work by former Minister Liz McManus, who is also a member of the group.
The campaign is called ‘Bray Now and Then: Building Community Expression through creative writing’. The group of nine have have a six month residency at Bray Dart Station, where they are getting the opportunity to display short stories, poems, memories and flights of fancy on their Bray enviornment.
Iarnrod Eireann has erected the poster sites specifically to give different groups the opportunity to display their work to commuters who travel through Bray Station and beyond.
Boyne Berries 17 Launch – Spring 2015
I had been invited to the launch of Boyne Berries 17 magazine, in Trim, Co. Meath. The date was Thursday, 16th March 2015. Last summer, and to my amazement, my story “Play it Again Sam” had been selected to be included in the Spring edition of the magazine. I had been asked to read my story at the launch.
When I first got the e-mail to tell me that my story had been chosen, I thought I was seeing things. I could not believe it. But I was thrilled also. When the time of the launch drew near, my son Dylan said he would drive me down toTrim, and my daughter Natalia said she would come too. They both had a long day at work. Dylan and myself left Bray, and drove over to Ballinteer to pick up Natalia, who drove the rest of the way in her car. It was busy on the motorway. People were heading home so the traffic was slow in parts. On the outskirts of Trim, one of the roundabouts had a monk ringing a bell in the middle of it (a stone replica of course). There were a few ruins of castles on the outskirts. It looked a pretty town. We eventually found the Castle Arch Hotel, with an hour to spare. Natalia and Dylan were starving, so we had time to relax and have a meal in the hotel.
The launch was due to start at 8 pm. We walked up the stairs, arrows directing us to the function room where people were already taking their seats. The proceedings were introduced by the young lady whom I had been in touch with by e-mail, Orla Fay, the Editor of Boyne Berries magazine, 16 and 17. (It is in book form more than a magazine). There was no microphone, so you had to project your voice as best you could. I’m not sure how many people were there, but the seats were three-quarters full. Above us were the most beautiful chandeliers, befitting the rest of the room. It was an old hotel, very elegant and efficient.
The entries consisted of poems, fiction and prose. Each person was introduced by Orla, with a little biography, then they took the podium to read their piece. Initially I was a little nervous but not as bad as I had been in the days before. Eventually my turn came. The fiction and prose were towards the end of the proceedings, after the poetry. There were people from all around Ireland, some from America, Canada and New Zealand, Europe and the UK. One lady originally from Dundalk but now living in Arizona introduced the proceedings. Another lady from the USA sent an audio message as she could not attend. The man who came from New Zealand (or was it Australia), said, jokingly, he wished he had thought of that, it would have saved him the journey to Ireland! We were all invited to have tea and biscuits after. It finished about 11.30 pm. Then we had to make tracks to drop Natalia home and get back to Bray and Greystones, where Dylan lives.
It was a privilege to be part of this launch. I was amazed at the achievements of most of the writers and delighted and grateful that my daughter and son made it possible to be there.
Partings
They had all arrived for their father’s funeral, from all the far flung countries that our young people go to find work.
The house had been full, even joyful. Stories of their childhood, of their happy home had been told, and different versions of events.
She stood at the gate, watching Dennis, the last of her family to leave, getting into the taxi. She expected to see his hand waving to her from the rear window, like when he was a child. She waved until he was out of sight. The taxi turned the corner, and he was gone.
She sat in her chair, looking out through the French doors, as the early afternoon sun moved up the garden. In her mind, she saw him at the airport. She stood at the large windows as he boarded the plane. She could see him putting his hand luggage above his seat, and imagined tears in his eyes.
She didn’t know how long it would be until she saw any of them again.
Josephine Nolan
What Could Have Happened?
It was getting late. She said eight o’clock. She was always so punctual. I checked the phone but there was no text message. My feet were stuck to the spot with the cold. A few more busses went past, and I decided to get on.
Maybe she couldn’t get a babysitter. Maybe she ran out of credit. I was starting to worry now. Things at home had been turbulent for her these past months.
Sitting on the bus, my mind spun from one scenario to another. It was too late and too far to call to her house. I had a very bad feeling this time.
Walking Home Alone
It’s late October, near midnight. The rain is teaming down. The raindrops look like tiny diamonds under the light of the street lamps. I leave the brightness of the main street, and enter the long quiet road towards where I live. There’s a park on the left hand side, running the full length of the road. It’s a blanket of eerie darkness. I cross the road to where the houses are. I notice which house’s still have lights on.
My footsteps seem to echo in the darkness. I wish I had worn soft shoes. Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me. As I pass the next lamp post, I notice a second reflection behind my own. My heart is pounding. The rain is getting heavier, forming great puddles at the side of the road, drains blocked by leaves. I wish I had an umbrella in my bag. I could use it to defend myself. There are still a few blocks to go, but the footsteps continued behind me. The next turning is where I live. He might walk straight on. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t bear it. I take the key out of my pocket, and turn right, into my road of terraced houses. No front gardens. I pretend to open the door of the third house hoping they pass. A man’s voice from behind me says “I think you have the wrong house”.
What are the chances? I put the key back into my pocket and walk as fast as I can until I reach my house, hardly breathing.
Josephine Nolan
A Sports Car, a Dare, and an Obnoxious Ex-girlfriend
They were like chalk and cheese. Paul met Jackie at a music festival. He and his pals were squelching around in the muck when she slipped in front of them and he came to her rescue. His friends stood by laughing. There she was, her black hair in a ponytail, wearing a yellow mini skirt skin tight top and yellow wellies to match, when suddenly she slipped and fell spread-eagled in the dirt. Paul stretched out his hand to help her up. “I can manage” she said with a look of disgust on her face. She couldn’t get her balance, and eventually but unwillingly took his hand. He wiped his own hands in his jeans, and picked up her handbag. As she fumbled around for tissues, getting more dirt on herself from her bag, he handed her his handkerchief. She looked a sorry sight. The lads fell silent but kept their distance. “What are you lot looking at?” she yelled at them. Paul still wanted to help and offered to buy her a drink. “I can’t go anywhere looking like this” she said, like it was his fault, and stormed off.
Along the Coast from Bray
It was a warm summer’s morning. The wooden benches, now replaced by metal seats at Bray railway station, felt cold as I waited for the DART. I glanced across the platform. Many mosaics depicting people since the opening of the Bray station in 1854 were displayed along the wall, including one of William Dargan, the railway engineer. There were also a few present day billboards. Soon the sound of the gates closing off the road at the railway crossing signalled the train’s arrival.
Bray – 50 Years On
The 2008 downturn in the economy seems a long time ago. By 2014 Bray Council was re-located to Wicklow. The beautiful summers of 2013 and 2014 saw the country coming out of its worst economic down-turn, thanks mainly to inept government intervention, greedy developers and bad planning laws. The banks were the biggest culprits, responsible for ridiculous lending and corruption. A few years later, the Flood Improvement Scheme had finally been completed after many delays. The people of Little Bray felt secure from the angry waters that had invaded their homes for so long.
josephine nolan 