funny and got on well with everyone. On another morning he came in about the same time and one of us was crying, perhaps Peggy, who was the baby of the family.
He stood looking at her and said, “Why are you crying? I’m Jack Smith, all the way from Portadown and I haven’t cried yet.”
We had many travelling salesmen who came our way, especially in the summertime. Some had transport but most of them got off the bus at Tamnamore and walked carrying big suitcases loaded with their wares.
Each summer there would be Indians, whom we called Darkies, who always had huge cases and would toil up our hill in the hot sunshine carrying their heavy loads. I always felt sorry for them but, I suppose, they were more used to the heat than we.
They would call in our house and proceed to cover our kitchen with beautiful coloured silks of all hues and sizes.
“No buy, missus,” they would say.
My mother would make them a cup of tea and I can’t remember whether she bought anything or not. I suppose she bought something – a silk headscarf, perhaps, as they were quite popular then.
Then the Darkie would patiently pack everything back again. We called them Darkies as the most convenient term to describe them as they were darker than us. There was no colour bar in Derryvarn and we didn’t think of ourselves as any better or any worse than the Darkies.
Years later in the 1950s, when I was working in a chemist’s shop in Birmingham, an Indian packman came in and I invited him into the dispensary where he displayed his wares. I had no interest in his silks but I bought an eternity ring from him, as I was recently married and I thought my wife would like it. However, she wasn’t very taken with it so I put it in the shop window and sold it. The Indian had a cup of tea and off he went. I suppose he was quite pleased with his sale and probably with his reception.
When I was very young, an old man lived across the road from our shop called Peter Gartland. He had a nice little farm which he and his brother, Larry, worked. He was a bit of a character and was forever giving my father the benefit of his theories on economics.
“What, what, what?” he would say. “You feed a hen for a penny a day and she will lay an egg for a penny a day. Where is the profit? Where is the profit? What, what, what?”
A small farmer’s life in the 1930s was not easy. Hay sheds, those large structures with rounded roofs, built from corrugated zinc which are a common site at every farm today, would not been seen in the late 1920s and early 1930s, except in large farms.
Farms in Ireland were owned by the farmers, not like in England where they were leased from huge estates. The hay, when it was drawn home in the autumn would be built in hay stacks called packs in the haggard, or hay yard. These packs were shaped like the cocks of hay in the meadow and it took about ten cocks of hay, I think, to make one pack.
Peter Hughes was a remarkable cock and pack builder for his age. He could stand at the top putting little bits of hay under his feet with the end of a rake which he held in one hand and would tramp, tramp, tramp with his feet and pat, pat, pat with the butt end of his rake until there was only room at the top for his two feet. Then, rake in hand, he would slide to the ground like a young man but probably more gracefully.
At harvest time Peter, of course, built the packs and to see that old man up there with two men pitching the hay to him with long forks, was worth watching. As the packs got higher, the pitchers would have to climb ladders to reach up to the builder. That wasn’t easy and after a first day of pitching hay the muscles would be groaning next morning.
The pack of hay would be as tall as some of the trees around it. The trees were planted there to provide shelter when the gales would blow in the winter, and the packs would be roped with grass rope, which we sold in the shop. The grass rope would be put over the top and a brick
He stood looking at her and said, “Why are you crying? I’m Jack Smith, all the way from Portadown and I haven’t cried yet.”
We had many travelling salesmen who came our way, especially in the summertime. Some had transport but most of them got off the bus at Tamnamore and walked carrying big suitcases loaded with their wares.
Each summer there would be Indians, whom we called Darkies, who always had huge cases and would toil up our hill in the hot sunshine carrying their heavy loads. I always felt sorry for them but, I suppose, they were more used to the heat than we.
They would call in our house and proceed to cover our kitchen with beautiful coloured silks of all hues and sizes.
“No buy, missus,” they would say.
My mother would make them a cup of tea and I can’t remember whether she bought anything or not. I suppose she bought something – a silk headscarf, perhaps, as they were quite popular then.
Then the Darkie would patiently pack everything back again. We called them Darkies as the most convenient term to describe them as they were darker than us. There was no colour bar in Derryvarn and we didn’t think of ourselves as any better or any worse than the Darkies.
Years later in the 1950s, when I was working in a chemist’s shop in Birmingham, an Indian packman came in and I invited him into the dispensary where he displayed his wares. I had no interest in his silks but I bought an eternity ring from him, as I was recently married and I thought my wife would like it. However, she wasn’t very taken with it so I put it in the shop window and sold it. The Indian had a cup of tea and off he went. I suppose he was quite pleased with his sale and probably with his reception.
When I was very young, an old man lived across the road from our shop called Peter Gartland. He had a nice little farm which he and his brother, Larry, worked. He was a bit of a character and was forever giving my father the benefit of his theories on economics.
“What, what, what?” he would say. “You feed a hen for a penny a day and she will lay an egg for a penny a day. Where is the profit? Where is the profit? What, what, what?”
A small farmer’s life in the 1930s was not easy. Hay sheds, those large structures with rounded roofs, built from corrugated zinc which are a common site at every farm today, would not been seen in the late 1920s and early 1930s, except in large farms.
Farms in Ireland were owned by the farmers, not like in England where they were leased from huge estates. The hay, when it was drawn home in the autumn would be built in hay stacks called packs in the haggard, or hay yard. These packs were shaped like the cocks of hay in the meadow and it took about ten cocks of hay, I think, to make one pack.
Peter Hughes was a remarkable cock and pack builder for his age. He could stand at the top putting little bits of hay under his feet with the end of a rake which he held in one hand and would tramp, tramp, tramp with his feet and pat, pat, pat with the butt end of his rake until there was only room at the top for his two feet. Then, rake in hand, he would slide to the ground like a young man but probably more gracefully.
At harvest time Peter, of course, built the packs and to see that old man up there with two men pitching the hay to him with long forks, was worth watching. As the packs got higher, the pitchers would have to climb ladders to reach up to the builder. That wasn’t easy and after a first day of pitching hay the muscles would be groaning next morning.
The pack of hay would be as tall as some of the trees around it. The trees were planted there to provide shelter when the gales would blow in the winter, and the packs would be roped with grass rope, which we sold in the shop. The grass rope would be put over the top and a brick
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