Visions & Revisions: An anthology of new writing by Junior Cycle Teachers [selected extracts]

Martine O’Brien
83 AND COUNTING
83 AND COUNTING three each, then the beggar’s life for the first loser, and sweets or
coinage as prizes. This long established tradition will be passed
to future generations, I hope. My own dada taught us to play.
That’s continuity for you.
Apologies, I digress. I advance the lawn and arrive, awkwardly,
not trusting myself to sit down. There’s resistance in my legs.
With reluctance I ease myself backwards and downwards onto
the bench, an old, nicely designed wrought iron structure with
It’s dark out. The counsellor keeps telling me I need to calm
myself, to breathe slowly when the thoughts are whirring
round and round. When they’re unstoppable. If it’s not raining
or too cold, I’ve to go outside into the garden. I favour the
front, I might see someone. I’ve to look at the trees and the
sky. Apparently it’s good to touch the alive stuff. There are
the two locks on the front door; the keys are in the drawer. I
need to hold onto the doorframe as I negotiate the steps. The
sharp gravel digs into the soles of my slippers. They’re warm
and snug from the sheepskin, a Christmas gift from John, my
oldest son. A step up again onto the kerb and I’m on the lawn,
mown with care by Fionn, one of my grandsons. The springy
grass feels like a bouncy mattress underfoot, great for kicking
ball around or cartwheeling like a whirling windmill. Yes, I’ve
seen it all! The grandchildren happily play there after they’ve
said their hellos, received a treat and listened to me asking silly
questions about school and their busy lives. They answer well,
politey and respectfully, often exchanging eyes with their
nearby encouraging parents. They call me Grandad with ease,
prompting a warm feeling I enjoy. Flesh of my flesh. It’s hard
to describe. When we gather together, multi-generationally,
and play cards, all hell breaks loose! Cousins together are
highly competitive. Sometimes there are tears, more often
laughter, just like my own childhood. We even sit around
the same mahogany table, highly polished, chestnut in colour.
Pressed tablecloth removed, coaster topped drinks pushed to
the centre, it’s time to get serious. The games Switch, Horses
and Pass the Ace are favourites, with safety matches for lives,
wooden slats. The paint is chipped and little bits stick to my
trousers, but I’ll not let it go for sentimental reasons. It came
from my old family home on the Ennis road. I’ll ask Tom, my
other son, if he’ll do a job on it at the weekend when he calls;
he’s handy. As I rest here underneath this old copper beach, I’m
brought back and back further to times past. My fingers know
to trace the little indents on the smooth grey bark. The stories
they could tell.
The rope swing near my head, to the left, we hung when
they were small. It has been upholstered many times, but remains
secure. Now our grandchildren play on it, as their parents did.
I’m very fond of trees; they’re like the protectors of our home.
Our garden is well planted. Being able to recognise native species
when I was a boy was normal. We had open fields, tree shapes,
bark rubbings and freedom. Nature Studies with Father Geary
stood me in good stead. I used to encourage the children to test
me as we ambled of a Sunday. Leaf, bark and fruit. I’d stride
slightly ahead pointing to this and that with a stick of some sort
and they’d scramble after me. It’s a lovely memory. There was
a pattern. Sunday morning mass, back for pre-prepared lunch,
followed by an afternoon drive, with a walk in the countryside.
We varied the destination. Admiring the land, houses, slopes
and hedgerows, the mystery lanes and colour, we often sought
the water’s edge. Little forested areas were jungles to us and the
theme song ‘Daniel Boone was a man, yes a big man, with an eye
like an eagle and tall as a mountain was he …’ was sung in the
car, as well as the hymns from mass, as we drove. ‘Sons of God,
hear His holy word, gather round the table of the Lord, eat His
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