Monday, March 30, 2009

WOMEN CANNOT FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS, CAN THEY?

My wife, my dear one, e-mailed me this "story" the other day. I wonder if she was trying to tell me something!!!



The FBI had an opening for an assassin. After all the background checks, interviews and testing were done, there were 3 finalists;two men and a woman.



For the final test, the FBI agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun. 'We must be certain that you will follow your instructions no matter what the circumstances. Inside the room you will find your wife sitting in a chair .. . . Kill her!!



'The man said, 'You can't be serious. I could never shoot my wife.'


The agent said, 'Then you're not the right man for this job. Take your wife and go home.'


The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about 5 minutes. The man came out with tears in his eyes, 'I tried, but I can't kill my wife.' The agent said, 'You don't have what it takes. Take your wife and go home.'



Finally, it was the woman's turn. She was given the same instructions, to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Six shots were heard, one after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet.


The door opened slowly and there stood the woman, wiping the sweat from her brow.


'This gun is loaded with blanks' she said.


'I had to beat him to death with the chair.'



And who says women can't follow instructions!!!




















Wednesday, March 25, 2009

RETIRED TEACHERS GALWAY NEW WEBSITE

We have been gathering, all twenty of us, in the Galway Education Centre for the past year. We have progressed bit by bit until by now we are capable of "tangling" with blogs. Mary Kyne is our "Commander" and she has set up a Website for us, the Retired Primary School Teachers in Co. Galway. She has posted a number of fine articles and informative pieces. And we have added our "incisive" comments.
Come back early and often and keep up-to-date with us.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Easter Eggs









Easter Eggs were early in the shops this year. Lent hadn't even started when I spotted the boxes piled almost ceiling high. What a dazzling selection there is! Cadbury's plain chocolate, Tiffin, Mars, Maltesers, Buttons, Smarties and many more.




Easter Eggs did not mean chocolate at all in my schooldays. Easter Eggs were just ordinary hen eggs at Easter time after the forty fasting days of Lent when the consumption of eggs dropped in line with the religious restrictions then in vogue. There was usually a competition among my classmates as to who would eat most eggs on Easter Sunday. The count began at breakfast when the cooking method depended on the frying pan. The trick was to puncture the yolk and fry the egg hard and one could clock up maybe four or five in this way. On to Mass and the boasting began there. Now who is telling the truth and who is the bluffer? How many have I to catch up on during the remainder of the day? Easter weather then , if I remember correctly, was dry and crisp and sunny. The year I was in sixth class, I had arranged an egg-picnic with my neighbours. We kindled a fire of winter windfall wood, filled a billy-can with water and put on a batch of eggs. As at breakfast, the harder the eggs were boiled the easier it was to digest them. You'd be doing well to down four of five again. By now you wouldn't want to see another ovoid for a long time. However, when suppertime came and doubts set in as to whether you could claim victory at school the following day, you would order another egg or two against your better judgement. By some amazing feat of will-power you would manage to get them down. With a clear conscience you would claim the full dozen and it would take a first class bluffer to beat that.


Poaching and omelettes were not words in our vocabulary at that time.







Girls, of course, did not engage in this barbaric practice. Their competition was to see who could decorate the eggshell most colourfully. This was a perilous process because your time and trouble might be in vain if the colouring material failed to survive the cooking process.














Where does the custom of the Easter Egg come from at all? It is indeed an old tradition and possibly derives from the connection with the egg as the beginning of new life and Easter typifying the regrowth of nature in the new year. For some, the egg is seen as the symbol of the grave and the cracking of the shell denotes the renewal of life and the resurrection at Easter time.







FABERGÉ EGGS


The most valuable Easter Eggs are the Fabergé eggs, first commissioned by the Russian Emperor, Czar Alexander III as an Easter surprise for his wife, Maria, and were decorated with jewels. Some eggs are hollow and empty while others are hollow but contain smaller eggs, sweets or other surprises like miniature birds.



A favourite pastime at Easter is the holding of an Egg Hunt. This is when decorated eggs, either real, hard-boiled or artificial and filled with chocolate candies are hidden for children to find, and can take place outdoors or indoors depending on the weather. At the end there may be prizes for the child with the largest collection, or the largest or smallest egg.




FINALLY FOR FUN

The Augustinian Parish Newsletter publishes a pair of cartoons every week. One of this week's (March 22nd) is "eggstraordinarily eggsceptional" and here it is.

Sadly, it is too often, too common in society today.





Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Public Opinion No Longer A Force

When I was growing up, I was, I reckon, partly raised by my neighbours. Unlike today, they were not afraid to correct me when I stepped out of line. I remember the local shopkeeper would rush out to stop us when we "dared" to walk on the parapet of the river bridge on our way home from school. Now even decent people are too afraid to intervene in a similar situation. So the force of public opinion is very muted.
Young people are no longer ashamed to behave badly in front of their elders; in fact they revel in their contempt for society. Why has this drastic change come about? One reason may be that we then lived in smaller communities where everyone knew everyone else - seed, breed and generation and word of our misdemeanours got home even before we did. Now our communities have grown so large that sometimes we do not know even our near neighbours and we do not care for each other in the same old way.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

THE CASTLE OF MOYODE





The castle and townland of Moyode is well documented for reasons such as its place in the establishment of the famous foxhounds, The Galway Blazers, and its connection with the Easter 1916 Rising in Co. Galway. A Moyode resident, Jackie Byrne, gave me a hand-written copy of the poem below recently and I thought I might share it with you. I'll put a synopsis of the history at the end.
(Since I posted this poem, I have learned that the author is Frank Galvin, of Slieverue, Athenry now -2010- living in retirement in Listowel, Co. Kerry. See comments for further information.)





THE CASTLE OF MOYODE by Frank Galvin.


On limestone land this castle stands,
Beneath ash and elm tree.
In years gone by, it caught my eye
As all that heaven could be.
Its four round towers stood out like flowers,
Along its lonely road,
When a coach-and-four pulled up to the door
Of the castle of Moyode.


Its large stone shone like gems upon
A gown made from turquoise
Or white squares on a draught board
Set before the players eyes.
In its big courtyard where I regard
Were the finest stories told
Of the fox chase up to Scarrif
From the castle of Moyode.


It's the polar star of Galway,
It's the Bethlehem of my birth.
Had Napoli known its whereabouts,
He would have headed west
And left behind the Alpine range
Where its mercury skies had snowed
And settled for a moonlight night
O'er the castle of Moyode.

Enshrined within its four grey walls
To mark its large domain (demesne?)
It's fifty years ago this year
Our freedom we did gain,
When the local boys with pike in hand
Along the road they strode
With such force that struck the belfry tower
Of the castle of Moyode.


Then the foxhounds, sleeping peacefully,
Upon their legs did stand
And looked into their Master's eyes
And begged for his demand (command?).
With a sharp blow on his trumpet,
That was heard from shore to shore,
He led them out the back gate
For the lawn in Ballymore.


This gate is made from spikes and plates
Just like the letter M,
And O and Y are found in joy
Which always seemed within.
When the cuckoo's call came o'er the wall
To soften life's heavy load
As your axe you swung and the echoes rung
Through the castle of Moyode.


The other O is a bullet hole
Pierced through an old ash tree
And the archways, in my childhood,
Looked like the letter D
And on top there's a weather-cock
Where you'll find an E.
And all linked up together spells
M-O-Y-O-D-E.


Moyode Castle, as it is today, is an example of a sixteenth-century fortified Burke tower house (which went to the Persse family) located 3.5 miles from both Craughwell and Athenry. It sits at the edge of a 35 acre grazing pasture. From being a ruin, it was restored by an American historian James Charles Roy in 1969. The real "Castle" was burned to the ground in the early 20th century.





It is interesting to record the origin of the "Galway Blazers". The pack hunted in Galway for several years prior to 1840 by Robert Parsons Persse of Castleboy. For a fortnight each year these hounds were invited by the Ormond Hunt to hunt the latter country. At the end of the visit the Galway men entertained the Ormond Hunt at Dooley's Hotel, Birr. On one occasion the festivities resulted in the burning of the hotel. This was the origin of the name "Blazers". Robert Persse died shortly afterwards and the hounds were disposed of. For a while, as the Seanachaí said, things rested so.
Later a number of sportsmen agreed to revive "The Blazers." Tom Tully of Rathfarn and John Denis purchased on their own behalf a pack of hounds that was for sale in Tipperary, and John Dennis was appointed master. He kept the hounds near Dunsandle until 1849 when he got a bad fall and had to give up hunting. In 1852 the mastership was taken over by Burton Persse who hunted the pack until his death in 1885, a apace of 33 years. .
In 1803 the first Hunt Club was established in Galway, called the Castle Boy Hunt with Robert Parsons Persse of Castle Boy as master.
The Galway Blazers today are located at The Kennells in Craughwell.

PARODY OF "THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD"

This came by way of an e-mail last week - it is somewhat irreverent!


COWEN IS MY SHEPHERD

In these depressing times, let us pray:-

BRIAN COWEN IS MY SHEPHERD, I SHALL NOT TOIL.
HE LEADETH ME BESIDE STILL FACTORIES.
HE RESTORETH MY FAITH IN THE FINE GAEL.
HE GUIDETH ME TO THE PATH OF UNEMPLOYMENT.
YEA, THOUGH I WAIT FOR MY DOLE, I OWN THE BANK THAT REFUSES ME.
COWEN HAS ANOINTED MY INCOME WITH TAXES,
MY EXPENSES RUNNETH OVER MY INCOME,
SURELY, POVERTY AND HARD LIVING WILL FOLLOW ME
ALL THE DAYS OF HIS TERM.
FROM HENCE FORTH WE WILL LIVE ALL THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES
IN A RENTED HOME WITH AN OVERSEAS LANDLORD.
I AM GLAD I AM IRISH,
I AM GLAD THAT I AM FREE.
BUT I WISH I WAS A DOG
AND COWEN WAS A TREE.