Objects and Stories : Memories from the Last Year

This is a  poem (loosely!)  based on the “The Magic Box” by Kit Wright. It was prepared for our last meeting of the 2016-7 session to help us reminisce about our Objects and Stories.

Into our box we’ll place memories of places we have visited

Brian’s papier mache tiger from Nepal with memories of a live tiger and departed companions;

Tom’s metal antelope evoking the riot of colours, sounds and smells that is India;

Marlene’s Omani silver amulet, keeping her safe despite the absence of Koranic verses within;

Anne’s brass lock key and hand painted plate full of memories of leisurely Summer days on the canals of central England;

Medals showing the achievements of our own Marathon Man, Leonard as he ran his way round much of Ireland.

Into our memory box we’ll travel back in time to our youth and childhood with

A royal doulton bowl presented to “wee Venie” by a Donegal dairy maid;

Joe’s copy of Pro Tanto Quid from 1935 with memories of old Belfast and Rag week at Queens;

A teenage Anne’s copy of “Secrets of the Stars”;

Barbara’s earrings and postcard sent from her first visit to Paris in 1963;

Lesley’s wooden box full of Ephemera danica from Lough Derravaragh.

Into our memory box we’ll place family heirlooms with

Pat’s Granny Amelia’s beautiful brooch and other antique jewellery;

Marriage Certificates from the Blake family;

Agnes’s rope for ringing a French church bell;

Robert’s  “Executive suite” from a third rate Athlone hotel.

Into our memory box we’ll place some history with

Kathleen’s flint axe heads dug up from her garden, reminding us of ancient settlements along the River Bann;

Norman’s brass hub cap for a horse  drawn vehicle, engraved with his family name “Hamill Coach makers, Coleraine”;

A newspaper clipping about the murder in the 1916 rising of Dorothy’s family member who had survived the wreck of the Lusitania;

Maggie’s plate salvaged from the wreck of the George A Hopley in Portstewart.

Into our memory box we’ll place lots of Christmas memories

An illicit Christmas tree with a battered fairy on top;

and a flock of turkeys roosting in the branches;

Sylvia’s Christmas candles from Bethlehem, a shiny crystal ball from Alaska, a battered Santa ornament “bloody fool!”;

Dorothy’s traditional Christmas stocking with orange and chocolate coins and four doggy Christmas stockings;

A wonderful family Christmas dinner from 1962 at the City Hotel and tea in a Christmas mug;

And if there is room, Sydney Harbour Bridge and troupe of Wren Boys from Roscrea!

Into our memory box we’ll place memories of Easter and Springtime

Four Canine Companions and Easter greeting cards from France;

One golden egg and sixteen egg cups;

A posy of primroses and a Youth hosteling badge;

And a box of oysters to bring some love!

We will place all these memories inside Maggie’s Martello Tower at Magilligan Point and lock the door with a huge metal key.

As the ice caps melt, the sea will rise and the lapping waves will cover the tower until it is hidden from view.

Sediments will envelop it, rocks will form and our time capsule of Objects and Stories from the past year will remain there forever.

 

 

The Local Oyster Shops

Presented by Maggie Campbell

I grew up with tales of my family being the only shop in Coleraine that sold oysters in their little shop in Stone Row.  I am indebted to Robert Anderson for pointing out to me that in volume 2 of his Memories in Focus series he has a photograph of Stone Row with the shops in view.  We as a young family never questioned the story now I wish we had but back then we accepted everything as facts.  My uncle Eddy’s family’s shop was roughly where the pet shop is now.  The oysters came by boat to Coleraine harbour, I’m still trying to find out where they came from and would welcome help from local historians.

Uncle Eddy enlisted in the American army aged 19 years and was there for 5 years being sent to quite a few foreign countries. Again I would welcome help in identifying the dozens of photographs I inherited from that time.  I have tried to contact the regiment but no luck there. The photos show what life was like in the American army then, they travelled by horseback and slept in tents, no easy life. Again I would welcome help in finding a home for the mementos I have before my family get rid of “mums rubbish”.

He was in the army for 5 years and on his discharge in 1920 returned to Coleraine where his father set him up with an oyster shop in Lower Main Street, Portrush.  He married my auntie Mary and they settled down to married life next door to where my family lived. I can find no record of how long the oyster business lasted but it was succeeded  by a newsagent shop where mostly everything in print was sold.  We looked forward to Sundays when we collected our comics and caught up with our heroes.  My parents took over the shop when my uncle Eddy died in 1960 and continued with the newsagency until they too retired.  I took it over and ran it as a Victoriana rubbish type shop.  Eventually the shop became empty and was sold on the death of my auntie Mary in 1985.

My mother continued to live there and I did her gardener and lost count of the number of oyster shells I dug up from her garden thrown over the hedge by the lazy oyster workers next door.  My mother died aged 97 years and I am trying to compile a family history for my family who have shown little interest, maybe as they get older things might change.

Another famous landmark in Stone Row, Coleraine.

April 2017

 

Cycling and Youth Hostelling

Presented by Dorothy Chandler

This little badge from the Irish Youth hostel Association reminds Dorothy of buying her first adult bicycle, with three gears! She and her friend cycled quite long distances in North East Ireland and explored the countryside. They stayed in Youth Hostels. Of course these were very primative, no-frills accommodation at that time and enduring some hardship seemed to part of the experience. However these are still happy memories for Dorothy.

April 2017

A Posy of Primroses

Presented by Anne Young

I have chosen a posy of primroses as my object as not only are primroses one of my favourite wild flowers, they also remind of my late father.

Why do I like them?  Well, they are such a lovely delicate shade of yellow and also their thick crinkled rosette of leaves set off the flowers very well.  They seem such a pretty symbol not only of spring in general but of Easter as well.  I love to see really large clumps of them growing in the countryside.  Unfortunately, I never had much success with primroses in my front garden in Portstewart.  However, my husband’s family home on Millbank Avenue, Portstewart had a grass bank below the level of the road where masses of primroses grew really well,  so I was always able to pick a bunch for my house.  Unfortunately, my brother-in-law Laurence died three years ago and the house was sold.  It was to be knocked down and the garden levelled.  So, I made sure to dig up plenty of primrose plants before we handed over to the new owners.  I have planted them at the side of our house and they have done very well so far.

My late father’s birthday was 19^th April, which is also Primrose Day.  He loved to reminisce about coming down to breakfast on his birthday and there would be a big bowl of primroses picked by his mother on the breakfast table.  As an adult, he always had some primroses growing in his garden, usually obtained by digging them up from under a country hedgerow.  This was, of course, in the days before such activities were frowned upon.  Although it is nearly 25 years since he passed away, I still pick a posy of primroses on Primrose Day in his memory.

As a child, I never thought to ask why 19^th April is called Primrose Day.  A few years ago, I was a bit disappointed to find out that Primrose Day has nothing to do with Spring.  In fact, it is the anniversary of the death in 1881, of Benjamin Disraeli, the 19^th century Prime Minister.  After his death, a political organisation was set up in 1883 to promote Toryism across the country.  This organisation was called the Primrose League, in memory of Disraeli whose favourite flower was supposed to be the primrose.  Members would lay a wreath of primroses on Disraeli’s grave on Primrose Day.  However, despite gaining this information, I still think of Primrose Day as being the official start of Spring to me.  It is a lovely reminder of my father as well and also the garden in Millbank Avenue whose sunny, sheltered grassy bank was the perfect place for these pretty flowers to grow.

 

 

April 2017 

Joyeuses Pâques

Barbara shared some Easter memories of French friends with some cards, a booklet for French teenagers and a frequently played record (mostly in French, with the exception of “It’s a long way to Tipperary”!)  She has kept these treasures for many years.

April 2017

Pocillovy

Presented by Pat Coote

Pat is a pocillovist and she shared some of her extensive egg cup collection with us as part of our Easter celebration. She has been collecting for many years from allover the world. Some she bought in shops or at fairs, markets or auctions while othere were gifts.

Some of Pat’s Egg Cup Collection

Just to show that POCILLOVY is a recognised hobby, you can buy a book on the subject on Amazon!

“No Memory” Syndrome

Prsented by Venie Martin

Venie’s Hand Made Easter Egg

False memory syndrome has been in the news a lot but I sometimes suffer from “no memory” syndrome – blanks where I think something happened but I can’t recall any details or picture the scene.

One of these relates to the object I have brought today for our Easter meeting. As you can see it’s an Easter egg made of gold satin and brocade. I made this myself about 25 years ago when I attended a ladies group in Waterford. It was run by my friend Ruth who is very talented at all aspects of art and crafts. Unfortunately Ruth now suffers from Parkinsons and cannot do much because of the trembling in her hands. I really enjoyed being part of that group – there is a very special bond between women who focus together on a task like this and as they do it they discuss life the universe and everything. I suppose it’s like the quilting circles which are so popular in America.

Well, when I brought this item out for today’s meeting, the thought flashed across my mind that the materials were left over from a dress I had made for my daughter Emma.  Then the doubt set in. I could not recall making the dress, what the dress looked like or any context for it. I suppose this very disturbing feeling must be what it’s like to start dementia. Luckily I was able to contact Emma, who happens to be a Clinical Psychologist, and ask her about the real or imaginary dress. To my great relief she immediately confirmed that such a dress exists and she even went to the wardrobe, took a photo of it on her phone and sent it to me.  I still could not remember making it but when she added some details the memory gradually came back. She was a student in Glasgow and she developed a little cyst in her neck. During the Easter break, when she was home in Waterford, she had it removed in hospital and when she was convalescing the dressmaking was a little project for both of us.  It was the first time she had made a dress and she really enjoyed it. She then wore it to the May ball in University.

So, bringing this Easter Egg here today has taken me on a little journey into the past and helped me reconstruct a very pleasant memory.

April 2017

 

Canine Companions

by Robert Blake

For most of my life I have been privileged to enjoy the company of a number dogs of various breeds and today I would like to show you some photographs of four particular companions with whom I have shared my life

The first is Heidi, a Wire-Haired Dachshund, who came into my life early in 1987 following a hunting trip to Germany where I saw the breed in action flushing boar towards the guns.   Known as Teckels in France and Germany, they are tireless hunters of all quarry from rabbits to deer and boar.   I had just lost Pip, my German Short-Haired Pointer, as a result of a road accident and so determined that a Wire-Haired Dachshund was for me.  I was living in Dorset at the time where one of my activities was the culling of roe deer and Heidi proved to be an enthusiastic hunter as well as a faithful companion.  Then came one of those cross-roads in life and I moved to Tenerife in the Canary Islands accompanied, of course, by Heidi.

Heidi

Heidi’s arrival in Tenerife was quite dramatic.  I presented her in her travelling box to the appropriate authority at Heathrow airport and was told that I should report to the veterinary department on arrival at Tenerife airport to collect her.  Upon arrival, I sought directions to the veterinary department only to be faced with blank stares – no such department existed and nobody was interested in the fact that I was importing an animal.  It was suggested that I should go to the baggage hall and make enquiries there.  When I entered the  hall, the baggage for my flight was just arriving and to my horror I saw Heidi’s box tumble from the elevator onto the carousel, upside down.  I rushed forward to recover the box and was much relieved to find that she had come to no harm and was more than delighted to see me

She loved Tenerife, particularly where our house was located, because there she was able to indulge her two passions – hunting and swimming.  She hunted the numerous rabbits in the “barranca”, a dried watercourse clothed in cactus and prickly pear, and swam either in our pool or in the sea just a stone’s throw from the house.  The pool had “roman steps” and so presented no problem for a Dachshund to enter or leave.

Eventually the time came to leave, and remembering her experience in travelling by air, I decided that we would depart by car and take the ferry from Santa Cruz to Cadiz in Spain.  It was two-day trip and the kennels were on the upper deck but the weather was kind to us and I was able to exercise her in comfort.  Departing Cadiz, we drove leisurely through Spain and into France.  There, at one of our overnight stops we took a walk and passing an estate agent’s window my attention was caught by a photograph of a farmhouse for sale.  It was a “coup de coeur” –  “love at first sight” – and so after a little haggling I bought it.  Heidi settled happily there.  The region was heavily wooded, full of game and there were no boundary fences around the farms.  We had 25 acres of our own and hundreds of acres of our neighbours in which she could indulge her passion for hunting.  She had her own boar, deer and rabbits – a Teckel paradise.

In rural France, Sunday is devoted to la chasse and I was quickly caught up with our local group of farmers and enthusiastic hunters one of whom had the male version of Heidi.  At the appropriate time a meeting was arranged between the two of them and I was looking forward to the result.  Then tragedy struck.  Heidi developed an infection of the uterus resulting in the loss of all puppies but one and, sadly, the vet could not save Heidi.  He offered to dispose of the surviving puppy, an offer that I rejected outright and then proceeded with his help to formulate a substitute for bitch’s milk which consisted of full-cream milk, egg yolk and honey.  Feeding this every four hours proved to be successful and eventually the little fellow recovered from his ordeal.  At this point my dear wife, Agnes, asked me what I intended to call him to which I replied “Forlorn Hope”.  “Nonsense”, she said, “He’s showing true grit”.  And so he became Grit and a more faithful companion never lived.

Grit and Daisy

Grit developed into a powerful example of his breed – strong, fearless and a tireless hunter.  Too fearless sometimes, which he learned to his cost when he emerged torn and bleeding from an underground meeting with a badger.  Thereafter we tried to keep him well clear of badger holts.  He participated in our Sunday hunts of boar and roe deer, driving the quarry towards the guns.  Away from home we had to keep him on a lead to prevent him following his nose and becoming lost in strange country.  On one occasion, when visiting our son in Provence, we were invited to participate in a hike into the mountains.  My dear wife ordered me to keep Grit on a lead and under no circumstances to release him.  But he hated being constrained by a lead and so I let him off thinking I could control him by command.  Big mistake, because he encountered an exciting scent and immediately took off without so much as a cheerio.  Throughout the morning his cry echoing across the valley in hot pursuit of whatever had attracted him.   Nothing could be done so we continued our walk and at the end of the day descended to where we had left our cars, intending to notify the local gendarmerie of our loss.  As we approached the cars, from under that belonging to me emerged Grit, wagging his tail enthusiastically and, I suspect, wondering what had kept us.

Eventually Grit became a father when Lilly, his mate, produced a litter of six puppies but sadly, one by one, they died until our vet identified the cause which was toxicity of the mother’s milk.    The phenomena is known as “puppy fade” and although I had heard of it, that was my first experience.  We were able to save one little bitch which we reared on the same “custard” feed that saved her father.  We named the puppy Daisy and she developed into as formidable a hunter as her father.  Her mother, Lilly, was a shy little bitch lacking the “character” of her mate Grit and daughter, Daisy, but an equally  enthusiastic and fearless hunter.  There was an occasion when, exercising the dogs last thing in the evening as was my wont, we encountered a boar at the end of our drive.  All parties were surprised by the meeting but Lilly reacted first by launching herself at the beast, many times her size, and gripping the side of its throat.  It swung its head from side to side and eventually threw her off.  She landed with thump and immediately rushed back and grabbed it again at the throat.  Again the boar swung his head from side to side and threw her off.  Meantime I was standing controlling the other dogs.  The boar then decided that enough was enough and it took off at speed in my direction.  My well-trained Labrador was seated at my side throughout the encounter and as the boar rushed past stepped daintily aside clearly with the full understanding that his job was to retrieve and not to attack.

Daisy

Daisy became as enthusiastic a hunter and companion to me as had her father and grandmother before her, enjoying the life of rural France to which she was eminently suited.  So strong was her hunting instinct that on one occasion, two days after an operation for a mammary tumour, she escaped from our kitchen where she was supposed to be recuperating and returned an hour later with a rabbit which she proudly presented to us.  Unfortunately, she could not be persuaded to accept a mate and so she was the end of the line and the last of my Teckel hunting companions.

Next to share our lives was Nellie, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.  Both Agnes and I had fallen in love with the breed when we visited local dog shows.  Having expressed our interest to a breeder we met at a show we were invited to visit her kennels.  It was a lucky encounter because Nathalie was one of the leading breeders in France and we became firm friends with her and her family.  We were attracted to one of the puppies we saw and expressed the wish to buy her only to be told that she was not for sale as she was considered to have great potential as a show dog.  My response was to say that everything has a price and it was simply a matter of establishing what that might be in her case.  Needless to say, we eventually established what that price might be and Agnes returned home that evening with Soire Grege de Beylias in her arms.  We decided to call her Nellie after the favourite mistress of Charles ll.

Nellie

In France, a puppy has only a provisional pedigree and at twelve months of age  must be presented to a show judge who will confirm or otherwise that the puppy conforms to the breed standard and can be granted a full pedigree.  When the time came we duly entered her in a show where there was a specialist judge for our breed.  Waiting for our class to be judged we sat at the ringside with Nellie who took no interest in the proceedings and when our turn  came I had great difficulty persuading her to enter the ring.  She had to be dragged forward with her head down and tail between her legs.  Then, in the centre of the ring she suddenly came to life as if she realised that all eyes were upon her and she had the opportunity to show off.  There were a number of entries in the puppy class and we proceeded to parade around the ring as instructed.  The judge set Nellie aside then carefully examined all the other entries at which point I looked across to Agnes shaking my head thinking that we had been rejected.  Having placed the others in order of merit he then turned to Nellie and after examination put her at the head of the class.  We had won!  Not only that, but a while later Nellie was called forward to be lined up with all the other winning puppies to be judged for best puppy in show.

That was the beginning of a show career that took us all over France, winning many prizes and making numerous friends in the dog show world.  We bred many quality puppies from Nellie and her half-sister, Lou-Lou, and continued showing until eventually anno domini obliged me to retire from that activity.  One of Nellie’s puppies is with us to this day; an old lady now, barely more active than me, but a faithful companion.

April 2017