Church St, Tennis in 1987 and 1955 and Tarbert footballers

Pride Comes Before a Fall

Paddy Power on Twitter at 6.31 on Feb 2 2019:

"Anyone know a company that can take a few big billboards down within 8 minutes?

Asking for a friend. "

Smug arrogance is never a nice trait. I hope Paddy Power has learned a lesson.

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Signs of Spring

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Now and Then on Church Street

Oyster ( a mobile phone shop) and Glamour (now relocated to the Square) are now a sweet shop and Kerry Wool Shop.

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Hanging Out at the Tennis Courts

Photos; Danny Gordon

Listowel's young people have always hung out at the tennis club. These youngsters in 1987 are watching a game in progress. Cyril Kelly remembers 1955 when the game wasn't't the only attraction on the courts.

Cyril's essay was broadcast on Sunday Miscellany in 2018

SLICED BACKHAND CROSS-COURT LOB            Cyril Kelly

Every year, when the Wimbledon circus rolls round, still vivid recollections came churning up from deep in the corduroy folds of memory. Far from the sophistication of strawberries and cream, these memories have a mossy redolence rising from Feale river stones, smells of fehlerstrom, buachalán buí and crusty cow pats, all the embalmed odours of the Cows Lawn, that commonage on the edge of town where the Listowel Lawn Tennis Club had its two grass courts, plus a dilapidated railway carriage which went by the exotic moniker of The Pavilion. The tennis club was like an exclusive compound of the Raj; it was enclosed by a chicken wire fence which separated the lower caste, namely urchins like myself, from daughters of merchants, bankers and ne’er-do-wells. Unfortunately, in such a setting, togged out in durable brown corduroy jacket and short corduroy pants made by my redoubtable milliner mother, pubescent infatuation was incapable of negotiating an invulnerable passage through the layers and feverish strata of puppy love. 

In the nineteen fifties, mothers possessed an infallibility which was every bit as dogmatic as  that of Pope Pius XII. And if a boy had the temerity to question this God given right, such a heresy could always be dealt with by use of the wooden spoon, an implement of enlightenment which was often administered with ecclesiastical zeal. So, if a mother decreed that the local tennis club was off-limits, needless to mention, an explanation was neither asked for nor offered..... The ball alley was fine, and fishing for white trout was also deemed a healthy pastime, but the tennis court, where gorgeous young ones in tennis whites might be loitering, was, for mysterious maternal reasons, not granted an imprimatur. 

Therefore, on this particular evening, as I stood at the perimeter fence of the local den of iniquity, clad in my corduroy get up, I felt the giddy pleasure of the miscreant. My eager little heart was going pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat as I stood there, my face meshed to the chicken wire while I watched Patricia, the Maria Sharapova of the day. A year older than myself, Patricia had that prepossessing, pouting beauty which playfully clawed young boys’ hearts, toyed with them, and then, with feline disdain for their wellbeing, cast them aside. 

Imagine that same eager little heart when, out of the blue, Patricia called me into the enclosure and thrust one of her friend’s tennis racquets at me. 

Now, she called over her shoulder as she swaggered to the other side of the net. Love all. 

And tossing the white fluffy ball into the air, left hand tapering gracefully aloft for a split second, right hand coiled behind her, blonde hair uncurling loosely onto her shoulders, she was, for one unearthly moment, a veritable Venus, poised on the opposite baseline. But then, with what seemed like satanic intent, she unleashed a swerving serve that flashed past my despairing lunge. Fifteen love, she piped that precious word once more as she sashayed to the other side and served again. 

How I scurried around, like a manic mongrel, trying to return her shots which were whizzing past me. Unwilling to cry halt, I persisted until, panting and perspiring, they invited me into The Pavillion. As Patricia towelled her temples daintily, her Pekinese bitch snooped around me, sniffing my sandals disdainfully. 

I like your style, Patricia said and suppressed laughter tittered from her friends. Standing there awkwardly, I admitted that it was my first time playing tennis. 

I don’t mean your tennis, she scoffed, pointing. I mean your trendy trousers. 

Amid an eruption of laughter, I looked down and noticed, for the first time, the chocolate brown bands of corduroy where my pragmatic mother had let down the legs of last years faded pants. 

I never ventured near the tennis court for the rest of that season. 

And this year again, as I set my television aversion aside and tune in for Wimbledon, I know that as I watch some  poor bewildered bloke scrambling to retrieve a viciously sliced backhand cross-court lob, I will suddenly be waylaid once more by  the memory of those mortifying moments from the summer of fifty five, when the Sixth Commandment, with all it forbade and all it decreed, sat severely aloof on the umpire’s chair. 

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Footballers of Tarbert Comp.

David Kissane who trained this team posted the photo and caption on Facebook

Thirty years ago...The Tarbert Comprehensive School senior ladies Gaelic football team who won three county championships, two Munster championships and contested two All Ireland finals in the late 1980s. A privilege to have been your manager, ladies.

Christmas craft fair, Ballydonoghue magazine and a teacher heroine

The Ventry Warrior was laid to rest yesterday, his coffin shouldered by the son and nephews of whom he was so proud. His daughter read lines from Liam MacGabhann's Blind Man in Croke Park.
Kerry is poorer for Páidí ÓSé's passing. In the words of Seán Walsh at the graveside
"“May the Ventry sod rest lightly on this noble warrior and may the angels bear him 
gently to God’s happy playing field” 

Listen, asthore, for those old eyes are sealed

Tell me once more when the Kerrymen take the field

Tell an old man who is feeble, grey and old

Do they walk proudly still wearing the Green and Gold?

Jer sent me this photo of Páidí with Aidan Moloney in Dingle recently

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Today's Christmas poem

is called Kerry Candlelight and I asked Pierce Walsh to send it to me for the blog after he had told me this story one day on Church St.

"I was privileged to have been taught by the master ( Bryan McMahon ) and he imparted many great poems and stories to his pupils but one that is full of memories for me is “ A Kerry Candlelight “. After leaving school I spent a couple of years in London and I have such a vivid memory of the train journey to Hollyhead and  it was as if I was back in the Master’s classroom reciting  “ A Kerry Candlelight”"

Kerry Candlelight

1

I am standing here in Euston, and my heart is light and gay,

For ‘tis soon I’ll see the moonlight all a-dance on Dingle Bay. So behind me, then, is London, with the magic of its night,

And before me is a window filled with Kerry Candlelight.

Chorus

‘Tis the lovely light of glory that came down from heav’n on high,

And whenever I recall it, there’s a teardrop in my eye.

By the mountainside at twilight, in a cottage gleaming white,

There my true love sits a-dreaming, in the Kerry Candlelight.

2

She’ll be waiting by the turf fire; soon our arms will be entwined,

And the loneliness of exile will be lost or cast behind,

As we hear the Christmas greetings of the neighbours in the night,

Then our hearts will beat together in the blessed Candlelight.

3

Now the train is moving westward, so God speed its racing wheels,

And God speed its whistle ringing o’er the sleeping English fields,

For I’m dreaming of an altar where, beside my Breda bright,

I will whisper vows of true love in the Kerry Candlelight.

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Craft Fair

On Sunday last I attended the annual Christmas craft fair in The Seanchaí. Here are some of my photos from the fair. Such talented craftspeople we have in Kerry! I bought some of Pat's Woodford pottery mugs, really stylish and functional; my engagement gift of choice. I loved the beautiful glass products I had seen on Nationwide but I could find no excuse to buy them. 

The knitting by Anne Egan, Ella O'Sullivan, Frances O'Flaherty and Dawn Thomas was the best you will get at any craft fair anywhere. I bought too much goodies from my favourite baker at Westcove Confectionary. She makes meringues to die for and her chocolate cake is finger licking good. In fact everything she bakes is delicious. There was also beautiful jewelry, exquisitely carved wooden ornaments and Swinky Doo's beautiful fabric brooches, tree ornaments and party favors.

The Carmodys, Vincent and Dick were signing their books. 

You all know that I think Vincent's book is a treasure, but, while on a different scale, Dick's book is also a little gem. AND he has very kindly given me permission to quote from it, so look out for first hand accounts of country ways and a life of carefree innocence lived under the shadow of a country schoolhouse.

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Last week the hard working magazine committee in Ballydonoghue launched their annual publication. It is a huge triumph for such a small parish to produce such a high quality journal year after year. This year's book is a massive leap forward in terms of layout and design. There is colour on every page, the magazine is divided into colour coded sections and this year there is am emphasis on young people and on current news from the parish with beautiful colour photographs of local people.

Gerard with Mick Finucane and David Kissane

Above is Gerard Neville receiving 1^st prize in Adult Creative Writing at launch. He is seen here reflected in the beautiful mirror made from local slate which was his prize. 

His story was “ Just Caws”. He also received the Danny Curtin Perpetual Trophy. 

Gerard grew up in Inch West, Listowel, taught as Primary Teacher in Gaile N.S. Thurles,  until he took early retirement in 2009. He has had stories and poems published in both English and Irish.

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An Irish American teacher killed in the massacre in Newtown

Anne Marie Murphy lost her live trying to shield the children in her care from the gunman

"An Irish American family have paid tribute to their hero daughter who died ‘serving children and serving God’ in the Connecticut school massacre.

Mother of four Anne Marie Murphy was shot dead by gunman Adam Lanza as she protected her pupils at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn., on Friday morning.

The 52-year-old Katonah, New York native was shielding the bodies of students when Lanza opened fire on them in the tragedy which claimed 28 lives. Her body was found on top of a group of children, desperately trying
to save them.

Her grieving parents have paid tribute to their daughter in a moving interview with the New York Newsday publication.

Dad Hugh McGowan and mum Alice spoke of their broken hearts after the death of the special-education teacher, found in a classroom covering a group of children who died alongside her.

Hugh told Newsday: “A first responder said she was a hero.”

The sixth of seven children, Anne Marie’s parents described her as "artistic, a fun-loving painter, witty and hardworking."

Mum Alice said: “She was a happy soul. She was a very good daughter, a good mother, a good wife.”

The McGowans, both 86, were looking forward to welcoming Anne Marie and 36 fellow family members home for the Christmas holidays. Now they will remember the hero teacher.

“We loved being together,” Alice McGowan sighed in the Newsday interview.

Dad Hugh added: “You don’t expect your daughter to be murdered. That’s sort of a shocker. It happens on TV; it happens elsewhere.”

Mum Alice revealed how she turned to prayer when it became apparent Anne Marie wasn’t going to come home from school on Friday.

She added: “As time went by and Anne Marie didn’t contact anyone, well, then you’re waiting and waiting and waiting. When the news was confirmed, my first reaction was to grab my rosary. Then we wept.

“I’ve done my crying. Haven’t we all? I’ll miss her presence. She died doing what she loved. She was serving children and serving God.”

The McGowans attended Mass on Saturday morning at the St. Mary’s of the Assumption church in Katonah.

Father Paul Waddell explained: “I was preparing to pray at the start of Mass but I looked up and saw a lot of teary eyes.

“They told us about their daughter, that she was a teacher, she was killed in Connecticut. So we prayed at this 8 o’clock Mass for all of them and for her.”

Murphy’s family have asked that donations be sent to Autism Speaks, 1060 State Rd., 2nd Floor, Princeton, NJ 08540 or donated online at www.autismspeaks.org."