Even on Days when it Rains

by Julia O'Donnell

  Our mother was a very quiet person who loved her home and her family. She wasn’t the sort of woman who would go away visiting the neighbours to catch up on the latest gossip, she would always find something to be doing at home, where she was happiest. She was a great housekeeper.

  There was a fair day over on the mainland in Dungloe on the fourth of every month, and she and my father would make the half-hour crossing over to it in a currach. They would spend several hours sifting through the street stalls for bargains, and rarely would they come away empty-handed. They weren’t after luxuries or personal treats. They’d pick up cheap overcoats which my mother would rip apart when she got home, washing them and making our clothes with the material – suits for the boys and skirts for me and Maggie. Mammy never bought anything in that market other than an item of clothing she could make into some kind of an outfit for her children. She was a genius at sewing, really gifted with her hands. When we got flour for baking our bread, it came in large 8-stone bags. When the bags were empty, she would wash and then dye them and make lovely dresses for us. Four bags would make sheets for the beds, so she never had to buy any material. She’d knit big socks for us that we’d wear if the weather was extremely cold in the winter. And we’d go barefoot during the summer and autumn. We’d wear those socks till April, when the temperature would start to rise again.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ my mother would ask, displaying one of the garments she had designed and made from clothing she’d picked up in the market.

  ‘That’s grand. Just grand,’ we’d say.

  Mammy would smile, satisfied with the fruits of her work. Then she’d store away the garment until it was needed. Nothing was ever worn without a good reason. Everything was saved until it was absolutely essential to use it.

  In the summertime my father went over to Kincasslagh every Saturday to sell his lobsters, and then he’d buy the week’s groceries from the shop. My mother always ordered 2 pounds of mince for our Sunday dinner. After eating fish every day during the week, it was a great treat. One day my father bought the mince and then slipped into Logue’s pub for a beer as a little treat for himself. He left his bag of shopping outside because in those times you never had to worry about it being stolen, certainly not in that part of the world anyway.

  However, when he came out, Daddy was horrified to see the tail end of a dog sticking out of the bag of groceries. The dog’s tail wagging wasn’t a good sign. Sure enough, after Daddy gave the dog a kick up the backside and sent him racing off down the street, he discovered that all the mince had been eaten by the mutt. What was he going to do? He didn’t have enough money to buy more mince. And he couldn’t face going home to tell everyone what had happened. He obviously felt really stupid that he had left the meat lying around to tempt any animal. He could hardly blame the dog; he didn’t know any better. So on his return home he told a little white lie to my mother, claiming that the shop had run out of mince. As he looked round the kitchen Daddy could see a row of little faces all looking so disappointed. He must have felt as small as a Jack Russell at that moment. We had fish again that Sunday, and it was only with the passing of time that Daddy told the true story of the scavenging dog that took advantage of a man’s thirst for a pint.

  As children we enjoyed a lot of freedom on Owey. Island life was carefree in the sense that parents never had to worry about their children coming to any harm from another human being. Nowadays people don’t know their neighbours a few doors away from them. There was no stranger on the island in our time. Neither were there any secrets among the houses; everyone knew what the other one was up to. You could walk through the door of any house uninvited. There was no such thing as knockers on doors; you just walked in, and you were welcome. And you could trust every man, woman and child. There were no bad fellows on the island. Everyone looked out for each other and supported each other. If someone took ill during the night and needed a doctor, all the houses would light up their lamps, and the people would spill out into the darkness to help. There were four men on standby every night in case of an emergency. They were designated as the men who would row the boat to the mainland. Everyone else would help out with the preparations and lead the way to the boat by the light from their lanterns.

  Owey had 30 houses, and we were related to a number of the families: the McGonagles, the Gallaghers and, as I mentioned, the McDevitts. Even though the houses were small, many of them accommodated huge numbers of offspring. There were a dozen in some cottages between parents and children. You’d wonder how such small cottages could accommodate so many. It was like a magic illusion as a never-ending stream of people would file out of one family home. It’s amazing how people can adjust to their surroundings when they have to.

  You’d wonder how the mothers and fathers didn’t go mad with so many children in the house, but in those times, long before television and video and DVD were heard of, us children were very inventive in finding ways to amuse ourselves. We’d herd the cows home from the fields around 11 a.m. during the summer. After they were milked, the animals were tied in until 3 p.m., and then we’d go back out to the fields with them and play our games there.

  In the summertime the sun would be glistening on the surface of the clear blue sea as we carefully made our way along the well-worn island path with the cows. Sometimes I’d let out a yelp after stepping on a sharp pebble. On days like that, the water sparkled like a huge diamond ring: the rays shooting on to the sea looked like they were sending messages from heaven.

  Owey Island during the summer is the most beautiful and magical place in the world. It was so eerily quiet, you could nearly hear the grass growing between the stones. Skipping along the pathways as a child, I took the scenic beauty and the unusual inlets that nature had carved out for granted.

  There is one particular rock formation that as children we were led to believe was a giant’s chair. You had to crawl carefully across rocks to reach it. I only did that the one time because getting off it is a very dangerous manoeuvre, and I got a fright when I nearly slipped. I was terrified because I could so easily have fallen to my death on the rocks below. The giant’s grave is said to be at a nearby spot. Stones marked the head and the feet, and no grass ever grows in between, so folklore has it.

  Before heading off with the cows, we’d steal an egg or two from underneath our hens and take them with us to the mountain. Just one egg provided many hours of fun. We’d place it a few yards in front of us, and then one of us would be blindfolded. Using a stick, that player had to attempt to hit the egg. Each of us took a turn, and whoever broke the egg with the stick was deemed to be the winner. An egg might last for five days before somebody would strike it.

  Another popular form of amusement involved wee rabbits which could be found hopping around in the vicinity of the mountain. Because they were small, the young rabbits were easy to catch by hand. You’d make a run at them and grab them in a diving tackle. Then we used them to play a game. A square was formed with sticks on the ground, and then we’d wet the wee rabbits in a nearby lake. When they were wet, they weren’t able to run for some odd reason. A rabbit was then placed in the centre of the square, with a player at each corner. As the rabbit began to dry off, he’d start to get a new lease of life, and whichever side he raced to, the player on that side had to try to catch him. The person who was first to catch the rabbit was declared the winner. Now people might think that was cruel to the wee rabbits, but there was no harm in it at all. We’d always let them hop away afterwards, and I doubt they suffered any trauma as we took great care to handle them gently.

  We played marbles a lot too. Three holes would be poked in the ground, and then you’d try to flick the marbles into them. Those were all simple pastimes, but we enjoyed them as we knew nothing better.

  Santa Claus, of course, would visit the island every Christmas, but he didn’t have a big sack back then. The presents were very modest, especially by today’s standards. I remember one Christmas Santa left me an apple
and a bar of chocolate. Another time Maggie and myself got wee sets of cups and saucers. An aunt in America sent us dolls once. They were the prettiest things with lovely hair, nice shoes and gorgeous clothes. But we weren’t allowed to spoil them. After a day or two they were hung up in the kitchen for show. Everyone who came into the house admired those two dolls. Maggie and myself would sit and gaze at them too but with a feeling of fierce frustration. All we wanted to do was hug those dolls, comb their hair, and undress and dress them up again. We just wanted to play with them. But like our good clothes and good shoes, we were never allowed to spoil them.

  It wasn’t all fun and games, of course. As I mentioned, we all had our jobs to do as well. Everyone on the island had a small farm. It was nothing to brag about, just enough to provide a family with vegetables, including potatoes, turnips, carrots, cabbage and other produce. We were very self-sufficient on the island for the most part. It was only small luxuries that were occasionally brought over from the mainland.

  Although there are many great memories, especially as the passing of time seems to play tricks with the mind and you only seem to recall the good things that happened, I don’t have a romantic notion about all of my life on the island. It was very hard most of the time, even when we were young children. I still remember the excruciatingly painful blisters on my hands from kibbin’ potatoes. The ground was like concrete, and you’d be down on your hands and knees with a kibbin’ iron, which was like a trowel, scooping out the soil to sow the potato seeds. I was only about ten or eleven years old at the time, but when I’d look at my hands they were like old people’s because they were covered in blisters and welts. Sometimes I’d feel so miserable working outdoors in the cold and the wet, or in the scorching sun, that I’d be praying for the day to end. But you’d never complain to anyone. This was normal life. I’d look around at all the other kids, and they were doing the same chores as myself. You’d be sowing corn, making hay, setting turnips or pulling carrots. There was always something to be done around the farm, even though it was small. There was no joy in it at all, but because all of the other kids of my age were working hard too, it never made me feel that I was some kind of a victim.

  As soon as I was old enough to help my mother around the house, I willingly attended to my chores. I never tired of housework. I actually enjoyed it, so it was no bother to me. I loved helping Mammy, and she never had to ask for anything to be done. I knew the things that had to be taken care of and went about doing them without giving it a second thought. It’s not that I was striving to be a good girl and trying to earn praise from Mammy. It’s just the way things were; you knew that you were expected to do whatever had to be done. There was no sitting in front of a television or playing with all kinds of gadgets that children have today. It was mainly chores that filled the time for us young folk on the island.

  One of my earliest household jobs was washing the clothes. Monday was wash day in every house on the island. All during the week a pile of clothes would grow and grow and form a mini-mountain in a corner; it would have sheets that were stripped off the beds as well as the dirty clothes that had been worn by members of the family.

  There was no electricity in those days and no mod cons like a washing machine or spin dryer. The washing was done by hand in a bath, using a washboard and plenty of elbow power. The water was heated in a pot over the fire, and you’d use Sunlight soap or carbolic soap and a fistful of washing soda to get out the stains. I’d scrub like crazy, working my hands to the bone on the really nasty stains that were picked up from the daily grind on the island and from the fishing. I’d carry the wet clothes to a nearby ditch, where I’d carefully spread them out to dry. When you looked around the stone ditches on a Monday afternoon, it was like carnival time. All the different sheets and coloured clothes in all shapes and sizes were spread out near every family’s home. They could be seen for miles around and were like flags in the distance.

  Naturally, living on an island, we survived mainly on fish supplemented by home-grown vegetables. It was a healthy diet, with all natural produce and no insecticides or chemical sprays used during the growing. There was no such evil as cancer in those times, so we were better off in that respect. We were rarely ill.

  My father used to go over to the mainland in March and April and pull a weed called bogbine out of a lake. It was big, with long stalks, and he’d bring it back over to the island. My mother would boil it, put treacle on it and bottle it. We were forced to drink a glass of that every morning before we went to school. It was disgusting to taste, but you had to take it. They said it purified the blood and that’s why people weren’t getting sick.

  No one went hungry on the island, despite the poverty, although food was always dished out sparingly. It was shared among the little community, so there was comfort in knowing that your family, neighbours and friends would rally round when the going got tough. If a neighbour’s cow was in calf and had gone dry, you’d share your milk with that family. We all looked out for each other. We always had that security. Everyone made sure to take care of the old people who lived alone in their houses. When the weather was good, family members would go out once or twice a week to shop on the mainland. Whoever was going out for the groceries would always call to the old people to see if they needed anything. Sure all they’d be asking for was a dozen of soft biscuits, which you’d get for a penny. When I’d go out, I’d take back seven or eight dozen biscuits for all the old folk, and that would make them so happy. We’d also do chores for them, like bringing in their turf and lighting their home fires for baking and warmth. You’d take them milk after the cows were milked.

  I had an aunt living on the island, a small but hardy little woman dressed all in black, who was 90 years old and still living on her own. I took milk to her every night after we milked our cow. She’d always be sitting alone by the turf fire when I called with the milk. There’d be a pan hanging on the crook over the fire and a cake of bread baking in it. A little enamel mug would be sitting among the hot coals and tea brewing in it. Then she’d have her tea and the hot bread straight from the pan while I sat and chatted with her for company. No old person ever had to worry about being left to fend for themselves. They were all loved and treated with respect.

  My paternal granny was one of the old people. She lived till she was very, very old. Her little cottage was a good distance from our home, and when she reached old age she wasn’t able to walk down to see us. Granny loved to visit us, so we’d be sent to fetch her in a wheelbarrow. We’d gather round and lift her into it. Then she’d lie back with her legs sticking out over the end and hold on to the sides for dear life as we wheeled her down the path in full view of everyone. It wasn’t a very dignified mode of transport for a lady, but she didn’t seem to mind. That’s just the way it was in those times. You had to be inventive and use whatever tool was available to get the job done.

  Granny would stay for the day, eat with us and enjoy every mouthful of fish on her plate. The fish was boiled, or if it was herring it would be roasted on a grill suspended over the open fire in the kitchen. It was accompanied by a big, black pot of potatoes, which were also boiled over the fire and set aside until the herring was ready to be eaten. When her belly was full and her time was up, Granny would be put back in the wheelbarrow and taken home again. She’d have a smile on her face as the barrow rolled along the stony path. We’d take turns to wheel it, and there was always someone walking each side in case it toppled over. You wouldn’t want your granny falling out of a wheelbarrow.

  My mother always prepared lovely meals for us. In her young days, before she got married, she was a cook in the Industrial School in Killybegs, County Donegal. She gained great experience there, and it served us well as a family. We looked forward to the meals she created, and we’d devour them in seconds when we came home ravenous from school.

  In the wintertime we’d have a fish called baiyan on weekdays. When my father came home from a fishing outing with his catch, he’d salt
the baiyan, and then they’d be washed and hung on lines to dry out. They’d be kept for winter use when fishing became more difficult, if not impossible, due to the atrocious weather.

  I remember how one time there was a storm that lasted for 19 days. It blew the roof off some of the houses, as well as the post office, and none of the boatmen were able to leave the island to bring in supplies because the sea was raging. As you always expected some kind of a storm at that time of the year, you’d have stocked up with extra supplies. We had plenty of potatoes and fish, milk and butter, and we had an 8-stone bag of Milford flour so we could bake our own bread. I remember, though, that the men ran out of cigarettes and got very cranky without their smokes.

  Some people were so poor that they weren’t able to buy enough food to put in store for the long winter months. Anyone who had a bit of money to spare would buy extra supplies and give some to those people. There were a lot of islanders who depended on the generosity and kindness of their neighbours. I recall one woman coming to our door looking for flour amid that terrible storm. My mother had just one bowl left by this time but even though she had no idea how much longer the storm was going to torment us, she gave away half the flour to the neighbour. The following day the storm suddenly died down and allowed the men to make a trip to the mainland for fresh supplies. It appeared as if her good deed had been repaid by the Lord above.