Poor Little Francie: Jack is on the Moor

"Mick Dempsey (not his real name) was a dullard," said the pipe-smoking story-teller; "He never got past 'Jack is on the Moor.' "

In my father's time, there was one school-book, or, perhaps a junior book and a senior book. Succeeding generations of children had the same book, and family members passed it from one to the next. You knew a person's academic prowess by how far he got in the book.

The title of the chapter, "Jack is on the Moor," informs me that the school-book is disjoint from the local culture. There are no moors in our country, only bogs. (I mean "moors" are called "bogs" in Ireland). The school-book treated the Irish pupils as if they were English children. It was, no doubt, the same for the other stories ౼ unrelated to the lives of the children reading them. It was as if, even with the Irish Language well gone, when they went to school, they stepped into another culture and were being prepared (if poorly), not for a useful life where they could enhance the community around them, but for life in some other place.

Vocational Schools focus on practical training for one's life and environment. In my father's time, these did not exist, and the vocational training was actually on the little farm. There one learned how to draw water from the well; feed the lamp with tallow or oil; cook, bake and tidy the house; sow, thin, weed and harvest potatoes and multiple vegetables; manage and prune fruit trees; drive and milki cows; harness horse and donkey; clean out the stables; build a healthy dung-heap; train dogs to be useful around the farm; keep and feed chickens, ducks, geese and pigs; fix fences and gates and hedges; rescue animals who fell into rivers or drains; solve problems on the trot, and myriad other tasks that together now would warrant a degree.

There is a difference between "knowing what swimming is," "knowing how to swim," and "being able to swim." At school, we learned a lot of information, but very little skill. After three years science at secondary school, including a stream about electricity, I had not learned how to put a plug on a wire. It was different on the farm. Everything learned on the farm was internalised as a skill, an "able to do," as well as knowing what and knowing how. At home, my siblings and I learned from my father how to fix punctures, dig furrows, sow cabbages, knit, sew and darn. At school we only learned information about things.

When my father was a child, he often had to do messages in town. Many of the town boys had nothing to do all day and stood at street corners passing remarks about people passing by, especially the raggy boys from the farms. Dad thought this was a very poor up-bringing for boys and wanted to make sure that none of his sons would become Corner Boys.

My father thought that the country needed carpenters, plumbers, brickies, architects and engineers, but that what it was producing was teachers, preachers, politicians and critics, - people who know how to talk about everything, but are not able to do anything. We needed guys who could make things and do things; what we got is guys who can talk, talk, talk. Dad would have sent his children to vocational school, but mam was, effectively, the decision-maker and all eight children took the academic route.

The people, in my father's time, believed that a child learned more on the farm than in the school, and had little qualms about keeping a child from school if he were needed at home. At the same time, there was a desire that every child would learn the three Rs, ("Reading, (W)riting and (A)rithmetic), as well as the Catechism.

The history of Ireland, in my father's day, was not learned in school, but at the fire-side, or in the blacksmith's forge or in the classes of the Gaelic League, which I believe came to Lusmagh around 1915. It had certainly come to Birr, Offaly headquarters of the Gaelic League, where Pádraig Óg Conaire, one of Patrick Pearse's students at Scoil Éanna, was now holding multiple language classes.

(See: Fáinne an Lae, a Gaelic League magazine, 26 January 1918: "King’s County Independent contains the first instalment of an interesting and well-written novel of present day life in Ireland by Pádraic Óg Ó Conaire, the organiser of Offaly").

A book was for reading only. No book was needed for mathematics, which were taught off the blackboard. Each child brought his book, his slate and his rule, with him to the school ౼ and, of course, his sod of turf for the school fire.

Mr Keary was dad's teacher in the senior classes, but I heard more about Miss Armstrong, his teacher in junior school. Maybe this was because most talk about school around the fire-place at home was in the days when I was starting out at school myself. The point being that, no matter how cross or severe any teacher I would encounter might be, none of them could possibly be as fierce as Miss Armstrong.

I did not know if Miss Armstrong was real or fictitious. Her character was strongly evidenced in her name: she had a strong arm; in fact two strong arms, with which she could wrestle, wallop and subjugate any foe, child or man. But yes, a little investigation of local history shows that the Armstrong family sponsored a junior school in Ballimacoolaghan, a hamlet (known locally as "the village") next door to my father's townland, and one of the Misses Armstrong at the turn of the 20th Century would be found teaching there.

If dad was at junior school in Ballymacoolaghan Village, he must have been at senior school in Lusmagh Village (beside the parish church), with Mr Keary (but I am open to other information on this).

The adventures of Miss Armstrong, as declaimed by my father, are beyond my current recall, but the stories from his school-book are not.

Huang, the Miller, was doing all right, but was avaricious. He believed there was treasure buried under his Mill, in fact right there under the corner stone. So, he dug down to recover the treasure, but, when he disturbed the corner-stone, the Mill fell down.

One of my nightly reveries, as I drifted off to sleep, was digging for the treasure under the floor-boards in front of the fireplace. In the day-time the children did dig for treasure. We were estopped from digging holes in our own garden, but were free to dig in Brady's. When we failed to find the treasure, we decided to keep digging till we reached Australia. When I mentioned this at home, dad banned us from going into Brady's back garden. He thought Mr Brady would be annoyed with our treasure-seeking. However, Mr Brady thought back-gardens were for children's amusement. In my nightly reverie, I carefully rolled back the lino, lifted the floor-boards, dug out buckets of soil from the ground, spread the soil in the garden, but, not being avaricious, did not go too far before restoring the boards and the lino and creeping back to bed. I could continue tomorrow night. I always slept well after all that work.

How High is a China-man, and How Low is his wife (asked father)? I don't know. But I'm telling you: Ho Hi is a China-man and Ho Lo is his wife? I DON'T KNOW!

"Hanna Laman's child, the great eagle carried off;" said the story-teller. "Did you ever hear such lies, down in a book?"

Johnny Appletree went walking around America, and, wherever he went, he planted apple seeds along the road-side.

The Sayings of Poor Richard: this essay in the Book furnished my dad with a great collection of aphorisms that he never forgot, but used for his life-long guidance. To the book's sayings, other sayings were added from his local culture and his carpentry apprenticeship, so that I can not be sure (without having actually seen the book) which came from each source. The sayings included:

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise;
A stitch in time saves nine;
Never leave till tomorrow what you can do today;
Pass things by;
The tool for the job;
Keep Falling Distance from Fire and Water;
Children and Fools should not handle Edged tools;
The Tongue is a Terrible Affliction.

Well, the last aphorism in that list actually comes from the Letter of Saint Thomas. My father decried gossip and was wont to quote this saying to stop the telling of tales around the dining table. However, without gossip, there is no understanding of one's neighbours. We took to talking with mother as we dried the delph in the kitchen. Hearing the chatter in the kitchen, my father denounced the "kitchen conferences." After I started school, I wanted to practice speaking Irish, and nowhere better than in the kitchen. This is also where I reviewed Irish history to my poor, tolerant mother.

1 comment:

Patricia Killeen30 January 2019 at 03:53
Wonderful telling, in the spirit of a modern day literary seanchaí. As Krunchie's younger sister (about 17 years age gap) I'm learning these events through his words,and can pass on his lovely memories to my daughters, who never knew their Irish grandparents. Also to learn about the education and times from the early 1900's through our parents memories is a richness and a joy to read. Bravo!