“Must be like nothing else
Must be like nothing else
Taste like nothing else
Help like nothing else
Ease you and comfort and seem
Something like happiness”
Felix White / Hugo White / Orlando Thomas Weeks / Rupert Alexander Jarvis Shepherd / Sam Doyle
For whatever reason, this week I seem to keep hearing and seeing talks/radio shows/podcasts/interviews where the interviewee is asked what his advice be to someone younger/enthusiastic/naïve and the interviewee is already famous/lucky/conceited/jaded/selling a book and dispenses their thoughts/wisdoms/fetishes.
Even though I have entered the RTE Francis McManus short story competition again this year, after swearing that I wouldn’t , and again had dreams of being interviewed by RTE 1’s Arena host, Sean Rocks and telling him I know his sister, and that I met him once before at Micky McCormick’s 50th, in my heart of hearts I know I won’t ever be asked my opinion or advice. Although I was once asked to give a talk to secondary school students at an enterprise competition day when people thought I was successful , and Martin McVicar from Combilift couldn’t make it. I gave a heartfelt speech laced with advice stolen from ‘The Princess Bride’, Dr.Who, and Monty Python, which all boiled down to time being the greatest gift they had and that they shouldn’t allow anyone to waste any of theirs. But they were all teenagers who were going to live forever, had never heard of The Princess Bride, Dr. Who, and Monty Python , felt cheated that Martin McVicar wasn’t there and , well, thought I was a prick.
The little assholes !
Tomorrow some friends are going to try and kill me.
I don’t think that’s their main intention, but it’s a very real prospect. They are going to run trails up and down mountains in Wicklow and I am going to try and keep up with them. It will not go well.
So in case I do posthumously win the Francis McManus Short Story Competition here are the pearls of wisdom I would have shared.
Don’t be a prick – I’ll just quickly explain for my European and Yankee readers that ‘prick’ is a term dismissively used to describe the male appendage, someone despicable, always male, sometimes inanimate. There are times in your life where being a prick happens by accident, but usually you have a fair idea in that moment that you are indeed being a prick. Don’t be. Your pretentious self-righteousness is not clever, funny, appropriate or attractive. And when I say your, I mean mine. I am most often a prick when I think I know better, am condescending, take others for granted, feel guilty about something unrelated. Your poignant moment might just be someone else’s Tuesday. You’re both right.
Forgive other pricks – this is very hard. Some other people just can’t help themselves. Some of them even revel in it. They are invariably people who have been incredibly lucky but put it all down to their own brilliance. They usually play golf and, or, tennis, iron their chinos, never like Nick Cave or Radiohead, never go to the cinema, and only ever listen to business related podcasts, complain about ‘the government’ but never vote, think that they know best, and always, always moan about how things were much better when they were younger …when we lived in fear of priests , worshipped bank managers, and thought that Freddie Starr was hilarious. Actually, now that I think about it , maybe forgiveness is a stretch. Ignore pricks.
Keep all of your tee shirts – the basic design of a tee shirt has not changed since the US Navy issued them as undergarments in 1913. People say they became popular as ‘outer wear’ when Marlon Brando wore one in ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’, but I always thought that it was when James Dean wore one in ‘Rebel Without A Cause’. Anyway , they came roaring into my life when Frankie Goes To Hollywood and Wham started wearing Katherine Hamnett oversized tees with large ‘Choose Life’ and ‘Frankie Says…’. I never threw away a tee shirt. I should have a very large collection, but my kids have latterly discovered that ‘Dad’s stupid old tees’ aren’t terrible , and on occasion I have even seen photos , from Edinburgh where my favourite daughter is pictured with two friends and they are all wearing old tee shirts of mine….which I LOVE ! Just to be clear I love the idea of them all wearing my old tees, not the tees themselves…although that Bathing Ape one, if I could lose another 10kgs , might still fit… Tees can act like old photos, they spark memories of where and when they were bought, or who you were with when you wore it.
Keep all of your friends – the basic design of a friend has not changed since the Universe issued me one in 1976. I have friends that I still meet from primary school , secondary school and every stage of my life since. They are very like tee shirts. My friends have been on adventures with me, got muddy, washed it off, stretched a little, faded a bit, a little tear here and there, but when you see it at the bottom of the drawer, or the back of the press, and you put it on, you smile to yourself. Yes ,, I know my metaphors are mixing , but you get the point. Sometimes people say choose your friends wisely, but that’s a crock. No one sits and thinks ‘Oh, having analysed this group, ruled out all the pricks, I’ve shortlisted these three to be my friends. Interviews for the two positions available will start tomorrow.’ I’ve never chosen a friend. Friendships evolve. Sometimes they happen explosively and you know in a moment that you are going to be in this person’s life for a long time, and sometimes they happen slowly and the friend of a friend becomes more central to your life that the original mutual friend. I don’t think we have a lot of control over this.
When we had our ten year school reunion one chap who I’d always been civil with, and had always been civil with me, bought me a drink at the bar thinking I was someone else. We laughed when he realised I wasn’t who he’d thought I was and purposely called each other by the wrong name for the rest of the evening whenever we bumped into each other. We all got very, very drunk, but this guy got more drunk than the rest of us and at around 2.00 am he asked me to walk him to his taxi. He literally couldn’t walk straight at that point. I helped him out and just before he got into the cab he addressed me for the first time using my name “Paul, I want to say that for the five years we were at school, I did not like you at all. Not. One Bit. Couldn’t stand you. But I was wrong.” He held out his hand and I shook it. He gave me a hug, and said a muffled ‘Sorry’ in my ear. I told him he’d nothing to apologise for and put him in the cab and he fell fast asleep.
“Where’s he going ?” the taxi man asked.
I gave him the address, and the fare.
Never saw him again.
I’d like to think he’s OK.
But whether you think you chose them, they chose you, or you’re just randomly friends, don’t take it for granted. You need them, and they need you.
Part time dreams – People who say ‘Follow your dreams’ are usually independently wealthy, never followed their own dreams, or Gwyneth Paltrow. We’d all love to follow our dreams ! But we also need to eat and pay the rent. But we shouldn’t give up on our dreams, we just need to find a way to do them too, part time. Maybe it will lead to something some day. I once dreamed of being a missionary priest/ band manager/fashion designer/shop owner/brand owner/millionaire/politician/president/ruler for life. Four of them brought no joy and I’ve grown out of the others. I still dream of being a writer of an actual novel. It’s a work in progress…in my spare time.
Live , don’t just exist – While working and focusing on your ‘means to an end’ you can often lose sight of the ‘end’ you’re working towards. The bigger , more, longer, better, ‘and then..’ you’re working towards mightn’t mean anything to the very people you think you’re doing it for, when all they want is to have this time with you now. Here now. Your time is very precious. So is theirs. Don’t waste either.
Anyway , what do I know ?
Don’t be a prick ! And you may end up with something like happiness.
Toodles,
Paul
P.S. This is The Maccabees ‘Something Like Happiness‘
P.P.S The names of the people I’m running with are written down on a sheet of paper in the top drawer of my office. If I don’t make it back, avenge my death !
P.P.P.S I wrote this ages ago, have posted it before, but just felt like posting it again now
Minding Henry
He’d always meant to go and have a look at the old abbey graveyard in Killeevan but always seemed to be in a rush somewhere else. He took his opportunity this crisp frosty December afternoon after a meeting in Enniskillen had finished early. His father-in-law had hailed from Killeevan and it always struck him as odd that such a tiny place, two miles from Newbliss and seven miles from Clones, was so richly supplied with churches and chapels. There was St.Livinus’ Catholic church, St.Laebhan’s Church of Ireland , the derelict Church of Ireland St.Lukes and the old Abbey up the hill.
He’d never been on the road up the hill before today; it was narrow with the white tipped hedges almost touching the car on both sides until he got to the corner at the top of the hill where it widened out just as he approached the abbey graveyard. His footsteps crunched on the frozen road as he got out of the car. He opened the old metal gate and followed the small gravel path which led the few short yards to all that remained of the old abbey, a small one story gable end. Even in its heyday it must have been a small, simple and unremarkable building. The gravestones however were a different matter altogether. As he looked from the path a rag tag gaggle of skulls peeped out at him through the long grass. The gravestones were all quite weathered and generally followed a similar design with the skull and crossbones carved in the centre of a stone disc framed by an hourglass on one side and a coffin on the other. As he walked among them he noticed that they all had inscriptions on the other side and they all seemed to date from the early 18th century and all featured old, local Protestant names.
He made his way to a wooden seat at the opposite end of the graveyard to the lonely gable wall, sat down and took a few photographs. He thought he saw something move to his right. It was a robin which had come to light on a gravestone a short distance in front of him. It started to chirp. He stared at it for a while before it flew off towards the abbey wall where it perched and seemed to look back at him and started to chirp again. He got up and walked towards the bird. It flew on to another headstone and chirped and waited again for him to catch up. It did this twice more before finally flying to a grave that he hadn’t noticed before, it was separate from the others and there were the tired remains of an old hedge stump in front of it leaving it almost hidden in the trees at the edge of the graveyard. It also seemed to be on a lower level to the others giving the impression that this solitary grave was in an extension to the main body of the graveyard.
It was of a different size and shape to the others and faced in a different direction. All of the other headstones faced east towards the rising sun in traditional fashion. This one faced south.
He thought initially that perhaps this lonely headstone belonged to a suicide victim, lunatic or a criminal, the old Christian custom being that they were buried outside consecrated ground and not facing possible redemption from the east, which had always struck him as decidedly unchristian.
The robin stopped chirping and flew up into the tree that shaded the grave, allowing him to approach and read the inscription.
In Loving Memory of
Henry George Granfield Little
Son of William & Wynne Little
Late incumbent of Castle Jordan Co.Meath
Who fell asleep in Jesus Dec.18th 1895
Aged 12 years
“Twelve ? “ he thought, ‘ How very strange. Very unlikely to be a suicide or criminal at 12 years old, even in 1895. And why is this one almost 100 years later than all of the other graves ?’.
His thoughts were interrupted by the robin once more which had moved back to the seat where he’d been sitting before the bird had led him to young Henry’s final resting place. He went back to the seat and sat down, the robin flew back to Henry. He looked at his phone, no rush. He stretched and yawned and closed his eyes, just for a moment. He dozed.
He thought he heard someone talking in the distance. He lazily opened one eye and in the hazy twilight he noticed two old men leaning on shovels with their backs to him.
“That’s our part done Sam.”
“Aye, least we could do, Sean.”
In front of them, where moments before he’d stood himself and read Henry’s headstone, there was a pile of freshly dug earth beside an empty grave. The headstone and the trees that shaded it were no longer there.
“There’ll be a big crowd tomorrow ,Sam. Fr.McPhillips told us at mass on Sunday that he’d be attending the Little boy’s funeral tomorrow and that if we promised not to tell Bishop Mulligan on him, he’d not tell on us. He’s a good man.” Sam nodded and added “ Reverend Jackson said more or less the same. He was distraught when he had to tell the Littles that Bishop McEntaggart had refused burial in the new graveyard and then the Littles being so sympathetic toward him nearly broke his heart altogether…..” He trailed off as he and Sean heard the gate open and they saw the clergy men approach.
“Good evening Sean, fine work gentlemen “ Fr.McPhillips said before Rev.Jackson added “ Good evening Sam, thank you both, Susan has a spot of supper ready for you both down at the house.” Sam and Sean nodded , mumbled their thanks and left them alone. They stood quietly, heads bowed before the grave.
Rev.Robert Jackson broke the silence. “ I thought we’d moved on from all of this. Poor Henry was no more a lunatic than I am. He had a vivid imagination, loved his faerie stories , had a weird charm over animals, was full of wild energy and an unfortunate habit of questioning and showing up his elders, but no more than that. No one in this parish believes he drowned himself. He was just trying to save that blasted dog of his from the frozen lake. The bishop is just using this to get back at William for marrying one of your lot.”
“I know” Fr.Michael McPhillips replied, “ But just look at what is happening now. Both sides of the parish defying their bishops, risking excommunication and coming together to celebrate the short but sparkling life of that young rascal Henry Little. William and Wynne are overwhelmed with the support they are getting from everyone. This is the start of something and we have Henry to thank.” He put his arm on his friend’s shoulder.
“I’m being moved out of the parish, Michael, McEntaggart thinks I’ve ‘gone native’ and wants me out. What will happen here , and to Henry after I’ve gone ?” He was pained.
“Listen, my friend, after the ceremony tomorrow there will be no real sign that anything happened at all. No one uses this place anymore. I’ll visit every day and every day I’ll cut one branch of that hedge in front of this grave and plant one sapling behind it. Three of my people, the Greenan’s, have farms up this road and they’ll all do the same every day. Overtime this hedge will be bigger and replace the old one. Henry will be in the graveyard proper. And then we’ll put up the headstone. He won’t be alone, there will always be someone to look over him.” Michael smiled.
The two men shook hands and walked towards the gate.
The sound of the gate closing woke him. It was starting to snow. He looked over to Henry’s grave and the headstone was there once more, the robin sitting on top. He looked around and saw a holly bush to his left in the hedgerow brimming with red berries and went and gathered a few of the branches together and fashioned a simple wreath which he placed on Henry’s grave. He said a prayer, took his glove off and touched his fingers to his lips and then gently touched the top of the grave saying “Happy Christmas Henry, God Bless.”
He returned to the car , he’d need to hurry home, the snow was falling heavier now. He put his key in the ignition and looked up to see the robin land on the snow covered bonnet. It tilted its head to the side looking at him and then seemed to nod in acknowledgement, he nodded back, the robin flew off again.
