The Parish (8 page)

I
t was the week before Christmas and like most of the country I was up to my oxters in baking, writing cards and buying presents. On that particular day, I was whipping trays of mince pies in and out of the oven. A small dark head came around the kitchen door and Dan asked: “Alice, will you take me to do my Christmas shopping tomorrow?”

“I will of, course,” I told him with delight. It was a long time since I had taken a six-year-old Christmas shopping.

Dan was the youngest of three boys, and his brothers were teenagers. They lived on a farm outside the village, and this would be his very first solo shopping trip. Taking me along was almost as good as going on his own because I knew that my role was to be that of a silent, agreeable observer.

“I’ll come in after school tomorrow evening,” he said.

“That will be grand,” I told him.

“And I’ll have my own money,” he informed me firmly before closing the door. I was being told that no interference, financial or otherwise, was expected or acceptable. At six, he might not have the right words to let me know what he
wanted but he had other ways of getting his message across.

Next evening, he shot in the side door on his way home from school, flung his school bag into a corner and demanded, “Are you ready?”

“What about eating something, Dan?” I ventured.

“Afterwards,” I was told.

We set out for nearby Bandon. Dan sat upright in his seat with a look of intense concentration on his face as he worked out the plan of his shopping campaign.

“I must get presents for Mam, Dad, Bill, Henry and maybe Róisín.” Róisín was a baby cousin who spent a lot of time in his house and whom he loved dearly.

I thought that I had better ask the burning question although, having consulted his mother, I already knew the answer. But it was best for our negotiations that Dan have all his cards on my table.

“How much money have you got to spend, Dan?” I inquired.

“Twenty euro,” he told me, patting his pocket. “And it’s all my own and I’m only spending my own money.”

Sound man
, I thought! Spending only the money in your pocket was not the national average at Christmas. But five presents out of €20 was going to put us to the pin of our collar.
Tread cautiously now, Alice,
I told myself.
This little lad’s feelings and pride cannot be dented on this shopping trip
. But his next comment set alarm bells ringing.

“Alice, I think that Mam would like a dishwasher.”

“Do you think so, Dan?” I gasped in consternation.

“Well, maybe,” he added, and I breathed a sigh of relief that he was not totally hell-bent on a dishwasher.

As we were walking up the main street of Bandon, I
ventured: “Where do you want to do your shopping?”

“The new shopping centre,” he told me. “They have a big electrical shop there that sells dishwashers.”

“Is that right?” I said weakly as my blood pressure rose. I was not off the hook.

“It’s going to be a big surprise for Mam,” he told me.

My mind went into overdrive trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this predicament. But no solution came readily to mind. Taking a six-year-old shopping had its hidden hazards. Dan forged ahead of me, his stride full of purposeful intent. There seemed to be no way to divert the impending disappointment. He was so overflowing with enthusiasm for his proposed purchase that it seemed cruel to drown his delight in a flood of reality. He was a firm believer in Santa, and in his heart he was now being Santa to his mother. How could I shatter his wonderful world and tell him that he could not buy a dishwasher for €20? He was charging full steam ahead towards a crash landing. How could I soften it?

Then suddenly the theory that worries are sometimes overcome by events became a reality before my very eyes. Dan slapped on his brakes and I almost fell over him. He came to a standstill in front of the pound-shop window. There in scarlet splendour stood an enormous jovial Santa. His portly presence filled the whole window. I was never in my life so glad to see him. His arms were outstretched in welcome and I almost fell into them. This would test his pulling power! Could he obliterate a dishwasher? Dan was intrigued. His eyes filled with wonder. I watched breathlessly. Santa did the trick! The dishwasher did not stand a chance.

“Do you think that we should try in here first?” he asked
breathlessly.

“Well, we could try anyway,” I assured him, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic, and praying that the power of the pound shop would swing things. He briskly pushed open the door and silently surveyed the shop. It was a child’s paradise packed with Christmas wonder. But Dan was not going to rush into anything. He walked very slowly around the packed shelves, paying intense attention to every item at his eye level and kneeling down to inspect the lower shelves. Then he came to a full stop in front of a little tableau of a farm scene. He studied it intently. There was no comment. Then he resumed his journey and I followed wordlessly, holding my breath.

As I passed the little farm, I glanced down but I kept walking because I did not want to appear over-eager. The price tag was a15. Perfect! But how was this going to work out? We were still only at the contemplation stage. Dan came silently around again and examined a little tool-set. Then he continued. On passing, I glanced down at the tool-set. Five euro. So far so good. He slowed down again as he approached the farm. Then he came to a stand-still. He stood there for a long time and studied the tableau and I studied Dan. There was deep concentration and financial analysis going on in his mind and he frowned at the intensity of the
decision-making
process. Eventually he began to lay out his budget strategy. No minister for finance ever took his portfolio more seriously.

“Have I enough money for this?” he asked thoughtfully. I was so grateful that we were not looking at a dishwasher.

“You have,” I told him.

The deep concentration continued, with his hands buried deep in his pockets. Finally he drew one hand out and placed
an index finger on the hens.

“Mam would like them,” he pronounced.

“She would,” I agreed.

He then moved his finger to the horse.

“Dad would like him,” he decided.

“He would,” I agreed.

He then moved a finger to the tractor.

“Bill and Henry would like that,” he continued.

“They would,” I agreed.

He then moved his finger to the dog.

“And Róisín would love him,” he finished decidedly.

“She would indeed,” I agreed with relief.

Then he looked up at me with a triumphant look on his face and two eyes overflowing with delight.

“That will make them all happy,” he declared.

“It sure will,” I agreed, though they could never be as happy as I was. But Dan was not finished yet. He retraced his footsteps back to the little tool-set and examined it carefully.

“Have I enough for this?” he queried.

“You have,” I assured him.

“Dad and I could work with it,” he decided. His father did wood-turning and Dan loved the workshop.

“Now Dad and I will be happy together,” he told me.

This minister for finance would leave the opposition speechless!

He carefully picked up his farm set and took it to the checkout and then went back for his tool-set. I maintained my role as a silent observer. He viewed the girl at the checkout.

“Will you wrap my Christmas presents?” he asked her solemnly.

“Of course,” she said, smiling, and asked, “Would you like
a Santa card?”

There was no need for words as his glowing smile gave the answer. His smile lit up her Christmas spirit and she did a beautiful job on his two presents.

As we left the shop, he whispered to me: “Wasn’t she very nice; isn’t it nice to be nice?”

Maybe he was not government material after all. We stood and admired the huge red man in the window.

“Isn’t Santa magic?” he said with a sigh.

“He is indeed,” I agreed wholeheartedly.

After all, he had just turned a dishwasher into a farm.

W
ithin each of us lies a dormant pool of creativity and, when the waters of this well begin to flow, the result can be deep inner fulfilment. Artists, wood-turners, knitters, bakers, embroiderers, and lace-makers are part of this network, as is anyone who creates with their hands and imaginations. They wake up in the morning with minds excited at the prospect of a picture to be painted or a carving to be finished or a tapestry to be completed. Creativity fills them with satisfaction and brings beauty into their lives and the lives of those around them. Such people are to be found in every parish. How many had we in our parish? There was only one way to find out and that was to provide a showcase for their creations. That showcase would be “Innishannon Creates It”.

Such a display of quality hand-made goods could not happen overnight. It takes time to create beautiful things, and so in January we laid out our idea to the parish via the church newsletters and local media. Each donated item would be sold at its full value for the church fund. We went to great pains to assure people that their creations would not be undervalued and
sold cheaply to bargain-hunters. Hours of loving dedication resulting in beautiful articles deserved to be appreciated and the articles sold for their true value. This was going to be a display of superb quality meriting discerning customers.

There was a hugely positive reaction to the idea from the parishioners; the whole concept caught people’s imagination and they got to work. They had the best part of a year for their projects as the following Christmas was targeted as the date when we would actually hold “Innishannon Creates It”. During the year we heard tell of patchwork quilts, christening robes, lace cloths, hand-knitted jumpers, paintings and tapestries in the making. We held our breath, hoping that we would have quantity as well as quality, but only time would tell. That was the excitement of doing something for the first time: there was no blueprint, so you could have a runaway success or a complete flop on your hands. Throughout the year we promoted a slow build-up of interest, stimulating the creators and alerting potential purchasers.

During the summer months we collected rose petals from the local gardens and laid them out to dry in the warm sun. When finally dry, they were feathery light with a wonderful array of colour and a heavenly smell. They needed to be well presented and luckily Paddy, who lives outside the village and is always ready to help, had taken up wood-turning and gave us dozens of wooden bowls which we filled with the
gorgeous-smelling
rose petals. Another parishioner, Claire, had a niece in Chicago whose business was top-quality labelling, and she sent us a roll of specially printed lush gold labels. Bowls of “Innishannon Pot Pourri” would make great Christmas gifts, especially for parish people overseas.

Candles are synonymous with Christmas, so we decided to
make pure beeswax candles. Con’s beeswax had been carefully stored away and nothing would have pleased him better than to have it used in candles to raise funds for the church that he had loved. So when his brother, Fr Denis, came on holiday, we spent days making candles and our kitchen turned into a candle-making factory. At first, progress was very slow because we lacked Con’s know-how and advice, but I remembered some of the details and we purchased a book on
candle-making
which we consulted as we went along.

We put a heavy saucepan on the Aga and into it went a large dome of yellow wax and the right measure of stearin powder. Ours was seasoned wax with a touch of velvet and rich honey smell. Slowly liquid wax began to ooze from the base of the dome and gently with a wooden spoon we moved the wax around and gradually the dome got smaller and smaller until it had turned into a pot of liquid amber. We kept stirring until the wax was bubbling hot. Then we put a taper into a candle mould and eased it through the hole at the bottom and sealed it with the special sealer, being careful to steady the taper in the centre using a little bit of wood across the top to keep it in place. The next step was to pour some of the boiling wax carefully into the mould, making sure to keep the wick in the centre. When the mould was almost full, we let the hot wax rest, air bubbles escaped and a little sag formed; we filled this to give an even base to the candle.

At first we did as the book instructed and stood the candle mould in cold water to cool but we discovered that the fridge worked just as well and this made things easier. When the wax had cooled and the candle was set in the mould, we had great difficulty in ejecting it until we discovered the simple trick of putting the mould into the deep freeze for a few
minutes and then rolling it between our warm hands until we heard a sharp crack as the wax contracted from the mould. Then the candle came out smooth and creamy. It smelt of pure honey and felt like warm satin. Pure wax candles burn very slowly and give out a rich honey aroma—these were the perfect Christmas candles. Here Paddy weighed in with sturdy wooden candlesticks around which we tied a red ribbon and Claire’s golden labels reading: “Pure beeswax Innishannon candles”.

From 1 November onwards, we requested that people begin bringing in their goods. Because our old house is big and rambling with lots of space, and conveniently placed in the centre of the village, we decided to gather everything here in the one place and then we would know exactly what we had on our hands.

It began with a trickle that grew into a stream and as momentum gathered it turned into a flood. Our large front room began to fill up with boxes and bags that gradually overflowed into the corridors and into what we term the
seomra ciúin
(quiet room), which could no longer be so described as people came and went, bringing such beautiful things that I was absolutely gob-smacked. In came wonderful patchwork quilts, one of which was completely hand-stitched; three christening outfits comprising embroidered dresses edged with lace; hand-crocheted robes with matching bootees. Two tapestry pictures of breathtaking beauty, one of which had taken over two years to make—and the generous lady was not even a member of our church but on hearing of “Innishannon Creates It” got it finished by working long hours. Original oils and watercolours came in, and knitwear in all colours and sizes, together with wooden lamps and bowls crafted from seasoned
timber of Dromkeen Wood. The standard and quality were tremendous and we knew that we were looking at prospective family heirlooms and collectors’ items of the future.

One morning a sturdy box was handed in and when it was opened we knew straight away that this was the work of an expert because the cushions and Christmas stocking were like something to be seen in Harrods. The wonderful lady who had made them had for many years been a seamstress in London and had now retired to the parish.

We built up our advertising campaign using the newsletters of all the churches in the diocese—a wonderful medium of networking for church activities—and we wrote articles for the local papers and mounted advertising boards at both entrances to the village. This was one of the advantages of being on the main road to West Cork as we were in the line of vision of 30,000 vehicles passing daily through our village. In all our advertising we emphasised that these were top-quality articles and would not be cheap, which caused one woman to comment caustically: “Looks like ’twill be no place for bargains!”

The venue was to be Innishannon Hotel, sited just outside the village at the end of a tree-lined drive across the Bandon river from Dromkeen Wood. We had free use of the hotel’s large glass-fronted function room overlooking the river and wood. The plan was to run the event on the Saturday and Sunday and to set up the room on the Friday night. But there was a wedding in the hotel on that Friday which would probably go on far into the night. This meant that we would have to set up the room in the small hours of Saturday morning. At 4 a.m., as arranged, two large borrowed vans manned by locals pulled up outside our house and willing volunteers loaded up the goods, which had already been segregated into different
categories, and when we arrived at the hotel more parishioners were waiting to unload them into the appropriate stalls where others arranged the different displays. We each had a copy of the lay-out and when the long room was finally ready for customers it was an arresting sight. I felt a glow of pride that our small parish had actually produced such a magnificent display.

The fair began at ten o’clock, and by 10.30 the room was packed with people. It was a case of he who hesitates is lost because some people decided to walk around and have a think about the feasibility of a purchase, only to discover on return that a more decisive customer had acquired their object of desire. By lunchtime, all top-quality items had been sold, and the first items to go had been the two tapestry pictures, which brought in €1,500 between them. Paintings were in great demand and some disappointed customers sought out the artists with requests for similar pictures.

One item caused a bit of excitement. A beautifully knitted snow scene consisting of a fat Santa and two large snowmen was meant to be sold as a complete lot but one customer succeeded in persuading one of our attendants to sell one snowman, and this resulted in a lopsided scene which annoyed another customer who had previously admired it in its entirety and had decided to purchase it. She demanded an explanation for the missing snowman. The attendant was reluctant to face the tribunal and tell the story of the missing snowman, so the annoyed woman sought out the knitter for an explanation, and the knitter came to me for an explanation. But there is no explanation for some things.

A cautious man admired a hand-knitted crib into which one dedicated knitter had put many hours of work. He felt
that it would be ideal for his young children but decided that he would have a look around in case there was better value further down the room. But a young teacher from the local primary school knew value when she saw it, declaring: “I can’t believe that someone had the patience to knit this whole nativity scene. I’d eat it first! But it’s perfect to teach the tiny tots about the crib.”

It was deeply satisfying for the creators of all these lovely things to see how much people appreciated their work. It had always surprised me that at sales of work people actually expected to get quality home-made goods cheaper than their mass-produced poorer-quality equivalents. It was an attitude destined to kill any cottage industry.

By Saturday evening, all the large items had been purchased; on Sunday the crowds continued to come, and, by Sunday evening, we were practically sold out. People had travelled long distances and were delighted with the quality of the goods and with the hotel setting where they were able to walk along by the river and then have lunch or afternoon tea in the dining room overlooking the wood and river. By Sunday night, we were all exhausted but delighted that “Innishannon Creates It” had been such a great success. It had brought in €25,000 for the church fund, but more important than the money was the sense of pride that our parish had such a wealth of talent and people who were generous enough to give so much of themselves in time and effort. When pools of creativity are stimulated, an entire parish is enriched.