We never really found shamrocks, or even the clover that we were sure were shamrocks.
We always ended up with a harp on a green piece of material pinned to our jumpers.
Back in the days before they had parades, the only show was that of the journey to Mass.
I recently took a second glance at a shelf at the back of a shop after spotting something that always reminds me of our national bank holiday ‘La le Patrick’.
Could it really be?
I was considering buying it but had to rethink that plan because I have no obvious use for it. Not today – or even for a good few years at this stage! Mind you, it was alway in our house growing up, always used as a part of a daily ritual.
I’m talking about Brylcreem!
It was a product always used by my father every morning as he got himself ready for work.
He’d use it sparingly on work days but come St. Patrick’s Day, we’d all line up for a dab of ‘brill-cream’ in our hair before setting out for the day.
Brylcreem ‘Original’ – spotted recently in a Spar shop in Letterkenny. Photo: Brian McDaid.
My father had an odd way of taking Brylcreem out of the red and white plastic container. As a child he accidentally cut one of the nerves on a finger on his left hand while returning from the shop with a razor blade. He was cycling at the time when he saw the lights of a circus lighting up the tent near his home in Pluck. He pulled the brakes on his bike to stop and have a look, forgetting that he was still holding the razor blade. The result: a deep cut on his middle finger which was partly paralyzed.
Years later, the injury was very noticeable when he dipped two fingers into brylcreem and began the routine of transferring the hair cream to the palms of both hands. He’d raise both elbows high into the air and dip his head before applying the cream. He’d execute a bit of accuracy with a comb to find the parting, combing back his head of black and silvering temples to perfection.
On a Saturday before St Patrick’s Day daddy would send us over to our uncle Pat’s He lived three doors away in Wolfe Tone Place.
Pat cut hair with old hand-operated clippers. You’d sit backwards on a chair in the middle of his kitchen with a towel around your neck. And every so often Uncle Pat would let a roar at you to ‘sit at peace sir’ after he would nick you with the clippers!
Fred in his Sunday best heading to Mass
The five of us would sit at the kitchen table and Pat’s wife Sadie would make us tea and her own scone bread with butter and syrup. Then as each one of us would move forward, Pat would cut our hair and then our Daddy would get his hair cut too.
On St Patrick’s Day morning we would head off in the old Anglia Estate to Mass looking like something out of The Godfather.
Daddy always parked the Anglia on a hill with the steering cut out against the footpath. He did this for two reasons, the hand brake was never that good on that old estate, and the car never started off the key.
After Mass as we’d drive off, the car sounded like an early hybrid – silent as it took off from a hill, gathering a bit of speed before daddy would drop it into second gear and let out the clutch. Then the Ford engine would come to life.
An Old Ford Anglia Estate
Indeed on St. Patrick’s Day we could have free-wheeled to our next stop which was Nellie McGovern’s pub where daddy would traditionally drown his shamrock.
He’d send one of us up to Bella Clarke’s Shop to buy a few St Patrick’s Day badges and we’d sit with him in the pub so he could have a few drinks and have a yarn with some of the other customers.
When Nellie would close for a few hours in the afternoon, daddy would drink up and we would head out to Pluck a spin to see our granny – his mother – and his sister Nora,
They would make us a bite to eat and daddy might nip down to Bradley’s pub in Pluck while he was waiting on the dinner.
We would go on another search to see if we could find any shamrocks in the big back garden down in granny’s before coming in and getting all our hands washed in a basin of water before we would get our tea when daddy came back from the pub.
As night time fell daddy would get the Old Anglia fired up as we would head for home back in Letterkenny. We would all join in a sing song on our journey home – songs like the Rocks of Bawn. Lovely Leitrim got a rattle as we headed in the Derry Road.
My father Fred as a young man – hair all combed back in the style of the day
Growing up with this routine on St. Patrick’s Day might not have been normal for everyone, but I suppose we weren’t that normal either. Daddy made a big day of St Patrick’s, sometimes too big of a day for it, as he celebrated another year of just surviving in the only way he knew.
His parade was us – his wanes – taking us with him for a day out
He drowned his shamrock along with his sorrows on St Patrick’s Day.
The following day, he’d put on another light covering of Brylcreem, straightened his work tie and put on his old ESB donkey jacket and started another year.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day folks . . .
