“And with each bedraggled breath I knew I came back from the dead
To show you how it’s done
To show you what it takes to conquer and to crucify
To become one of the greats
One of the greats”
Florence Leontine Mary Welch / Mark Bowen
It’s what we all dream of …sometimes…
Sometimes it’s not even to be the best, or to be recognised as such, or even greatness. Sometimes we just want to do something, anything that will be noticed. In a good way. It’s rather straightforward to do something terrible and get noticed immediately. Mostly I think we just want to help…and be recognised for it.
Many moons ago my friends Kae, Gordon, Joe, and Gerry and I gave up our Saturday mornings to try and teach kids how to code , or , rather, to allow them to learn how to code, in our Coder Dojo in St.Macartan’s College in Monaghan. The school , via it’s principal, Raymond McHugh, generously allowed us use of the school and , most importantly, use of it’s computer labs. This allowed kids who didn’t have a laptop to come along and learn, and also in a family where there was a laptop, it allowed more than one family member to learn at the same time.
There is an old apocryphal story about an Indian computer science lecturer from the Indian Institute of Technology, Kharagpur, who’s final year students were getting stressed out as their final exams approached. He asked his granny to come in to the class. She was 80, and she simply shuffled around the class and , looking over the shoulders of students, would ask what they were doing and , no matter what they replied she would reply “Clever boy”, or “Clever girl”, and always “Your mother will be so proud.” He invited her in once a week , when they were doing project work, and he quickly noticed that they all calmed down that day, solved problems that had been stumping them, and all did well in their exams. It’s called the Indian Grandmother effect.
That was my role in Coder Dojo. I couldn’t code to save my life, and kids aged 7 regularly had to show me how to switch on my own computer.
I organised tea and coffee for the parents and Gerry, Gordon, Joe and Kae. And sometimes I brought in Haribo for the kids.
After a while word spread and we could have 40 or 50 kids at classes. We always made a conscious effort to reach out to groups around the town where we knew there mightn’t be an opportunity to do this kind of thing at home, and every so often we would have a few kids turn up for a few weeks and give it a go. Some really got into it, others hated it immediately. And that was all fine. At one stage a couple of the kids who really took to it were falling a bit behind, as the only access they had to a computer was our two hour class every second Saturday. So I took it upon myself to ask around for old laptops from friends and colleagues, and ended up with seven of the oldest laptops known to science. Gerry spent a month wiping their hard drives, replacing bits, adding bits and finally, and proudly, we handed them to our wee band on computer Comancheros. They were initially impressed, especially as we said that the laptops now belonged to them and they were to take them home and use them and bring them back with them to class.
A few weeks later three of them had stopped coming to class. Another boy said that he never got to use it as his father was always on it playing poker, and another said that his mother was using his to follow all of the shenanigans on Love Island. And one boy, after a month said “This computer is a pile of shite !”…and as it was a Toshiba, was probably right. They all stopped coming after another month or so.
You can only try your best.
Sometimes it makes no difference to anyone except yourself, at least you know you tried.
We’re building a few new Giants out in Rossmore at the moment. One will be ready before Christmas, and one in the Spring. I’ve written stories for most of them by now and the intention is to publish a book of those stories and to run an art competition among Monaghan primary schools to illustrate the stories. I submitted the stories and the feedback was that some of the storylines weren’t appropriate to that age and needed editing and rewriting.
That was a shock.
The stories have been written at different times over the years as each Giant appears, and it seemed like I was being asked to swap my children.
I had a go at rewriting them and sent them to a few teachers I knew.
They said that they were now too simplified, and they preferred the originals.
And last week my story for the RTE McManus short story competition was rejected for the 7th year in a row. ( It’s in the P.S….)
You start to wonder what you’re doing with your time.
And then you’re walking through Fleming’s SuperValu looking for cardamon seeds to make a Dutch apple pie because “someone” gave you a bag of apples and your Soulmate is threatening to throw them out if you don’t do something with them soon, and you notice that someone is staring at you. You try not to stare back, looking at random spice jars, picking one up , pretending to read it and dart a look. He’s in his twenties. Then you notice that he’s as embarrassed as you are and he says “Well Paul, still at the computers ?”
“No, not for a few years now, but the classes are still going.”
“I did the degree.”
“Good man !” I say and we shake hands.
He then just pats me on the shoulder , smiles and walks away.
It was Toshiba boy.
Keep the faith.
Toodles,
Paul
P.S. You know when you hear a song for the very first time and you know immediately that you’re going to be playing it a lot ? Well this is ‘One Of The Greats’
P.P.S This is an audio of one of my most popular old blogs.
P.P.P.S This is a link to the Mahons Way programme from last Sunday featuring Monaghan in all its glory…and me.
P.P.P.P.S This is the story that nobody loved….
Jacob, Jakey, Jake
He remembered how he’d felt visiting the nursing home on Sundays after lunch to see his Granda. It wasn’t a great feeling. He had been his Granda’s first grandchild and they had idolised each other. When Jake’s Dad would come home at lunchtime to see his firstborn, he’d discover that Granda had taken him away for the day to visit the old farm and Granda’s old relatives and friends. The farm should have been sold years ago. It was too small to support a family, too remote to be used as a site, the land too poor to grow anything. But Granda couldn’t let go of it. Jacob loved it. It was their place. Granda showed him how to catch trout in the stream, how to make St.Brigid’s crosses from the rushes, how to make jam from the damsons, how to make a fire using twigs and how to make poached eggs in a blackened old pot on top of the fire. And how to make toast on a fork beside the same fire. The most delicious toast in the world.
One Spring Granda bought Jacob a calf and they kept it on the farm. Jacob said he thought the calf would be lonely on the farm on his own, so Granda bought another calf. When the summer ended Granda told Jacob that it was getting too cold for the cows, so he was going to send them away on their holidays. Granda gave Jacob the money to buy a bicycle the very next week, and two goats to keep on the farm, neither of whom seemed to mind the cold so much.
Granda told Jacob about growing up on the farm, about his neighbours, and about having to leave to get a job and to support his family. Lots of these stories went over Jacob’s head, but he simply loved being in his Granda’s company walking around the farm, whacking the heads off nettles, or just leaning against a gate and staring off into the distance as Granda did, and sighing.
When Jacob turned five, he had to go to school and his trips with Granda became less frequent. As he progressed through school, made friends, he always seemed to have something else to do rather than spend an hour driving in Granda’s old Ford Anglia to the farm.
Jacob’s granny had passed away when he was nine and Granda had stopped calling around to ask him to go anywhere. And then when he was ten, he became aware of conversations his mother and father were having about needing to get care for Granda. He’d had a couple of accidents, leaving the stove on, taps running, front door open. They’d moved him into a nursing home. Jacob did not like it. It was like a hospital with cushions. And Granda was not the same. Jacob had been eleven when he realised that not everything his Granda told him was completely true. When he was twelve he began to suspect that his Granda’s stories weren’t remotely true. And Granda was repeating them weekly now. Jacob did his best to pretend that he was hearing them for the first time, more for his Mother’s benefit than his Granda’s. The stories seemed to follow a pattern of Granda meeting someone famous in distress, helping them out and subsequently basking in their gratitude.
There was his story about the time he stopped in the pouring rain on the Dublin Road, outside Clontibret to help someone who’s car had broken down. It was Johnny Cash. Granda said he’d taken him to Duffy’s , The Diamond Bar in Monaghan, and they’d had a great night of revelry and when they woke up Johnny Cash had written ’40 Shades of Green’.
Granda would laugh and Jacob would smile politely. He didn’t know who Johnny Cash was and had never heard of ’40 Shades of Green’.
Or the story of him meeting Erwin Schrodinger, again in Duffy’s , The Diamond Bar, when he’d bought a kitten for his wife, Jacob’s Granny, for her birthday, but had placed it in a shoe box and tied it with string and had gotten worried when it had gone quiet. He was alone at the bar when Schrodinger came in and after a while Schrodinger’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked Granda ‘What’s inside the box ?’. When Granda replied that it was a kitten and Schrodinger asked if there shouldn’t be holes in the lid for it to breathe , Granda said ‘Yes’ and that his dilemma now was the kitten dead or alive. Schrodinger asked why he didn’t open the lid to find out and when Granda said that if he didn’t open the lid there was still a chance that it was just sleeping. Schrodinger clapped Granda on the back, exclaimed ‘Eureka !’ and then insisted on buying the next round and they’d had a great night of revelry.
Granda would laugh and Jacob would smile politely. He didn’t know who Schrodinger was , but was concerned about the fate of the kitten.
You see the pattern ?
There were similar stories involving Grace Kelly and a missing engagement ring, Paul McCartney’s grandfather and the fare for a ferry to Holyhead, Laurel & Hardy and an embarrassing photograph. They all ended up with Granda coming to the rescue and then they all ended up in Duffy’s , The Diamond Bar , and they’d all had yet another night of revelry.
Every Sunday was the same.
Until one Sunday, when Jacob was thirteen and Granda was telling the Schrodinger story again, he’d started to cough and wheeze, gasping for breath. Jacob’s mother left the room to get help. Jacob held his Granda’s hand and tried to calm him. His Granda stopped coughing and wheezing, looked around the room to make sure they were on their own and said “ Listen Jakey , listen close, I want you to promise me something, OK ?” Jake nodded vigorously. “I can’t remember if I told you about the time I helped a man that was attacked as he got off the Dublin train called Chester Beatty, but he told me later , in Duffy’s, that his attackers were after the key to deciphering an old Huang dynasty treasure map. He hid it inside a small terracotta Sphinx that he’d bought on a souvenir stall in Cairo. The Sphinx is worthless, but the key Jakey, the key is yours now. I put a few things in a box for you, your mother will give it to you sometime. Look after it. Follow the key…” He started coughing again, more frantically now. His mother and two nurses rushed into the room. They started rolling Granda onto his side and calling out into the hallway for more help. Someone was pushing Jacob towards the door. He looked back one last time and his Granda wheezed “Promise Jakey…”
“I promise Granda.”
A few days later at the wake lots of old men came to Jacob’s home to pay their respects. They all said what a great fella Granda was and that he was a great man for a story, and then they’d laugh. Jacob knew what they were laughing at, but he resented them doing it. A few days after the funeral when things had settled down, he asked his mother if she had a box from Granda for him. She said that she hadn’t.
And that was that. Jacob forgot about it. He didn’t forget his Granda. When he moved to secondary school he told all of the teachers that his name was Jakey, rather than Jacob. They all seemed to settle on Jake.
That was all a long, long time ago.
His mother was now the same age that his Granda had been when he passed away, but she was hale and hearty and seemed to have a more active social life than he had himself. She rang him one day and asked if he would help her clear out the old farmhouse. She had been renting out the land to a neighbouring farmer, who had asked to buy it so his son could build a house there and she’d agreed, it would mean she could have a better class of cabin on her upcoming cruise. The old farmhouse hadn’t been lived in for a lifetime and was going to be demolished to make way for a modern dwelling. She knew that there was nothing of value left, but thought that Jacob might enjoy a last look around before it was sold. He said ‘Yes’.
They stopped on the road so that Jake could open the gate to drive up to the house, and he smiled as it creaked and got stuck at the same stone it had always snagged on. He let his mother drive the car in and he told her to drive on up, that he’d walk. He wanted to take it all in. The gap in the hedge where the goats had got out, the fairy tree in the middle of the front field, the damson trees where they’d collected the fruit, the barn with the old cart, taken apart and stacked against musty hay bales. He smiled.
His mother had managed to push open the back door and was inside the kitchen, or parlour as Granda had called it and was sitting at the old rickety table. On her lap, tied with string, was an old USA Biscuits tin. She handed it to him saying that it was the only thing in the press, wrapped in old newspapers. She’d vaguely remembered Granda telling her about a box, but he was saying lots of contradictory things in his last few years. But here it was.
Tied to the string was a cardboard address label that just said “Jakey”.
He placed it on the table and opened it. Staring at him was a black and white photograph of Laurel and Hardy, signed by both of them. On the back it said “Thanks for looking after ‘that’ photograph !”. Behind that photo was a gilt-edged envelope and inside was a wedding invitation , dated 1956, from Prince Rainier III of Monaco. There was a letter from Ownie Mohan telling Granda that his grandson was in a new skiffle band and that they were quite good and thanked him again for his help, there were two unused tickets to see The Beatles in the Adelphi in Dublin. There was a red and black covered hardback book titled ‘Space- Time Structure’ by Professor Erwin Schrodinger. Inside the front cover was a note to Granda written in a fading blue fountain pen ink “Hope the kitten is thriving !” and signed ‘Your friend in mystery, Erwin.”
Jacob was laughing. They were all true stories !
There was something flat wrapped in old yellowing newspaper. He opened it carefully. It was an old vinyl single, Johnny Cash’s’40 Shades of Green’, with a note in the sleeve inviting Granda and Granny to visit him in Memphis , Tennesse, and a P.S. saying he had a brand new Cadillac.
Jacob looked at his mother. They both had tears in their eyes.
“All of them. All of them were true.”
They both laughed.
There was something at the bottom, wrapped tightly in yet more yellowing newspaper. He unwrapped it slowly and carefully.
It was a small terracotta Sphinx.
Almost without thinking he lifted it slowly to his ear and gently shook it.
It rattled.
Something was inside.
