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  As the hours went by, memories of my father seeped into my mind. Every spring he climbed the steep hill to the Brake Field with his workhorses, Paddy and James. After a winter of relaxation they were full of restless energy and eager to get going. My father wore strong, heavy, leather hobnailed boots, with thick leather soles reinforced by studs and iron clips. They were laced well above his ankles beneath warm wool trousers, and the boots were further extended by a pair of waterproof gaiters that wrapped around his trouser legs and came down over the tops of the boots. Ploughing could be a muddy job.

  Inside the gap in the field he pulled the plough out of the ditch where it had rested since the previous year. A plough was a very simple piece of machinery requiring little maintenance except oiling and a quick tightening of joints. This was the implement that connected my father to the earth that was the first step in giving us our daily bread.

  Once Paddy and James were hitched to the plough, man and horse balanced themselves in harmony and the first sod was cut by the nose of the plough right up through the middle of the field. As the belly of the dark brown earth fell over, it formed a rich contrast to the vivid green of the spring field. Slowly, my father and his horses worked up and down the long, high field and the opening sod formed a brown ruff along the furrow. As they continued up and down the field, the ruff grew wider. My father angled the plough to achieve a balanced ruff, making sure that each sod rested evenly beside its companion. Along the top of the dark brown earth, long worms squirmed for shelter as crows swooped behind the plough. This was gourmet dining for them! All day the work continued to the background music of cawing crows, the occasional mooing of cows on the hill across the river and the braying of Bill’s donkey in the valley below.

  Late in the afternoon I came with an enamel jug of tea that had thick slices of buttered brown bread resting across the top. After the climb up the hilly fields I stood at the gap to rest and view the scene. Dusk had softened the field into muted shades of browns and greys, and man and horses were silhouetted against the darkening sky. The crows, cows and donkey had all gone home. Silence prevailed. I sensed a sacred scene. Before me, God, man and nature were blended into one.

  I walked slowly across the crumbling clods, breathing in the rich, moist smell of newly turned earth until I reached the headland beside my father and the horses. He joined me on the grass verge, and, as the released horses grazed along the headland, my father sat on an abandoned rolling stone, to be used later to level the field, drank from the enamel jug of tea and savoured my mother’s brown bread. He looked down over the shadowing fields and observed changes in the landscape, and he examined the darkening sky forecasting tomorrow’s weather. There was about him a different aura. He was by nature an impatient, quick-thinking man, but after hours out in the field ploughing, he seemed to evolve into a kind of meditative monk. I found the profound change deeply moving. Something in my father at this time gave me a new appreciation of the inner man who was often stifled beneath the hardship of eking out a living on a hilly farm on the Cork–Kerry border, where often money was scarce and life hard and demanding. But beneath all the hardship a quiet poet of a man sheltered.

  As I waited for my father to finish ploughing, I walked along by the ditch and searched for shamrock, as he’d instructed, but in the dusk it was difficult to differentiate between shamrock and clover. At this time of year, my father was always on the lookout for good bunches of shamrock to be picked and posted to America. They were dispatched in small green boxes bearing an image of St Patrick and the emblem of the shamrock, and probably arrived at their destinations a bit battered by the journey. But for the emigrants they were a precious little bit of home. My father and mother never forgot the people who had emigrated.

  When it was too dark to continue the work, he slipped the chains off the horses, who shook themselves free and trotted home beside us with their draped traces clinking against their wide leather collars. My father’s boots and gaiters were covered up to his knees with heavy, caked mud, and as he walked along he left clods on the field behind him. At the gap he used the high grass to rid himself of some of the mud. Back in the yard the horses’ legs were brushed clean, and they were led to the spout at the bottom of the yard where I was always amazed by the amount of water they could suck up in one giant slug. Then they were led into the stable where they sank their heads into a manger of mangels and sweet-smelling hay. They had earned their reward.

  Weeks later, Paddy, James and my father returned to the Brake Field to harrow the sods that by then the frost had crumbled and rendered more pliable. The harrow, like a giant centipede of many claws, scrambled the sods into a soft sea of earth.

  Then my father waited for a bright spring day when he brought the corn drill into action. For most of the year, this complex bit of machinery sheltered safely in a dusty farm shed where it lay shrouded in cobwebs. Now it came into its own. It was a long, narrow, wooden box about two foot deep and six foot long, the length of a prone man. When lifted up, the hinged cover revealed a row of holes along the base from where flexible funnels carried the seed down narrow tubes into the earth. To the front was one long, narrow shaft, and the two horses were tackled on either side. They drew the corn drill to the prepared field where my father had bags of wheat, oats and barley seeds in readiness. The drill cover was raised, a full bag of seed was poured in, and the horses were guided carefully up and down the field. My father walked along behind the drill and controlled the rate of grain flowing into the soft earth with a little lever. By evening, the Brake Field was pregnant with seed. Then the rolling stone emerged from the ditch, and Paddy was back in action on his own, as this was a one-horse job. The rolling stone was the length of Mick Jagger, and the whole field was rolled over till it was flat and even. Sometimes, in order to deter the crows from helping themselves, scarecrows were erected around the field, though I felt that the crows were not often convinced by that.

  Man and horse had completed their task. Now it was up to God and nature.

  Oh brown ploughed field

  What an ancient skill

  Is in your turned sod,

  A skill inherited

  By generations of earthy men.

  You cover the hillside

  In a cloak of brown velvet;

  What a richness is yours.

  You are an open book

  Yet to be written;

  The virginity of the upturned sod

  Waiting to be fertilised

  By the hands of man

  And nurtured by the warmth of nature.

  Within a few weeks, the wonder of green shoots began to spread across the wide field, and as they emerged a light run-over with the rolling stone fortified them against crows. Slowly the varying shades of the different crops turned the Brake Field into a patchwork quilt. Beyond the grain were long drills of potatoes, cabbage, turnips and mangels that we children, wearing hemp bags as knee protectors, had helped to plant into little beds of farmyard manure that had been drawn by Paddy and James in a timber butt to the fields. The Brake Field was our food cupboard for the coming year.

  The wheat would go to the mills to be ground into flour to give us our daily bread, the oats crushed for the animals and the barley sold to the brewery for stronger potions. The potatoes, turnips and cabbage found their way onto our table, and the mangels sustained the horses. On Rogation Days, which were spring days of requesting the Lord to take care of our crops, my parents went to the Brake Field and blessed it with holy water.

  Now, many years later, as I garden in my own little corner of the earth, I am grateful to my father for those days of ploughing when I caught a glimpse of the man who found God and tranquillity out in the fields. He opened a gate into a world for which I will be forever grateful.

  Chapter 6

  The Colour of Memory

  As I went in the door of the exclusive boutique, it immediately caught my eye. The rich red of the hawthorn berry, edged in bronze with the amber tones of an autumnal br
anch, drew me like a magnet. It was love at first sight. It whirled me back to a riverside meadow, a meadow surrounded by a russet hawthorn hedge. The hedge was laden with rich red haws, ripe for picking. Their colour proclaimed their ripeness and they parted easily from the russet branch. My father first rolled them in his farm-mellowed hand then declared them edible. That childhood picture must have been unconsciously stored in a locked drawer at the back of my mind. The sight of the red scarf shot the drawer wide open and the picture danced out. It framed a meadow, my father and the haws. The deep rich colour of the scarf spun the haws around the boutique in a flush of warm welcome.

  I had come into the shop to buy a jacket, but the scarf wiped the jacket clean out of my mind. I approached it in awe and gingerly ran my fingers along its downy softness. It felt just like the ceannabhán that wafts in soft puffs across the heather of the bog, the stuff that dreams are made of. This scarf was destined for me. I did, however, gasp a little – well, maybe more than a little – when I saw the price tag. But what price dreams? The scarf was my warm past, my delighted present and my enriched future. You cannot quantify that in monetary terms. Can you?

  Decision made, I turned my attention to the jacket, and, by one of those unbelievable chances that can sometimes happen when out shopping, the perfect jacket to match the scarf was on the rail. This was my day! The special occasion up ahead was getting brighter by the minute. However, a suitable blouse or some kind of a top was also needed to go inside the jacket. Unfortunately there was none that hit the spot in my classy boutique or in any other shops in our town. A trip to the big smoke would be necessary.

  I brought home my purchases with a triumphant glow. Now, as all women know, when you go on a shopping spree its success is not one hundred percent confirmed until you come back home and parade the purchases in front of your own mirror. I had no question mark over the scarf, but I needed to see the jacket on home turf. It passed the winning post with flying colours, showing off the scarf in triumph.

  A few days at home were required to recover after my big spend. During those days I often took the time to feel the beautiful texture of my lovely new scarf, admire its spirit-enriching colour and simply wallow in its beauty. My mother had loved beautiful materials, and it was always a joy to watch her appreciate the texture and weave of a good fabric. She would have loved this scarf – but she would probably have got a heart attack at the price! But for me to have my father and mother remembered in one scarf was just amazing.

  Then, bright and early one morning, when my scarf was just four days old, I boarded the bus to Cork. My scarf was on its first outing. I was wearing it to act as a colour guide for the required top to match the new jacket. I did the rounds of many shops, good, bad and indifferent, but there was no colour match for my scarf. Finally, my decision-making capabilities collapsed, and, in need of sustenance, I retired to a city-centre restaurant to water the horses and restore my equilibrium. This restaurant was a cathedral of gourmet food. I was feeling self-indulgent. After all, I was mentally dancing in a wildflower meadow full of glowing poppies and rich red haws. This was a day for taking time to smell the roses! In my restful restaurant, I savoured a feast of cholesterol-enriching dishes. I ate well, but not wisely. In the throes of this satisfying of the senses I found it desirable to remove my jacket and in the process readjusted my beloved scarf around my neck. Repast complete, I donned my jacket and left the restaurant.

  Back on the street, I realised instantly and to my absolute horror that I was without my scarf! It must have slipped off when I was putting on my jacket. I rushed back into the restaurant, glad to have realised so quickly that the scarf was missing and expecting to see it strewn across the table or piled up on the floor. There was no trace of it. I looked around in alarm. Where could it possibly have gone in such a short time? The diners at the next table had their backs to my table and were totally engrossed in their conversation.

  Then inspiration struck – the waitress must have picked it up and put it safely aside under the desk awaiting my return. My panic subsided. I sought out the waitress who had served me, confident that she had the solution to my problem. She looked at me blankly. Was I sure that I had a scarf? Her reaction set me back: she simply could not but have noticed that scarf. Her next question! Could I have dropped it in the street outside? I quickly realised that I was on a boat to nowhere. I left my name and phone number in case it was handed in but sensed that I was in a no-win saloon.

  My sunny day suddenly turned grey. My glowing poppies wilted and my plump, scarlet haws shrank. The city streets were no longer warm and inviting. It was time to go home. I needed the comfort of my own place. I knew that my beloved scarf had been in that restaurant when I left, so somebody must have simply picked it up and pocketed it. Such happenings, I know, are probably a regular occurrence, but when they happen to you they break your trust in the goodness of your fellow human beings.

  With no further desire to shop, I trudged to the bus and arrived home in a deflated state. I put on the kettle and made tea and toast. I did not need tea and toast, but the ritual of tea-making is soothing for a bruised spirit, and warm toast and honey has always been my comfort food. I rang the restaurant to be told sharply that I must have lost my scarf in the street outside because if it had fallen in the restaurant none of their clientele would have touched it. They were not that kind of people! I felt intimidated by the strident tone and decided that was that, there was no more to be done. I had to accept my beating. That’s the way life is.

  The following day dawned bright and beautiful. It was one of those golden autumn days that God sends to get us through winter. Re-energised, I rang my boutique to be told that, yes, they had another scarf in stock. My mother would definitely have died of a heart attack at the price of two such scarves – but, then, she and my father were totally responsible for my mad love affair with the scarf, weren’t they?

  This scarf is a summer meadow, a glowing russet hedge, a warm brown hand full of red ripe haws and my mother’s small, delicate, work-worn hand lovingly savouring the delights of richly woven autumn tweeds. Such a scarf is priceless!

  And when I went back to the boutique to collect my gorgeous replacement scarf, an unexpected surprise awaited me: my daughter had already been there and had paid for it! Faith in my fellow human beings was restored. That lovely gesture made the scarf even more valuable.

  Chapter 7

  Johnny’s Skip

  A few days ago when I came out my side door, Johnny, who lives across the road, had a skip outside his gate. In our family, we have an old ‘skip’ photo that makes us all smile: it is a picture that I took many years ago of my long-suffering husband, Gabriel, in the depths of a skip trying to redeem items that I had thrown in. It was taken during a period when I was making one of my many feeble efforts to declutter our house. Back then, I could never see myself actually taking things out of a skip. But skips can be fascinating places, I must admit. Johnny was looking into his skip, surveying its contents, when I joined him.

  ‘What are you clearing out now?’ I enquired, as Johnny is constantly clearing and rebuilding on his premises behind his pub. ‘There’s a beautician moving in upstairs,’ he told me, pointing to the top windows of his house above the hairdresser’s. ‘Great,’ I told him, ‘a beautician will be good for the village.’ Good for me, too, I decided privately, as I am now of an age when continuing repairs and maintenance are necessary.

  Then something in the skip caught my eye. ‘Johnny, why are you throwing out those fine earthenware flowerpots?’ I protested. ‘Take them if you want to,’ he told me, grinning at my foolishness. ‘And anything else you’d fancy as well. Or if you need to get rid of anything, now is your time. Throw it in there. This skip will be here until Tuesday.’

  Johnny disappeared, and I helped myself to the pots. I continued to inspect the skip. It is very interesting to look in and see what people throw into skips. In here was a couch that to me looked perfectly usable, and I thought wha
t a shame to throw that out; there were also quite a few small cabinets that looked in good condition. Alice, go in home now and mind your own business, I told myself firmly, you already have enough rubbish in your house.

  Still, I kept my eye on the skip. Surely somebody would retrieve that couch? Covered in soft, pink, crushed velvet, it seemed to invite conversation and relaxation. But the couch remained there one whole day, with one arm hoisted forlornly to the sky. Before going to bed that night, I looked out my bedroom window which overlooks Johnny’s back gate and regretted that the couch was still there. Hopefully it would not rain overnight and ruin it. When I got up the following morning, I forgot to look out the window and check on the couch, but when I came out my door I was delighted to see that it was gone. Good for you, I thought, imagining the lucky new owner. That was a great find and to get it for nothing was jam – and jam up on it. Then I began to wonder about the rest of the contents. The cabinets? Surely someone could find a use for them. They remained for another two days. Then, finally, they too disappeared. I never saw anybody take them, but one by one they were gone until the skip contained only real rubbish. It all made great sense. Maybe we are beginning to catch up with our Continental neighbours who put their surplus outside their house and when people have helped themselves, the remainder gets taken by the City Fathers. An ideal system.

  I would sorely need to apply that system to my house, but while I am still up and running it will never happen. The day after my demise six skips will probably be lined up the hill outside the house and my offspring will be flinging stuff into them for a whole week! I hope then that people will come and help themselves to the varied collection of objects that I have accumulated over the years. Clocks, for example.