https://widgetworld3.wordpress.com/podcasts/ Ancient Greek pair of terracotta boots. Early geometric period cremation burial of a woman, 900 BC. Ancient Agora Museum in Athens. wp.oSo I went home and tested my theory.
A few factors had to be taken into consideration prior to analysis. First of all I didn’t possess a pair of glass slippers. I only had the leather ankle boots Mother bought us each and every September, to last the winter. Each and every September we were led out, like ducks in a row, to Coen’s shoe shop. ‘Twas in town so we were all dressed in our Sunday best, including Mother.
Mr Coen was a thousand years old, as bald as an American eagle and he wore two pairs of glasses. One were always on his nose, the other hung on a chain around his neck. He called Mother ‘Lily’ which I thought a bit impertinent, considering he wasn’t married to her. Only daddy called her ‘Lily’ and that was only sometimes. Most times he called her Mother, like we did. But Mr Coen was nice so I forgave him that indiscretion.A chair by the window Van Gogh’s Chair
He would start by greeting Mother and putting out a nice soft chair for her by the window. That way she could watch the street and us at the same time. Then he would set to measuring our feet. One by one we’d have to stand in a metal picture of a shoe and he’d narrow it down until it touched our toes. Then he’d pull it back, just a bit, to give us room for growth. Then he’d tell Mother how big we’d got since last year and pat us on the head. After that, out would come the footwear. God there were millions of shoes in that shop, mostly in boxes. Mr Coen had boxes lined from wall to wall and from ceiling to floor. He had to use the ladder he kept near the till to get to some of them. I always wanted to climb it and so whenever he went within an asses’ roar of the thing I’d offer to help him. t’s the picture of Italian ice-cream in a shop of Rome, Italy Alessio Damato wikipedia.org He always said, “no, thank you” and followed it by telling me that I was a credit to my mother for my manners, offering to help an old man. And he always said it loud enough for Mother to hear. I was glad of that. I’d look at Mother in the hope there might be a ice cream in it for me, on account of my goodness and all, but she knew I was only a chancer. ‘Twasn’t help I was offering but an opportunity to climb Mr Coen’s ladder. She’d acknowledge Mr Coen’s judgement with a polite nod and a soft murmur and throw me the stare, the one with the raised eyebrow and the half smile that said it all. You could nearly hear her thinking,“I’m up to your tricks daughter of mine”.
Mothers are smart.
Most of the shoeboxes were white. Mr Coen had written the size of the shoes inside with black marker on the edge of every single one of them. No wonder he looked so old. It must have taken him years. Here and there, like currants in a cake, you’d get the odd fancy box. Some were brown with squiggles around the rim, a couple were blue, but there was one red one, right up high, all on its own. I always wondered what it held. You’d lose the will to live. Shoe Fluoroscope on display at the National Museum of Health and Medicine, manufactured by Adrian Shoe Fitter, Inc. circa 1938, that was used in a Washington, DC, shoe store.Our shoes, or ankle boots rather, always came in white boxes. They were always ankle boots, and they were always lace ups. Mother never varied from that. Best of all, they were always lined with fur. I don’t think it was real fur but it was soft and warm and beige. When you put the boot on for a try it was like your foot was being hugged. I loved the feeling and I always said ‘perfect Mr Coen, thank you’ when Mr Coen asked if it fitted.
The fecker was never happy with the answer.
You’d have to spend the next ten minutes walking up and down the room while he stared at your feet. Then you’d have to stand still as a statue and straight as a tack while he tried to crush your big toe through the top of the boot, then you’d have to walk again. After that you’d have to sit while he tried to pull it off and it laced. In my mind there was no logic to that element of the procedure at all. The whole process took forever. You’d lose the will to live waiting for him to finish.
And all the while Mother would sit in the chair by the window, in her best hat and her best coat and her brown handbag that she only used for business, and she would watch quietly. And by gum, when Mother was watching you did what you were told, without question. Mr Coen could have set the boots and myself on fire to test them and I wouldn’t have uttered a word. But fair play to him, those boots always lasted the winter or until we grew out of them. He knew his job. He sold Mother footwear that went the distance. Of strong and durable leather, not glass.Shoelaces Jonas Bergsten wikipedia.org
Because of that, when I undertook my Cinderella tests I had to take into account the strength of my boots. I decided that ‘twas the landing more than the fall I had to concentrate on. If the boot stayed on the step, there was hope for the slipper. If it fell off the step it was bound to chip or break. That being the case the real truth behind the Grimm Brothers would be exposed. They were only a pair of chancers with black spots on their tongues from lying.
JOANIE
Lemon trees, now that’s another thing. Don’t they pee all over them down in Australia? The people that is, probably the dogs too. I got that straight from the horse’s mouth, from Joan Maher. My namesake, Joan. She always calls me Joanie and I call her Joan, it saves confusion. The whole town sets the pair of us apart the same way. She was down visiting her son and his wife and the new baby in Australia. Adelaide. Everyone has lemon trees in their back yard. Imagine. And orange trees too. And peaches. Her lad Fintan took her to barbecues all over the place. ‘Twas very nice, the food was delicious – but the heat! That’s another story. It would fry you alive. She says that going out the back yard is like walking into an oven. Hard to imagine that. And the spiders! Awful entirely! I wouldn’t be so keen to admire spiderwebs if I lived there, and that’s for sure.
“Mother of God! “I’ve never seen the like,” she said.
“The house spiders are the size of mice with legs, and they’re not the bad ones. ‘Tis the tiny ones that get you. They have the poison”.
She couldn’t remember what they were called for a while, but then it came to her.
“Redbacks!” she says. Redback“Redback spiders that’s what they are. Fintan showed me one down by his shed. He took me down the first morning I was over. ‘Twas all I was able for, with the jet lag. The excitement of seeing himself and Ellen and the baby was the only thing that kept me going the first week. I swear to God, I’d have been in a coma otherwise. Lovely house. It’s a fixer upper but you can tell it has potential. Four good size bedrooms and two bathrooms. A little bit of work and it’ll be a palace. Ellen says he’s at it every weekend and most nights after work as well, inside and out.
He has pavers bought for the new path to the clothesline and he has them stacked by the side of the shed. Would you believe they weren’t in it a week before those feckin’ Redbacks started building in them.
“Isn’t that terrible!” says I. I must get her to show me some pictures of Fintan’s new pavers. She’s sure to have some.
“I know, and what’s worse, they aren’t easy to spot. He had to point one out to me, a Redback. There it was, sitting on the edge of one of the bricks, happy as Larry in the sunshine”.
“O for heaven’s sake”, says I.
“‘Twas a lot smaller than I was expecting says Joan.
“You know yourself, when you hear of something dangerous you kind of expect it to be big and impressive.”
“I know, I know,” says I.
“Go on”.
“It was a very pretty. No. Pretty wouldn’t be the right word for it. What would you call it?” says Joan.
“Attractive,” says I. I was only throwing the word out there, having had no personal experience with Redback spiders.
“D’you know – that’s a good word for it. Attractive rather than pretty, like a man can be attractive rather than handsome”, and she gives me the wink. I rolled my eyes.
“Mind you,” says the bauld Joan
“Aren’t they all the same in the dark with the lights off!”
“God forgive you, you dirty article. Will you behave yourself”. I hit her a clout with the teatowel, but only in jest. Joan was mighty crack, even on a bad day.
“Jesus, we’ll never get to the end of the story with a mind like yours. All that shagging sunshine and still a mind like a sewer. And the age of you!”
“You’re never too old for some things a girleen” she swatted back at me with a laugh.
“You bloody well are”, says I.
“At our age you could crack a hip? Or you could lose your teeth in the heat of the moment. And where would you be then? Down on your hands and knees with your arse in the air searching for them under the bed.”You could lose your teeth in the heat of the moment and where would you be then?
“Ara it might be well worth it…if they could get past the cobwebs and dust – and ‘tisn’t the floor by the bed I’m talking about!”
“Oh Jesus you’ll burn for that”. I gave her another swat of the tea towel, for emphasis.
“I hope they didn’t let you next nor near a beach in Australia, you’d have all those young lads terrorised.”
“They might have loved it. You know yourself there’s no substitute for experience”, says Joan. She had a comeback for everything. You couldn’t be up to her.
“Next you’ll be telling me you had a toy boy over there”. I laughed.
“I did not indeed. More’s the pity. Australia missed out badly this time round. Mind you, I might have let the side down. My God, it’s been more than a decade since I saw a willy. At this stage I’d hardly know what to do with one. I’d need a map and a manual – and a compass. Might well even have to stop and ask for directions!”
I’d need a map and a manual – and a compass.
“Will you get back to the story and don’t be talking filth”.
“’Alright. Alright. You could call the Redback, or at least the one I saw, an..attractive creature” she nods with a smile.
“Jet black all over with a stroke of brilliant red down the back, like someone took a bit of nail varnish to it. You’d nearly pick it up; thinking someone had lost a ring or an earring. ‘Twas the perfect size for either. But by gum you’d get a rude awakening if you did!”
Joan leaned at me over the table as she tapped its surface, for emphasis.
“They’re deadly,” says she.
“Really?” says I.
“Full of poison,” she tapped every word.
“Fintan says they have two sharp little fangs on them and that one bite from the dirty feckers would make a grown man sick for days. And..” she paused to make sure she had my undivided attention. She needn’t have bothered. Joan was impossible to ignore, but I let her off with it.
“If it was a small child, he’d be dead”. She hit the table a smack with the palm of her hand, exterminating the Redback spider before it had a chance to get next or near her.
“Jesus!” I said.
“Yes!” Joan agreed, pursing her lips and fixing her cardigan, as she always does when she’s delivered a meaty bit of information.
“Well, I told Fintan straight away that he’d want to gut that garden of his and make damn sure there isn’t a spider alive in it before that baby starts crawling. Especially as they look so nice. If I thought it bright enough to be an earring, couldn’t a child think it was a sweet or something, and put it in their mouth? Where would we be then? Going back for a funeral, God forbid! It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Aren’t we lucky here really”, I said.
“They’re only a nuisance with their webs. They’re not out to kill you”.
“You’re too right”, agreed Joan.
“I’m telling you I’ve lost sleep since I came home, worrying”.
“Oh look now,” says I.
“That young lad of yours has a fine head on his shoulders. He’s no fool. I’ll guarantee you he won’t let a spider within an asses’ roar of that child. Those pavers will be laid faster than you could spit. You know that. Always a hard worker is your Fintan. And sur’ look at Ellen. I’ve yet to meet a girl with more sense and you know her far better than I do. And won’t the child be spending most of his time in the house, what with the heat and all. You couldn’t let a child out in that heat. You’ve nothing to worry about. That child is as safe as houses”.
That seemed to cheer Joan a little.
“He’s a good lad, our Fintan. Feckers those spiders are. Absolute feckers! There’s no call for that sort of creature in this world. Could they not just be normal? It’s that feckin’ heat for you!”
She still had the pinch in her brow from thinking about it, but despite herself she had to agree with me. Her new grandchild would be well minded indeed.
“And what about the other spiders – the house ones? They’re not too bad are they?” says I.
“Oh Lord, Joanie”, she said.
“The house spiders. The Huntsman Spider. There’s a tale in itself. Didn’t Fintan tell me about them and I hardly listened. I let it go in one ear and out the other because it was the Redbacks that were bothering me. But one night, weren’t be coming back from Ellen’s sisters house, after another barbecue. I don’t think I’ll be eating meat for the rest of the year I had so much of it. ‘Twas all lovely though. Anyway, one night we were coming back from Eileen’s, must have been around ten or eleven, ‘twas dark and Fintan led the way to the front door on account I might not see the step. He wanted to be in first to put on the porch light. I was coming along behind with Ellen, the child asleep in her arms. The poor little creature had a busy day indeed, and as good as gold every step of the way.” Joan beamed at me and nodded in agreement with herself.
“Where would he leave it?” said I.
“Sure I remember little Fintan, a pure angel of a child. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”.
“Ah, you’re right there, but let me finish.” Joan put down her cup, carefully. The way you knew something good was coming up.
“Go on”, I said.
“Well, doesn’t Fintan put the key in the door to open it, and I behind him, when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye ‘Twas only a glance and I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. You know yourself what it’s like trying to see in the dark at our age”.
I nodded. “Feck!” I thought, the story sounded worthy of another pot of tea. Too late now – Joan was building up to something.
Should I brew another pot?“But, at a glance didn’t it look kind of like he’d grown a spare hand. It was right beside the hand opening the door, right on the wall beside it”. Joan gave a wave in the direction of my fridge. So that would have been Fintan’s left hand, I reckoned. I didn’t ask for fear I’d interrupt her flow.
“Ah sur’ I thought it must be my imagination so I let it go. I thought it must be a shadow or something. ‘Twas late, I was tired, the day was long”.
“Indeed”, I agreed.
“Well, in he goes and turns on the light for us and, Sweet Mother of Jesus! ‘Tisn’t a shadow at all! It’s a spider the size of his hand! I kid you not”.
“Ah go on!” says I.
“Not a word of a lie. May I die on this spot if I’m lying to you.”
“Christ almighty”, says I.
“Sure that’s not natural”.
“I’m telling you, ‘tis the heat Joanie. There’s no other excuse for it. It brings the poison out in them or makes them grow like weeds. You can’t win either way. The feckin’ thing was the size of our Fintan’s hand. You could even see its eyes. It’s eyes Joanie! All eight of them and the hair parted around them. Jesus! I nearly died on the spot!”
“What did you do?”
“What else did I do but let a roar out of me that would shatter glass. I woke the poor child. And did I care I ask you? I didn’t give a shite because then do you know what happened? As soon as I opened my mouth I must have frightened it as much as it did me. The curse of hell on it didn’t that scutterin’ spider jump. Jesus! Who knew spiders could jump? I didn’t for one. The shaggin’ thing was like something out of the Exorcist, I’ll tell you. It didn’t just jump, it feckin’ levitated! Clean across the doorway, right in front of my face and landed on the glass at the other side of the door. ‘Twas that close I felt its dirty, hairy arse across my cheek as it went past, I’m not kidding! We were that closely acquainted I should have given the gobshite my phone number entirely. I’m expecting flowers and a card from it at the very least some time soon. I’m lucky I didn’t swallow the damn thing entirely and choke to death”.
“Thank God you’ve a strong heart!” I really tried not to laugh, but there wasn’t a hope in hell.
“Strong heart? Strong heart? Not any more Joanie. That spider took ten years off my life, I’m telling you. I’ll never be right. The second I kissed its arse, against my will I might add, that was it entirely for me”. I let another roar out of me that you could have heard here, if you had your window open, and I took off down the driveway.” Joan started to smile and then to chuckle.There isn’t a camera invented that could capture the speed of me.
“I hadn’t a clue where I was going, or which way was up. I didn’t know a soul in Adelaide other than Fintan and Ellen, but I didn’t give a curse in hell. I was damned if I was going to share a porch with a spider that could eat a small child. ‘Twas every man for himself. I was gone like a bat out of hell, roaring like a banshee down the road. The new shoes got a serious workout let me tell you. Heels or no heels, there were sparks flyin’ out of them at the speed I made. I’d have left tracks on the shaggin’ roadrunner’s head! Jesus! Wiley Coyote would have retired in despair. And you can forget Usain Bolt. I’d have left him scratching his arse at the starting line! I broke every record there was, and then some. If you could have taken a feckin’ photo I’d have only been a blur. There isn’t a camera invented that could capture the speed of me. Sweet Jesus!” Joan wiped a tear of laughter.
There was no hope for me at that stage. I couldn’t speak.
“Christ, if I could run like that every day of the week I’d be famous. I’d have medals up the yacksee, but that was the least of my worries. Not only was I screeching like a banshee, I’m damn sure I looked like one too. The hair was standing on the back of my neck like a peacock’s tail and I was clattering myself round the head as I ran for fear it had latched on. How did I know that the fecker didn’t taken another leap at me as I hit off down the road? Sur’ weren’t we already intimately acquainted? He might have loved the feel of me and wanted another go. I might be a kinky spider’s ultimate fantasy. The damn thing was big enough to have a brain, and a perverted on at that. The arse wipe! And it had the legs to reach me for a repeat performance if it wanted. Jesus! The size of those legs, tree trunks they were. I’m telling you ‘tis only by the grace of God I’m sitting before you now.”
“Stop Joan, my pelvic floor!” says I. I was doubled over at this stage in fear of either wetting myself of having a heart attack or both simultaneously. If I was pushed for choice I’d rather wet my knickers any day of the week, and that has nothing to do with health and safety. It’s all about planning. Wet knickers are a lot easier do deal with than a heart attack. You can strategise for one, but not the other.Handbag – embroidered silk taffeta – black glass pearls from a late Victorian mourning dress. Flickr – Wilhelm Storm
If you’re going out and you’re prone to leakage you can plan for the odd surprise in your undergarments. A spare knickers in your handbag covers all eventualities, and quite nicely too. But a heart attack is a different ball game entirely. No organisation is involved. It just happens. When and where it happens is just a matter of pure chance. I find that element of uncertainty highly unpleasant because it leaves knickers completely out of the equation. Now I’d rather not have a heart attack at all, but left to choice, if it had to happen, I’d hope it might hit me when I was out shopping. God forbid it should happen, but live or die, that would be my personal preference, because I’d most definitely be wearing my best knickers.
In my day you never went out unless you were properly groomed, and that included decent underwear. Mother drilled that rule into us since the day we said goodbye to nappies in our house. I’ve followed her guidance in that matter religiously. To this day once I’m abroad in the street I couldn’t give a rat’s arse if a hurricane hit and blew the skirt clean off me. While there might be a measure of embarrassment involved I’d still rest happy in the knowledge that my infrastructure was well upholstered, and with taste. I could handle a heart attack in public view, consoled in the knowledge that I wouldn’t give the ambulance lads reason to gossip about my unmentionables as they resuscitated me.
There’s lovely knickers to be had today too, much nicer than the shapeless Gandhi pants we were stuck in as children. You’re spoiled for choice. I got a new set in Penney’s not long ago and they’re gorgeous. Black, naturally, with a fancy little bow at the front, only a tiny one though, so it doesn’t show through your clothes. And there’s good coverage in them too, over the front, round the back and up the waist. I got five pairs that came together in a little plastic bag, all rolled up nice and neat, for only a couple of Euro.
And they have thousands of knickers, Penneys do. For all shapes and sizes. Some of them look like doilies with all the lace on them. Others are see through. I can’t see the attraction in that. Wouldn’t it be like looking at a ferret in a fishing net?
Mind you, they have a few and you’d swear to God they forgot the knickers entirely and just packaged the elastic! Jesus! Where’s the warmth in those? All they have is a little line of thread that goes right up your crack without a ‘by your leave’. For all the good they are you might as well just tie on a tea bag with a bit of dental floss and be done with it. Then at the very least you could make yourself a hot drink and clean your teeth after. They’d serve some purpose.
I’m told those little stringeens are the fashion. Well, if they are ‘tis no wonder half the young ones walk around with a grimace on them like a dead fish. How could they be comfortable in them? Wouldn’t you give yourself a hysterectomy just walking? If you had to run for a bus or something the heat of your arse cheeks rubbing together could well set fire to the little stringeen that’s stuck to your nether regions and burn the giblets clean off you. There’s great coverage in them too.Give me the auld reliables any day. Especially for a heart attack and especially out around town.
Everything would be covered, and well covered, especially my backside. The whole drama surrounding a heart attack could be undertaken without a skerrick of embarrassment on anyone’s part, regardless of the outcome. I would happily twitch like a flounder on the footpath until the ambulance came. They could haul me off, dead or alive in my clean knickers as far away as they wanted to take me. As for the spare knickers in my handbag, if I came out of it alive I’d be sure to need them later. If not, they could bury me in them. I’m sure spare knickers are few and far between in a hospital or a morgue. They’d probably congratulate me or my dead corpse for my foresight and planning.
It would be an entirely different ballgame if I went belly up at home in my kitchen. And again, it’s down to the knickers. I have round the house knickers. I don’t know if I’m alone in that but let me tell you, my round the house knickers have seen better days. Some are so holey that you’d think I was wearing a windsock. The elastics are shot in a couple of others and it’s only for the Grace of God and my support stockings they’re holding on to my arse at all. Most days I scarcely leave the house so it doesn’t matter. They serve their purpose adequately enough for pottering around inside. I even make use out of them when they’ve gone past the point of no return and given up on any illusion of cover. I give the really old ones a good boil and use them for dusting. Might as well, holes or no holes there’s still enough cloth left in them to sail a ship. They make do as a hair net as well when you’re dusting cobwebs and you can wrap them around the broom handle and give those hard to reach corners a good wipe. I even cover the kitchen stool with one when I have to stand on it to change a bulb. It saves the cushion.
With a bit of imagination old knickers can be very versatile around the house. But not beyond it. Most definitely. I couldn’t countenance a heart attack indoors unless the Good Lord gave me enough energy to crawl up the stairs and change my smalls before the ambulance came.
If it hit me when I was dusting I’d be ruined entirely.
The poor feckers would be met with the sight of an auld one gasping her last in holy knickers, with another pair on her head and a third tied to the handle of the broom. Knowing my luck I’d have the good pair in my frozen hand with not enough life left in me to put them on. God Almighty, they’d either think I was crazy or playing some weird kind of sex game, home alone. If the heart attack didn’t kill me there and then I’d die of mortification.
But the state of my knickers meant nothing to Joan. Not that she’d know, as I don’t tend to advertise my undergarments. Who does that in company? Anyway, she was on a roll.
“Yourself and your pelvic floor!” she roars at me.
“Wasn’t I just assaulted by a spider the size of a dog. A bit of sympathy please. I was nearly ready for a pacemaker by the time Fintan caught me after my hundred-yard dash. He was completely out of breath and I was so busy roaring I didn’t have time to take one. And then d’you know what happened?”
“Stop!” I gasped. But she didn’t.
“I got such a fright when Fintan grabbed a hauld of me, didn’t I hit him a clatter that would have poleaxed a cow. Naturally he wasn’t expecting it. Down he went on knee, straight onto the hard road like he took an immediate and urgent notion to say a quick decade of the rosary. He even had his hand to his mouth like he was kissing the beads. In point of fact, the poor creature was checking to see if I had split his lip.He had an expression on him like a goose looking down the top of a bottle..
Jesus Christ above! I’m sure I gave the poor child concussions. There he was, the fruit of my loins and he trying to save me, and I damn near killed him. He had an expression on him like a goose looking down the top of a bottle for the next two days, God help the child. I can only pray the damage wasn’t permanent. I was afraid to suggest a trip to the doctor for fear he would let on his mother hit him a smack. Can you imagine that? It’d probably end up on the telly, with me behind bars in a prison suit, peering out at the camera through my bifocals, and a big hairy bastard of a spider sitting on top of my head! And when you think it couldn’t get any worse who comes along?”
“Ah Jesus!” I was laughing so hard I was missing half the drama.
“Not Jesus at all, a girleen, though Divine intervention would have helped greatly in the heat of the moment. Doesn’t the whole street come running because they think an aul’ one is being mugged down the road. And what do they find? I’ll tell you what, a hysterical old granny swearing like a fishwife, running rings around a young lad in the middle of the road who appears to be praying, and all over a spider. I’ll never forget it, and they won’t either!”
“No!” I squeaked.
“There isn’t an ounce of compassion in you Joanie Corbett, the curse of hell on you. I doubt they’ll ever let me back into Australia after that. You should have seen me. Oh I’ll never be right after that” laughed Joan. She loved to see me helpless.
“I’m sick. I’m sick now. The tea is above in my throat. Feck you”, says I.
When we finally managed to compose ourselves we made another pot of tea and she filled me in on the Australian barbecues. That’s how I learned about the lemons.
Émile Bertrand’s poster for Massenet’s Cendrillon, advertising the première at the Théâtre National de l’Opéra-Comique, Paris. 1899 Wikipedia.org
I was particularly fond of ‘Sleeping Beauty’s’ man. God he was lovely, with his dark brown hair and his big broad shoulders. He had sense too, not like Cinderella’s.
There was a lot wrong with him. Indeed there was a lot wrong with the whole story.
Even as a child I thought it a bit odd that you’d marry someone because they could fit a stray shoe.
And a glass one at that.
Who makes a glass shoe in the first place? That fairy godmother must have been a card short of a deck to send the poor child out in those things.
How did she walk without chipping them and how in heaven’s name did she dance the night away in them?
Why didn’t either one or both of them break on the steps of the palace when she ran home?
The steps were all marble. We had marble steps on the altar of St. Joseph’s and you’d nearly rupture a knee if you knelt too hard for communion. There was a long leather cushion on it and all but that didn’t make a blind bit of difference to you or your knees if you went down too fast.
Thank God they put an end to that.
Now you can stand if you want and you can even get the communion put in your hand.
I like that.
But I learnt plenty about marble steps in the meantime.
The bauld Cinderella wasn’t dressed for mass anyway.
Christian Dior evening dress of 1954 dress on exhibit at the Indianapolis Museum of Art
How the hell did she get down those marble stairs with her shoes intact? And how did the shoe that flew off not break?
I reasoned that maybe it was because it was near the ground, as shoes tend to be when you wear them.
It hadn’t far to fall so maybe that was why it survived.
But she was running. They told us so in the book.
There’s an added impediment worthy of consideration.
If you combined her momentum with her angle of descent that shoe should have flown clean off, hit the steps with a clatter and shattered into smithereens, most likely taking half her foot with it. Mind you, if that happened the prince wouldn’t have had to run around the countryside like an egit looking for her. He could have followed the bloody trail of her torn feet home. He mightn’t have been too keen on seeing her though, with her toes in tatters. It would put an end to her dancing as well. No doubt about it.
But even though she ran and even though she ran down marble steps, and even though she wore glass shoes, and even though one fell off, it didn’t break. Why not?
That was a real conundrum for my young mind. .
I thought that maybe it only fell a little bit, or slid more than fell. That might have saved the shoe.
But I had to know for sure.
So I went home and tested my theory.
We’ve had movie stars here before John Wayne fm Howard Hawk’s Rio Bravo Trailer Wikipedia.org https://widgetworld3.wordpress.com/2013/06/13/movie-stars/
We’ve had movie stars here before. And in out of the way places. Mary Theresa Hynes’ first cousin’s friend met John Wayne down a boreen in Cong when she was bringing home the cow for milking. She got such a fright she hopped the wall and hid behind a hedge til he passed. Egit. The poor cow was left swinging her teats by the grass verge wondering if this was a new route to the cowshed. Then didn’t John Wayne hit it a slap on the arse as he was passing and it tore off down the boreen in the opposite direction to the house. You think he’d know better with all the cowboy movies he did? He’s lucky he didn’t get a kick in the goolies from the cow. There’d be no westerns for him for a while if that happened. He’d have his arse in a sling. Anyway, didn’t the cow run so fast that the poor creature left a trail of milky splashes in its wake and it took Mary Theresa’s cousin’s friend the best part of half an hour to corner it, calm it down and turn it back. She hadn’t much time for John Wayne after that, but wasn’t it her own fault in the first place? Who hops a wall when a movie star is coming? Complete egit.
Didn’t Paul Newman nearly run into Mrs Broderick? Dr. Macro – Wikipedia.org
Closer to home didn’t Paul Newman nearly run Mrs Broderick, our local nurse into the ditch up the Moy Road. He came round Hynes’s bend like the clappers in a huge black car and she nearly went over the wall trying to avoid him. She said that only for Peteen Hyne’s hadn’t closed the gate to his field after bringing the cows for milking she would have been buried in the front bumper of Paul Newman’s car. Peteen took due for credit for saving her life. He said ’twas lucky it didn’t happen a half-hour earlier or he could well have lost an animal to Mr Newman’s negligence.
“Movie star or no movie star, he can’t be flying round roads like that where there’s animals concerned,” was Peteen’s judgement, to which all agreed. ‘Twas high drama for the Moy Road at that hour of morning.
Credit to Mr Newman, he made sure Mrs Broderick was all right and he shook her hand before heading onwards. They talked a little too. You never saw a happier woman left standing in the brambles. She visited every house in the parish, including ours, for a cup of tea ‘to help with the shock’. Everyone knew ’twas only an excuse to share the dirty details of her adventure but no one minded. He was a big movie star after all, so it was worthy of hearing.
“’Gee Miss, I’m so sorry. I hope you’re alright’ says the bauld Paul to me” she gushes to Mother.
“And he called me Miss. Miss, not Mrs. More than once I might add”.
No talk of the Garda or the courthouse I can tell you Wikipedia.org
He was a smart man that Paul Newman. Auld ones like Mrs Broderick love that sort of thing. It makes them feel young. With a compliment like that he could have left tyre tracks on her first-born’s head and she wouldn’t have cared. No talk of the Garda, or the Courthouse even then I can tell you.
“And the eyes on him!” says Mrs Broderick to Mother.
“Glorious. They’d cut through you, like the blade of a knife. Sapphires they were. Azure blue. I’m telling you ’twas like looking into the waters of the Mediterranean”.
“Really?” said Mother and she hanging off every word like it was gold. And then, didn’t the two of them start giggling. Not laughing mind. Giggling. ‘Twas disgusting. Then Mother told me to get out and take some fresh air. Feck that. She only wanted me out so they could talk shite about Paul Newman, and the pair of them married. And the age of them. I went straight into the back yard. Hens were better company than the two dirty articles inside.
Photo: Norma Scheibe https://widgetworld3.wordpress.com/2013/06/12/the-calling/
When she didn’t feel like reading ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales’ Sr. Assumpta would tell us holy stories, mostly about the baby Jesus and how smart and wonderful he was. He seemed like a nice lad though I always felt sorry for him being an only child. When I was small a family with only two children was hardly worth the effort. God it makes me laugh when I think of the nonsense that went on in my young mind. The baby Jesus.
I often wondered if he started small, with his miracles. You know, before he did a big one in public.
Did he practice them in his bedroom or out the back yard where no one could see?
And if he did, what was his first miracle?
Maybe he fixed the strap of his sandal or magicked jam on his bread?
Would God have let him – put jam on his bread – or would he have been too holy for jam?
Feck.
I’ve slobbered my tea. If anyone saw me sitting here laughing to myself they’d have me committed.
Poor baby Jesus.
Married to Sr Assumpta, a shilling short of a pound.
God bless the mark.
Herself and The Calling.
She said it could happen overnight. The Calling. To join the nuns.
She said we could go to bed every night for years with no problem.
But one fine night, when we least expected it we could have a dream and wake up with a burning desire to serve Our Lord.
Once that happened there was no turning back.
No matter what we’d do or where we’d go, there’d be no avoiding it. Once you got the calling you had to answer and the only way to answer was to become a nun. And just in case we had any doubts about it she told us that’s exactly what happened to her.
“Sweet Jesus!” thought I.
“Is it as swift and as brutal as that? The Calling?”
My Communion Beads were nearly worn out with the exertion Photo;Daniel Tibi
I had visions of waking up one morning at the ripe old age of six, dressed in a habit from head to toe, cross and all, and that would be the end of me. I’d have to leave home and head to the convent with nothing to do but pray all day. No running, no skipping, no nothing. Just praying.
I was rattled.
I went home from school that evening in a state of shock, punctuated by terror. Over the next few days I got quieter and quieter around the house, not a natural state for a six-year-old. If truth be known I was frantically praying that the Good Lord would pass me over and choose another girl to be a nun. My communion beads were nearly worn out from the exertion. They were under my pillow every night and in my schoolbag or my pocket every day.
I’d even hatched a plan.
I’d offer another in my place instead. Mary Theresa Hynes was the obvious choice.
It crossed my mind that she might not want to be a nun either, but I reasoned she had only herself to blame for the nomination. She always made it known she had all the mysteries of the rosary down pat and she was only the same age as me. Indeed she was ahead of us all at school, in everything. She was the pick of the crop as it were and God would hardly have to train her at all. She looked nunny too. Always had the top button of her shirt done, just like Sister Assumpta and she wore a silver Saint Christopher medal from Knock that she got when she was on a pilgrimage with her Mother.
I didn’t even know where Knock was.
The Romans were great at it. Statue of Aphrodite Courtesy Wikipedia.org
Mary Theresa had done serious praying. Rumour had it she had a luminous rosary she used at home in bed at night. It glowed in the dark so she could practice her mysteries.
Oh yes, God already had a good grip on Mary Theresa with all her knowledge of the rosary and her goodness. She never put a foot wrong.
But that could be a problem in itself. There would be no effort involved on God’s behalf. What if God liked a challenge?
That merited some thought.
God never did things the easy way.
I mean, he could have just magicked us all to have sense and love him, but instead he sent Jesus down to earth to convert us. That was much harder because we were all pretty useless at the time. We were kissing golden calves and sacrificing things all over the place. There was a new religion for every day of the week and some of them were only excuses to do all sorts of sinful stuff. The Romans were great at it. When they weren’t killing and raping left, right and centre, they were lying on couches eating grapes until they nearly burst. And they had heaps of slaves – dozens of little pagans grabbed from their beds at night and sold like tea, or flour.
T’was terrible.
But what does God do to change our ways?
Instead of putting the fear of God into us by appearing himself, he goes and sends Jesus to ask us nicely. You’d have to admire his courage, not God’s – Jesus’ courage. No offence to God but Jesus was the one that ended up crucified. That must have hurt big time. He was tortured too with the lashes and the crown of thorns.
If someone did that to my brothers or even to Kate, there’d be skin and hair flying that’s for sure. Once I got Peteen Flynn straight between the two eyes with my pencil case when he knocked our Jo Jo over coming home from school. I broke the lid clean off it and Peteen ran down the road roaring like a cut cat. Served him right. Our Jo Jo was only half his size and doing no harm at all.
A person would be half afraid to cast aspersions photo: Wikipedia.org
A person would be half afraid to cast aspersions at God in case they got hit by a bolt of lightening or something, but in fairness, poor Jesus came out badly at the end of it all.
Even God must see that.
Dying was handy for Jesus because he was going home to his angels and stuff.
At the same time, it’s kind of mean that he got there by being tortured and killed and poor Jesus took an awful pounding before he died.
I think that if daddy was around at the time it might have gone easier for Jesus.
Daddy told me that there’s more than one way to skin a cat. That means there’s a few ways of doing the same thing. Like with Jesus.
Could they not have just crucified him, or just tortured him a little bit, to give him a break? Or even better, couldn’t he have died of a heart attack after the first torture? Then he wouldn’t have had too much pain, he’d have got home to heaven and everyone would have felt sorry for him dying anyway?
Or maybe God could have given him a Panadol before the torture so it wouldn’t hurt so much?
I was most definitely a challenge.
A person shouldn’t be thinking things like that about God. If they do, they should definitely make up for it by being good. I wasn’t.
Mother was always threatening me with death for talking during Mass.
Then there was the time I drew a moustache on the statue of St. Francis of Assisi that she had in the spare room. I even coloured in the bald spot on the top of his head.
In my defence, my intentions were honourable. I thought it’d make him look more like Jesus, with the beard and all. And the long hair was sure to keep his head warm.
I still copped a belt across the arse, despite my tearful explanations.
I was no saint.
Feck.
As for my age. Six years old was the perfect age. Didn’t God love young ones? That was an unmistakable fact.
“Suffer little children to come unto me” was his catch-cry. Everyone knew that. He said it so often they put to music and we had to sing it at mass.
“Suffer little children to come unto me
For theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
Suffer little children to come unto me
For theirs is the kingdom of the Lord”.
And they did. The little children came from everywhere. We had a picture of them over the blackboard at school to prove it. There was Jesus in the middle, all dressed in white and he surrounded by children. Half of them were black babies and the other half had the arse falling out of their trousers.
I fitted right in.
All the boxes were ticked for me. Photo: wikipedia.org
I might not have been black but I was young and there were patches on the knees and elbows of every stitch of clothes I wore.
As for suffering, there was room for little else in my life at that moment. Tortured was my middle name.
Oh yes, all the boxes were ticked for me.
I hadn’t a hope.
Some fine morning I would wake up, a nun.
I was ruined.
Shite.
To put the tin hat on it, Sr Assumpta, the curse of hell on her, said The Calling came at night. Jesus! Wasn’t that worse than being told the bogeyman was coming for you? In point of fact a bogeyman would have been sweet relief. I was going to be inflicted with a veritable swarm of auld wrinkly nuns, in the flesh no less, most likely from the Poor Clare’s down the road, smack in the middle of the night. And nuns don’t make noise, I’m a witness to that. They can be up on top of you in the blink of an eye, battering dents into your head with their holy ring, before a body knew they were coming. Being nuns God would probably tell them that the third step up our stairs and the one just before the landing were the creaky ones. They’d be prepared. Mother or daddy would never hear them coming. If they did it wouldn’t matter anyway because God was calling the shots. The nuns could haul me away without as much as a ‘by your leave’.
I wasn’t having any of that.
I resolved never to close an eye again. Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri 1893 oil on cardboard Wikipedia.org
I tried not to think about God for a couple of hours while I hatched a plan, just so he wouldn’t know about it. I wasn’t sure if that would work, him being God and all, but I thought it was worth a shot.
It came to me like a bolt from the blue.
I decided sleep was for the weak so I resolved never to close an eye again. That way The Calling wouldn’t get me.
I put that plan into action straight away. That night and for the rest of the week I wouldn’t go to bed until I was threatened with a walloping. When I did I moved as far away from Kate as possible in the bed so the heat out of her wouldn’t make me drowsy. If I felt any hint of tiredness I’d hop back out and stand on the lino in my bare feet until I was nearly frozen to the floor.
I soon found out that the human body is completely useless.
Inevitably, and despite my best efforts to avoid it, sleep always came and when it did, the nightmares began. I’d scream the house down as I ran from the nuns in my dreams, until Mother came in and calmed me. That left me with no energy for the day. But I kept persisting, every single night and so it continued for four days, the lack of sleep, the broken sleep and the nightmares bringing another host of problems down on my head. By the end of the week I was half-dead with it all.
I didn’t get to clean the blackboard Masae Wikipedia.org
I forgot my four times tables at school and had to stand in the corner.
Worse still, I didn’t get to clean the blackboard. You don’t get a shot at it if you missed your tables. I was ‘it’ for the whole lunch hour doing ‘chasey’ because I didn’t have the energy for a good run. When I got home I left my copybook on the kitchen table and Jo-Jo sucked the corner off it. His mouth ended up all red too, from the dye, and Mother roared at me. Then Mother Enda took the head off me with a clout for letting him near my homework.
My life was going to hell in a hand basket.
Finally, Mother noticed something was up. She took her sweet time. A blind person could have seen that I was driven to distraction. In fairness though, Jo Jo was teething all that week so maybe she was a bit tired. Anyway one night she checked in on me about an hour after we were all supposed to be asleep, and where was I? Down on my knees praying, in the cold, in the dark, by the bed I shared with my sister, Catherine.
Kate.
I had to spill the beans. I told her about the Calling.
All Mother all did was laugh.
I thought it entirely an inappropriate reaction, given the circumstances. It seemed to me that the gravity of the situation was entirely lost on her. But I didn’t say so. No one ever gave lip to Mother. If they did, they’d be very sorry.
“Is that all it is, you oinseach?” she said.
“Is that all that’s bothering you? Mother of God and I worried you were sickening for something or your mind had gone soft.”
Then she took me close, looked into my eyes and said,
“You’re only an infant, Joanie. Why would God want you at this stage of your life? Sur’ you can hardly collect the eggs without breaking one and believe you me, souls are far more delicate. The Lord will find a use for you when you’re good and ready.”
“Mammy, are you sure?” I snorted between tears.
“Of course peteen. I wouldn’t let you off to a convent in a month of Sundays. God knows that so he wouldn’t ask you to go. Now into bed, good girl and don’t believe everything that’s told you.”
And she tucked me in.
I’d say I was asleep before she left the room and that was the best night’s sleep I got in a week.
The following day I thought about what she said. I was glad she offered to stand between the religious life and me. Daddy always said she could take on the Pope when she got mad.
She’d probably scare God too if he tried to make her change her mind.
I was safe.
‘Twas a relief and a disappointment at the same time.
I was pleased to be off the hook but to think I might not have been up for consideration at all was a little unfair.
I let that notion go, very fast.
There was no point in tempting fate. God could well change his mind.
I put down the rosary beads and from then on they only saw the light of day at Sunday Mass. Besides, Mammy always said ‘too much of anything is good for nothing’.
When you’re unwell, do you allow others to take care of you, or do you prefer to soldier on alone? What does it take for you to ask for help?
JOANIE
Only for I caught the banisters I’d have been down on my head. ‘Twas my own fault for not being careful.
Nearly killed stone dead by an empty teacup.
I always bring a cup of tea to bed with me at night. It helps me sleep and now since there’s antioxidants in it it’s only good for me. Bring it down with me when I get up in the morning, usually around 6. They’re all off to work around me at that time. With all the cars going there’s no hope of a lie in. Not that I’d would, the joints would seize for the day if I did that.
Wasn’t I holding the teacup in my left hand last Friday, as I always do, leaning against the banisters to guide myself down, as I always do, when it happened.
I felt for the first step with my foot but got caught short on the second. I thought it was wider. You’d think I’d know better and I going up and down the same steps for the last fifty years. But no. Fool here was thinking of other things and not paying attention.
It frightened the life out of me.
I let out a bit of a shout too, but only a little one.
It was down to the cup or me.
It was a nice cup too. I had it nearly three decades, part of a set I bought with the Green Shield Stamps. Maybe it’s older than that, they haven’t done the Green Shields for God knows. It had primroses front and back. Inside the rim was a little yellow bud with two leaves. You could see it every time you tilted the cup to take a sip. I was very fond of it. Last of a set.
Charles, God rest the shite, put paid to the rest of them, saucers and all, many years ago.
I’m still picking up bits of china. That’s always the way when something breaks, bits everywhere for weeks it seems. You have to be careful clearing up too. Fine bone china sticks in the skin if you try to do it in a hurry.
My hand is all cut where the cup caught it as it shattered.
Feck.
I took a fine bit chunk out of my little finger but with the fright I didn’t feel it until I saw the blood. It’s a right mess. You’d swear I’d grabbed the blade of a knife. In hindsight it probably could have used a stitch but who’d be bothering doctors at that hour of the morning? I’m not going to be one of those old cronies that run in and out to doctors and hospitals at the drop of a hat. It’ll heal.
In time.
I have it wrapped up nice and tight and there’s no more blood coming through the bandages. Unless I hit it off something, which I’m careful not to do.
It’s hurting like billyo but I have the Panadol for it.
And Marie, across the road, if I only let the poor child help me.
Jesus, no Panadol is strong enough for the pain in the arse I was last Friday. I’m rightly ashamed. Between the hurt and the fright I was like the Antichrist and poor little Marie got a bit of my bad mind. I must go over later with a biscuit and apologise. That sweet little girl only trying to help.
She caught me putting out the bin, not an hour after it happened.
“Oh Joan I see a bandage, did you hurt yourself?” she asks.
“Is she stupid? Why else would I be wearing a bandage?” says ‘Biddy bad-mind’ here to herself.
I told her nothing.
“Only a scratch” I said.
“From the roses”.
I left it at that, but she continued.
“Roses?” said she.
“Oh they can give you awful infections”.
“Have you had a tetanus recently?”
“I don’t need a tetanus”, says I.
“’Tis only a scratch”.
She couldn’t leave well enough alone. No.
“Will we pop down to the doctor?” she says.
“I’d be happy to bring you”.
“Pop my hole. If I needed a doctor I’d go myself and without any help from her”, I think to myself. Isn’t that shocking but that’s the way my mind was working. I’m putting it down to the fright. Either that or I need a personality transplant.
“No thank you”, says I.
“I’ll be fine”
Then I hit the sore part off the bin.
It lit the hand off me so I went inside again, fast. I had to run it under the tap for five minutes to cool it down, and all the while I’m bitching about the poor child, out loud, to the empty kitchen.
“I’m going to be persecuted with her again this winter. I just know it. Every second day, knock, knock.
“Here’s soup”
“Here’s stew”
“Here’s all sorts of shite”
“Do you need anything?”
“Do you want anything?”
“Can I do anything?”
Can you just feck off to hell!
Jesus!
Only for the dog I wouldn’t answer the door to her at all”.
I was rightly ashamed of myself when I calmed down.
On a bleak grey mountaintop at the edge of the world there lived a badger. To his friends he was known as Coley the Snuffler. That was his name. Coley the Snuffler liked his name because it described him very well. He loved roots and grubs and he could snuffle them out better than any other badger around. In fact he was so good he was quite round, even for a badger. But he didn’t mind.
“All the more for you to love” he’d say and waddle off, chuckling to himself. His friends chuckled also, for they loved Coley very much indeed.
Coley’s best friend in the whole wide world was Daisy. He was very pleased to have such a beautiful little flower as a friend and he minded her well. She was, after all, much smaller and far more delicate than him. With his soft warm coat he sheltered her from the cold winds that gusted down the rocky slopes of his home. With his broad grey nose he pushed pebbles around her to protect her slender stem. With his great wide feet he dug up the richest loam on the hillside and placed it at her roots to nourish her and with his great grey bulk he stood, like a wall, between her and any strange animals that chanced to pass that way in case they crushed her. At night when Coley rested between snuffles he sat beside Daisy and gazed at her beauty. Though asleep Daisy would feel the great heat radiating from him. It was so pleasant she’d uncurl her little petals to bask in his warmth. And they talked. They talked as only true friends can, heedless of the glances of passing animals who thought they were a most peculiar sight indeed.
Today’s Daily Prompt is to write about something that happened over the weekend as though it’s the top story on your local paper!!
GLASS SHATTERED IN PRIVATE RESIDENCE
A large glass was shattered on Sunday near Galway . Lila a four-year-old domestic feline caused the collision when she leapt from a windowsill to the kitchen table in an act that has been described as complete insanity. She struck a glass of water placed on there by owner, Norma. No injuries resulted from the collision. Preliminary investigations suggest that Lila’s take off was insufficient to maintain the angle and level of projection necessary to complete the manoeuvre. Norma stated that she was traumatised by the incident, and questioned her cat’s level of intelligence. “How could she not have seen it? The Clown. I mean it was a large glass, and one of a set.”
Lila was not available for comment. She absconded through the kitchen window and is currently residing in the rhododendron bushes out back.
The Burren and Beyond 