Winding down, in an age of coronavirus

"I had a little donkey

He wouldn't go,

Did I beat him?

No! No! No!

I put him in the stable

And gave him some corn;

The best little donkey

That ever was born."

This little song has been trotting around in my head since we first met Oliver: our grandson, and just a month old. As far as I know, it was his first "garden party," and I am pleased to say that informality ruled. The sun was shining, the food and wine were plentiful, and from time to time there was speculation as to what the little fellow was up to: was he smiling, or just doing a pooh in his pants.

As for this nursery rhyme, (that comes with is own jaunty little tune), it spans the generations; it takes me back to "Foyle Street", to "Grandam", and to one or other of our three maiden aunts. Bridie was quiet and hard working and kept her childhood memories to herself, while Maura, cultured and refined, could really make the little donkey do its stuff on the piano; while Kathleen, for her own amusement, and ours, having chalked a tailless donkey on the kitchen floor, would have us, blindfolded and disorientated, "put the tail on the donkey." And happily at that time, no one asked why the little donkey "wouldn't go," or dared to suggest that at its heart, this little song wasn't really about a donkey, but something altogether more profound: the unconditional nature of love.

Now if Oliver's visit was symbolic of the easing of the "lockdown" restrictions, what about this, "Self Isolating Notice," that has been on our front door for the duration:

"If you are delivering a parcel

please ring the bell and

leave it on the doorstep.

             Thank you."

As a consequence, and in this period, only two outsiders have made it past the front door, and then, only into the hall, with the delivery of two "state of the art" vacuum packed  mattresses: standard size double bed mattresses, that at the factory were folded into a quarter of their normal size, and then, with the life squeezed out of them, vacuum packed for delivery. Once delivered, and with the men long gone, it took time, and patience, to work out how to safely release the mattresses from their reinforced plastic shrouds; but, once released and spread out on the floor, slowly they came back to life: (No! not as air beds, but mattresses).

So all in all we have done our best to stay safe. Letters and packages, are quarantined, and groceries delivered, not through the front door, but to the garage, and I make a point of being on hand, at the window, to show our appreciation as the delivery drivers take their leave. After that comes the sorting: deciding what foodstuffs should be quarantined in the garage, and what brought into the house for immediate use, but before they can be stored away, these packages have to be sprayed, (disinfected,) and left to stand for a time before being dried off and put away. And sometimes, in all this business, we lose track of where we are in the process of cleansing, or find that we have to go back to the garage for something that was overlooked, which can mean, more disinfecting: spraying of bolts and handles and yet another washing of hands.

All of this said, and living in comfortable circumstances, there is a sense in which our experience of Covid 19, is far removed from what is the reality for most people. so much so, that at times I have had to remind myself, that the threat is real, and that the virus has had devastating consequences for many people. And I have had to stop myself from becoming irritated by the daily news briefings from the government, that are often, or so it would seem, less than truthful. When a government minister stands there and tells me that they have taken possession of three million plus, "pieces" of protective equipment, for those working on the front line, I smell duplicity. What I want to know, and what the minister knows, and fears, that I want to know, is not, how many "pieces" of equipment have arrived, but how many, full sets of protective clothing are represented in that number, and how that relates to the total need. So in the end, I stopped listening to the government briefings.  

And so as to keep my own world fresh and interesting, I have gone back to baking bread, (though a machine does most of the work), and I have purchased a radiogram: a 1930s look-alike radio, that besides providing the "Wireless", (you have to turn the knob to get the stations), also plays vinyl, cassette tapes, CD's and has a blue tooth facility. And my friend Arthur, who features in my poem "Friendship", has just last week, sent me a CD of the Ballyclare Male Choir. Grounded by the Covid-19 restrictions he is missing not just the singing, but the social life that goes with it. And the Parish Priest has written to remind us that the Church will be open on Sundays in future; and, that we are to look out for a further e-mail explaining how, in the light of continuing restrictions, things will be managed.

And full credit to ZOOM that has kept going throughout, and via which we have had our monthly poetry meetings. This month the theme was food. "The Walrus and the Carpenter", by Lewis Carroll, in which oysters, unsuspecting, get eaten, was one of them, Another was "The King's Breakfast", by Alan Alexander Milne, which provoked some discussion as to whether it was simply a nonsense poem, or a political statement, about power and privilege. What the king wanted, and got, after messages were passed down and up the line, was, a "little bit of butter"on his bread. As for myself, I brought along the opening lines from Chapter XXII of The Odyssey, by Homer, in part because I felt inspired to bring along some Epic poetry; and, having read both the The Iliad, and The Odyssey, some years ago, I especially, in the context of the theme, recalled this particular moment in the poem. But before we get to the poem, some background detail.

Having fought in the Trojan War, (and for a variety of reasons), it take Odysseus ten years to make his way back home to Ithaca, only to find that in his absence, a bunch of hangers on, (suitors), have been abusing the rules of hospitality and eating him out of house and home, while they wait for Penelope to accept that her husband Odysseus is dead, and in the hope that she would accept one of them in marriage. Unaware that Odysseus has returned, (disguised as a beggar), the drama unfolds in the banqueting hall, where he has decided to take his revenge. The first to fall victim to his bow is Antinous, as he indulgently lifts a loving cup to his lips:

"Full though his throat Ulysses' weapon pass'd,

And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last.

The tumbling goblet the wide floor o'erflows,

A stream of gore burst sprouting from his nose;

Grim in convulsive agonies he sprawls:

Before him spurn'd the loaded table falls,

And spreads the pavement with a mingled flood

Of floating meats, and wine, and human blood. . . ."
__________

Now as I began with a donkey, it seems appropriated to end with one, in what is my final coronavirus blog. In the Medina in Fez, (Morocco), I have seen them, as beasts of burden, heavy laden, making their way quietly and obediently through crowded passageways, and again, divested of their cargoes, standing quietly, and I couldn't help but wonder how long they might have to stand there, ignored, until their next assignment. Well in this poem by G. K Chesterton, we are seeing and hearing the world from the point of view of the donkey, who, amidst scenes of  jubilation, is carrying Christ, in triumph, before his passion and crucifixion, into Jerusalem. 

"When fishes flew and forests walked

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born.

"With monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The Devil's walking parody

Of all four-footed things.

"The Tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient crooked will:

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

"Fools! For I also had my hour:

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet."

__________ 

    ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

   "Foyle St"   

   "Grandma"   

   "Friendship"  

   "The Odyssey" Translation, Alexander Pope, BOOK XXII

   "The Donkey"  A very effective reading  YouTube.

Memories, and other things, in an age of coronavirus

As the saying goes, it was “curiosity that killed the cat,” and it almost killed me in my teenage years. I was climbing a rock-face bare handed, when I came unstuck, crouched on an uneven sanded ledge beneath an overhanging rock. I was in trouble, and knew it. At first I tried to go back the way I had come, but unable to secure a footing, (and perilous though it was,) I had no choice but to clamber back on to the ledge. “You need to stay calm,” I kept telling myself, and “find some way of drawing attention to your predicament.” So with great care I removed a shoe, the intention being to drop it when the next lot of people came clambering over the rocks below. But fortunately, a man some distance out in a boat, spotted that I was in trouble, and managed to get the attention of those on the top of the cliff, and those who were clambering over the rocks below. Between them, and with no little skill and imagination, I was hauled up between one of the rescuers who had come up from below, and the overhanging rock-face to safety. Many times in the past I had clambered over those same boulders of rock, that is, until it occurred to me that climbing bare-handed to the top of Ramore Head, would be more interesting; so I did, successfully, only to be caught out at the second attempt. And fortunately, when it came to the rescue, the overhanging boulder was just below the surface.

Now as to whether or not divine providence played a part in my rescue on this occasion, I have no means of knowing, But, when on holiday in Havana, (Cuba,) the divine intervention was self evident.

We were on an early morning visit to one of several old fortresses, in this instance, Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, or, (Castle of the Three Kings of Morro). When it came to getting off the coach, I stepped back, allowing Jenny, who had the inside seat to go first; a gesture that prompted many other passengers to take advantage and scramble off ahead of me, so that by the time I stepped off the coach quite a little crowd had gathered. Stepping forward, and feeling a hand on my shoulder, I stopped, and looking back, saw Jenny’s outstretched arm; she had her back to me, and was talking to the bus driver, so no words passed between us; but, the outstretched arm and hand on my shoulder, was sufficient to alert me to the danger: the sun was so bright, and the water clear, and we were parked so close to the waters edge, that without what seemed like an instinctive action on Jenny’s part, I would have walked over the edge of the causeway. But for me, there was nothing instinctive about it, it was divine intervention: for God, who keeps His word, would not allow that I should drown in Havana. And the more remarkable the intervention, because Jenny, so to speak, is not, “among the believers.”

Be that as it may, I am 78 and still going, minus my appendix, gall bladder and benefiting from some positive refurbishments: plastic surgery on my nose, triple heart bypass surgery, and a new lens, and a prosthesis, fitted around the Iris, with the same to follow sometime soon in the other eye. And I have just taken delivery of some sturdy household scaffolding, with variable work platforms, a tools shelf, and wheels that lock. There is nothing as tiring, or as uncertain as working from a ladder, especially when it comes to trimming hedges on uneven ground. So from here on in, the emphasis is on comfort and safety. But that’s not all.

Very recently, and somewhat reluctantly, I have come to the conclusion that the time has arrived for a second cull of books, the first occurring when we moved house a few years ago. So the questions that arise are, What to keep, and what to let go? and Why? And is it possible in this digital age, that I won’t find a home for a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, leather bound and gilded, and for the children’s 18 volume equivalent, in bright red hardback, gilded and catching the eye on the shelf.? Will the parents of Oliver, our recently arrived grandson, (again, in the context of this digital age,) be interested? Or is it a sad truth that these and many other such items will end up in the recycle bin. But, even before I get going, some things I know will survive: anything that has to do with philosophy, theology, astronomy and mythology, religion, and evolution; and little of anything from my collection of poets and poetry, will disappear. And of course, when it comes to history and politics, biography and autobiography, each book will have to be considered on its merits, a task that might be more taxing in the context of things Irish. But here, by way of example, are a few that readily come to mind, and will be staying: Hitler And Stalin: Parallel Lives, by the acclaimed and late historian Alan Bullock. And a no less accomplished biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, by Eberhard Bethge, and the writings of Ernest Hemingway, whose path we trod in Cuba, and lastly a man who, night after night during “the troubles,” made the same nasal sounds as myself, when reporting from Parliament for the BBC, John Cole, who titled his memoirs, As It Seemed to Me: From Harold Macmillan to John Major. And I am also well disposed to keeping the many, expensive, travel brochures that we have collected over the years.

And lastly, the Children’s Encyclopedia by Arthur Mee, that I purchased, second hand, for reasons of sentiment. It was part of the fabric of home, and will  survive the cull. At one period in his life, our father, going literally from door to door, negotiated a sale, and was once heard to remark, that he had never called at a house ashamed of what it was that he represented: for he had both the education and experience in life, to know its worth. Well I purchased it, not because our father sold it, but because in my formative years the best I could do with it was to look at the pictures; so in today’s parlance, I am, shape aware, having, all those years ago, absorbed so many buildings, sculptures, monuments, insects, birds, costumes, flags, locomotives ,etc., etc.,  and the innards of the industrial revolution. And in particular, I readily recall the sculpted image of a man bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, whom I now know, in Greek mythology, was the Titan Atlas. And so in my evolving understanding of the world, and limited though it was, Arthur Mee had a god like status, which brings me nicely to Fleet Street.

I used to work in Fleet Street, for five years to be exact, for Reuters. It was before the printing presses (with much acrimony) were moved out to Wapping. So I know where all the watering holes used to be: Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, The Cartoonist, and, the Tipperary, all, along with many others, on Fleet Street. And when, for reasons of space, we moved to the London International Press Centre, at the top of Ludgate Hill, there, in a state of dwarfism beside it, was The Printer's Devil. And when, yet again, we moved back across Fleet Street and beyond to John Carpenter House, in John Carpenter Street, the Ludgate Cellars were close bye. 

Understandably, things around Fleet Street are not what they once were; but, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, (that in 1667) was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, is still in business, as is the four hundred year old Tipperary, of which a reviewer, giving it five, (green) stars, recently wrote:

“Great wee pub,

Right in Fleet Street.

This is a proper Irish Pub in the middle of London serving excellent Guinness and Tayto cheese.”

Well, when some time ago I was reading a Biography of Arthur Mee, “writer, journalist, and educator,” I made an unexpected, quirky, but none the less pleasing discovery, that this great man had worked at his desk, in my very own place of employment - John Carpenter House.

__________

  ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

Photo: Climbing along the public footpath, to the top of Ramore Head.
"among the believers" : the title of a book by VS Naipaul