Year: 2013

Funeral Oration for Josie Keenan

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Funeral Oration for Mrs Josie Keenan (nee O’Hanlon)

My aunt, Josie Keenan, was born Josephine O’Hanlon on 15th March, 1920, youngest in a family of 3 boys and 4 girls to Owen O’Hanlon and Emma McKnight.  Her siblings were Danny, my father, Katie, Mick, Emma, Rosina and John and they all lived together in beautiful Clontigora close to Hagan’s Bridge.

This idyllic start was soon disrupted as her mother, Emma, died while Josie was only two; a tragedy compounded by the death of her father, Owen, when she was four.

There was no cohort of social workers to take control and the children may all have been destined for an orphanage but for a far-sighted Parish Priest who declared that the family should be preserved intact.

Danny, then only 17, became the Man of the House and Katie, 16, the Mother. With a resilience that few today could achieve they survived and Josie grew up in a loving environment albeit without luxury. She attended the local Killian Primary School moving on, when the time came, to Our Lady’s and eventually to St Mary’s College in Belfast whereshe trained as a primary school teacher, a career choice which would be to the benefit of many children for the next 40 years.

I heard just recently, living eye-witness accounts of a very tall chemist seen regularly cycling the route from the Dublin Road in Newry out to Clontigora. Oliver and Josie would often be seen “stepping out” around the roads from there to the Flagstaff and beyond in a procedure as old as the hills around them but, no doubt, inconceivably simple to current generations.

They were a cultured young couple and I have seen their names on old programmes of both The Feis and Newpoint Players and Oliver often boasted to me of his on-stage achievements. It wouldn’t be the last marriage to come out of association in those organisations.

After the war there were not a lot of permanent teaching opportunities and Josie subbed in many schools.  She particularly mentioned her time in Dromore to which she would travel by bus and complete her journey on a
bike secreted away in the area for the duration of her term there. This bike was crucial to many of her  employments.  Indeed, Norman Tebbit, many years later might well have based his “on yer bike, plenty of work if you look for it” speech on Josie’s approach to job-seeking.  She told me of cycling from Clontigora to Ballyholland to teach.

All this hill work must have given her beautifully crafted legs because in those days, before celebrity culture, with Holywood making inroads even as far as Clontigora, she was referred to locally as Heddy Lamar because of her beauty and, it’s a fair word to use, grace.

In a family of brothers and sisters who, like Spinal Tap, had their amplification systems go all the way up to 11 instead of 10, she was the quiet, calm one who spoke with clarity and knowledge.

Oliver and Josie got married on Easter Monday 1949, the day the Free State became a republic.  We don’t know if the two events are associated but you could be pretty sure that Oliver had an opinion on the subject.

The young couple set up their home above Oliver’s chemists dispensary in Hill St and soon moved to Erskine St.  First born of this happy union was Maura, soon followed by Una then Tom and finally, Michael.

By this stage the family had moved out to Derrybeg Villas apparently because Josie was a country girl at heart.  All was perfect and, if we secretly called him Blessed Oliver Keenan, that is in fact what he was and Josie was devoted to him to her final day.

By this time she was working in the school which was to be her major employment and her happiest time in teaching: St Joseph’s Primary. She made strong friendships with Lilian Donnelly, with whom she worked, and Agnes McConville with whom she had been to school. I have heard many testimonies of her time in St Joseph’s one going as far as to say “your Aunt Jo saved my life. I was in the depths of despair in school until she came along”. She was both gentle and genteel. The most appropriate term I heard to describe her came from one former P3 student: “she was serene”, which, as any teacher will tell you, is some going in classes of up to 40 in those times. Her classroom was an oasis of calm and knowledge.

She dared to follow Oliver on to the golf course but in the course of many Keenan four-balls over the years was declared “a useless golfer”. Her pursuits were more intellectual: she was an avid reader; she had to the last an exceptional mind with a depth of knowledge; had memorised vast numbers of poems and was an avid crossword fan – to the end completing the daily Irish News crossword.

Eventually the family moved into Patrick St, very convenient to the local church. Josie was in every way the epitome of what we refer to in Newry as a “Dominican Catholic”. She was a devout believer and practitioner and most deserving of the term, The Faithful.

The family are most indebted to Martin who brought Oliver and herself Communion every 1st Friday allowing then to continue in the practice of their faith. May I mention one other lady. It is indicative of the old-fashioned and proper way of the pair of them that Mrs Evans, her constant companion and source of support, was always “Mrs Evans”: a lovely indication of old values and the mutual respect they had for each other.

And so the years passed. Maura went to Vancouver and on her many visits home would endure the gentle taunts to retire to Newry. I think Josie admired that spirit of independence. Una married Brian and have Josie and Oliver’s grandchildren, Claire and Mark. They must have paid more tolls on the M1 than any of us in their regular visits to mum and dad.

Tom whose beautiful mind was sadly compromised in recent years, a cause of much heartbreak to her; Michael and Karen with the grandchildren Cheryll, Rory and Kim and, indeed, two great-grandchildren were a tireless source of care and support.

Mary O’Hare was like a spare daughter to her and Gerard also. Any time I would come in she would stare blankly at me and say to all around her: “I don’t know this person. Who is it?” causing me great concern.

The twinkle would come in the eye and she would say,”It’s so long since you came to see me I didn’t recognise you”.

To all the care workers. Thanks are inadequate. They were independent and un-institutionalised because of your devotion. You are priceless.

The Keenans and their children and extended O’Hanlon family kept watch and supported in so many ways for which the family express profound gratitude.

Josie died as she lived, with grace and dignity and we are all diminished by her absence. My greatest memory is of her generosity to me as a young only child without a father and of how she and the entire Keenan clan embraced me, and of her intellect.

I paraphrase Goldsmith:

While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
That one small head could carry all she knew.

Donal O’Hanlon 8th December 2013

May Day Pistogues

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If you happen to see a strip of hawthorn bush draped with May flowers and eggshells before a cottage door, you will know that this simple custom is a pardonable – and permissable – factor in the queer rites and customs that once characterized the first day of May, in olden times.

You may have heard the word ‘pistogues’.  If you haven’t, I’ll tell you what they are/were.  Pistogues are little acknowledgements of the existence of the supernatural and the embodiment of witchcraft that often accompanied it here:  a kind of appeasement of the gods that ruled the destinies of earlier inhabitants, who themselves were past masters in the art of witchery and spell-casting – even hypnotism.  Only last Saturday, outside the Craft Fair at An Cuan in Rostrevor, my friend Leontia Keogh befriended a practitioner who wanted to exercise his art.  And exorcise some alleged demons.  With what results, I have yet to learn!

If you want to see some such pistogues, pay a visit to St Bridget’s Well in the graveyard at Faughart!

It tempers one’s scepticism somewhat to reflect that maybe those old rite of May Day were the remnants of the art of the ancient peoples – transmuted somewhat by the ravages of centuries.  May Day was a day when ordinary mortals could empower themselves with these forces of the supernatural to cast spells – and the like – on their neighbours. I was in conversation with an old fella of my acquaintace on the subject.

‘”Ye know, ye daren’t put the May Bush up on May Day itself,” he whispered, his sunken eyes leaving spirals of wrinkles on the eye sockets now gawping through dust and the exhaust fumes of a passing car.  He peered as though into the dim centuries of mysticism, as a pronounced quietitude and peace gathered shadow over the bog.

“Why can’t I, if I like?”  I asked, foolishly.  I cannot interpret his withering stare.

“Sure man, you’d have the divil’s own luck if you done that!  Man, sure , they used to say it wasn’t right to plack a May flower afore May Day.

Och, aye, t’was all right te pluck them to put on the May Bush.  THAT was no harm at all.  Not a bit.

More ….

Quigley Concert: The Brodsky Quartet : Tues 12th Feb

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Newry Chamber Music visits the Sandys Street Presbyterian Church next Tuesday evening 12th February at 8 pm for a concert from the highly-acclaimed Brodsky Quartet.

Over forty years on the circuit, and named after the great Russian violinist A Brodsky, they have notched up over 4,000 concerts and released more than 60 recordings.

We are delighted and honoured that they have now chosen to play in Newry.

Please ensure a full house on the night by encouraging your friends to come.

The programme on the night will include pieces by Copland and George Gershwin, Samuel Barber’s String Quartet and the “American” Quartet by Dvorak.

We look forward to your company for the evening.

Irish Politics Simplified

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Ireland is an island to the west of Britain.  Britain is an island to the West of Europe.  Britain comprises England, Wales and um … um … No.  Wait.  There’s a referendum pending.  Can I come back to you on the question of just what Britain is?

Some people in the North of Ireland refer to the Mainland … by which they mean Britain (whatever that is!).  The people of Rathlin, the only inhabited island off the coast of Northern Ireland would never talk thus: though they are the only ones entitled to talk about the Mainland (if they did, they would mean Ireland, not Britain).  Are you following me so far?

The fanatically loyal people refer to Norn Iron, petrol-bomb the police (and British Army, when they were on the streets), loudly proclaim their ‘culture’ by which they mean the Butcher’s Apron (sometimes known as the Union Flag, which is the banner of disunity); stomp outside Churches,  as good Prodesants, loudly yelling that they’re ‘up to our necks in Fenian blood’, a claim few could deny;  defy the democratic will of the people, North and South; assault all moderates, especially those on their ‘own side’, i. e. Alliance; join paramilitaries and insist on their credentials as democrats. They win headlines all over the world for their violence and fanaticism: and complain bitterly about being ignored. I hope you’re writing this down?  You’ll never remember it!

Approximately one third of Irish people (those that don’t live abroad, that is  … a diminishing fraction, since mass emigration resumed, this decade) live in Northern Ireland – which is actually six of the thirty-two counties, located mainly in the North-East!  The other twenty-six comprises the Republic of Ireland (not recognised as such by Irish Republicans, who prefer to know it, sarcastically, as the Free State.  They believe it is anything but FREE!).    The Norn Iron Loyalists want the Border between these two entities sealed, but no one can find it, or remember where it is!  Anyway, where would you get that much sticky tape?  They insist they comprise an overwhelming majority in Norn Iron, but are actually a significant minority.

Martin McGuinness, formerly PIRA leader, now Deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland, insists on describing himself still as a Republican, though he daily administers British Rule in Ireland.  He is opposed in this by the IRA – formerly the Real IRA and the Continuity IRA and … well, you get the drift.  They – his former comrades, friends and relations – insist on their right to oppose the British by force of arms: a thing Martin would never do!  Well, never do NOW!  He believes we are all basking in the comfort, wealth and prosperity that his Peace Process has delivered!  He also believes in the Tooth Fairy.

The capital of Ireland is Dublin. It has a population of over a million people, all of whom are now scanning the Internet in search of work in Australia.  Most are migrants already – from the Western Seaboard, a derelict, deprived and desolate place, owned by foreigners and studded with empty million-euro homes that are only half-finished.  Daniel O’Donnell is chieftan of this lost tribe.  Unable to feed or clothe them, he contents himself by singing ballads to them.  In this task he is aided by Dana, an OAP waif who really wants to be President.  To buy goods they use a currency called the Euro, which is one step up from Monopoly money.

Under the Irish constitution, ‘The North’ used to be in Ireland  but a very successful 30+ year campaign of violence for Irish unity ensured that it is now most definitely in the UK .  Even the ‘Republicans’ accept that! Had the campaign lasted any longer the North might now be in Germany.  Indeed in a very real sense it is, since they are the only Europeans not in deficit – and therefore keeping us all afloat … if only just.

Belfast is the capital of Northern Ireland. It has a population of half a million, half of whom own houses in Donegal (and therefore come under the aegis of the said Daniel (see above)).  Donegal is in the north of Ireland but not in Northern Ireland. It is in the South.  Even though it’s the most northerly county of Ireland.  Are you still paying attention?

There are two parliaments in Ireland.  The Dublin parliament is called the Dáil (pronounced “Doyle”, as in Mrs Doyle from Father Ted … [Ach, ye will!  You will, you will, you will!]) an Irish word meaning a place where banks receive taxpayers’ money in truck-loads.  The Bank was formerly owned by Sean Quinn, a self-made multi-billionaire, just out of debtor’s jail for bringing the whole contry into ruination.  The one in Belfast is called Stormont, an Anglo-Saxon word meaning ‘placebo’, or deliberately ineffective drug.  It is run by a Secretary of State from Westminster who must pretend to ‘share power’ with Martin and Peter.  Peter is married to the Wicked Witch of the North, who imposes chastity on others while sleeping with under-age boys herself.   Martin and Peter tour the world at our expense, in search of jobs (they are the only people with jobs in the North themselves).

Their respective jurisdictions are defined by the border, an imaginary line on the map to show fuel launderers where to dump their chemical waste and by-products.

Prodesants are in favour of the border, which generates millions of pounds in smuggling for Catholics, who are actually totally opposed to it.

Travel between the two states is complicated because Ireland is the only country in the world with two M1 motorways. The one in the North goes West to avoid the south of Ireland and the one in the South goes north to avoid the high price of drink – and all other commodities in the South!

We have two types of democracy in Ireland. Dublin democracy works by holding a referendum and then allowing the government to judge the result when they don’t like it. If the government thinks the result is wrong, they will hold the referendum again until the people get it right. Twice in recent years the government decided the people’s choice was wrong and ordered a new referendum.  Governments change more frequently than most people change their socks!    Before elections, parties promise the moon and the stars: and deliver hell on earth when elected.  The present Tainaiste told Vincent Brown on TV recently not to believe a word he says before elections:  we all make wild promises we have no intention of keeping, he sniggered.  This system is called democracy.

Belfast democracy works differently.  It has a parliament with no opposition, so the government is always right. This system generates envy in many world capitals, especially in Dublin.

Ireland has three economies – northern, southern and black. Only the black economy is actually in the black. The other two are in the red.  Talking of Black … in the North, Blackmen are Orange: no blacks allowed to join the Black Brethern!

All versions of the IRA claim to be the real IRA but only one of them is the real IRA.  It’s so real, it feels it no longer needs to add that sobriquet.  The North’s biggest industry is the production of IRAs.  Consequently, we now have the Provisional, 32 county, Continuity and Real IRA. The IRA is by far the most popular among young graffiti writers simply because it is the easiest to spell.

Daniel’s Seat