Was asked a week ago to read a few verses, at a church service to remember babies, who were lost before, during of shortly after birth.
Have been asked before to
participate and was honoured to do so.
Towards the end of the
rehearsal the piper, who usually performs a piped lament to finish
the outdoor part of the remembrance, said “I have wurds to the
lament, dum dum do do... a pom.” The coordinator asked, “ Have
you got them with you? Written down?”
“No. Dems on me 'puter.”
(Honestly. He speaks and mutters a lot and that is about the lilt of
the accent – North County Dublin Accent).
“But I can recite dem.”
“Grand so,” adds the
coordinator. “Pat can you write them down.”
I muttered to the lady
sitting beside me ..On with the kid gloves now to try and get Billy to tell me the words.
After
a bit of fitting and sparting ( pissing & farting) he had
muttered the first few verses to me and I had written them down.
“That's
all I remember but deres a few more verses.” He offered.
“Where?”
“I
tole ya, on me 'puter.”
“Can
we go over and get them?
“Nah,
I may not be able to find them. I'll bring them over tomorrow.”
“OK”
I said. “I will be at mass at 10 o'clock – give them to me then,
or if you like give them to me 15 minuter before we start tomorrow.”
So Pat
goes early to 10 mass, parks his car outside yer mans front door.
No
sign of yer man the piper, not a squeak out of him. So off I got to
mass, expecting to find him waiting when the service is over. But the
green between his house and the church is devoid of life – not even
a mangy mutt defecating, as usual, on the path. So he was not waiting
to see me before or after mass.
In the
afternoon I arrive for the remembrance, to find the piper in his kilt
and top with his pipe under his arm, all prepared for the
performance.
I get
the poem, which has been left in the front seat for me and walk down
the church to meet him and discuss how he wants his work delivered.
He
storms up with steam coming out his ears and loudly shouts vile
profanity at me. The F word and the B word and a hope he could Pee on
my grave, because we had missed meeting that morning, citing a time
scale when I was sitting in the car outside his door.
So I
decided I could go home, or do the readings as I said I would but not
his poem. I opted to clear off home – leave him to it. My Good
Wife whispered “Michelle Obama – when they go low YOU go high.”
I sat
down and looked at the poem for the children who died at birth, or
after, or in memory of miscarriages that mothers had.
“Jesus
Lord have mercy on lost children.” That was the first line I read.
Jeepers this guy is asking mercy for children who we all believe are
in Heaven. I read on and it got worse. “The love that we had to
give to them. Has been placed on to others who are at hand....To know
that our baby is in your Mother's care”
So my
editing pen was put to good use. The first line was changed to “Jesus
Lord welcome our lost children.” Baby became babies, is became are.
So on I went: chop, chop, change, write, edit.
Well
do you know what? Outside I explained the poem, said I was honoured
to have been asked to read it. Reviewed it, pointed out the despair
and the loneliness in the verses and the words and gave it my best
radio and TV voice and education, pausing and speeding up, slowing as
required. And I got a big clap and shouts of well done.
Then
the piper started to pump up his bellows, get its wind up with a few
thumps on the side of the bag, and tones the instrument, and then the
priest walked away into the Sacristy and the crowd dispersed for
refreshments. He blows a few notes and storms home silently. No march
accompanied him, as I watched him stomp across the green. Hoping he
would encounter what the dogs had left there over the week.
Later
I realised that the day before when he said “I have some wurds...”
We
were supposed to say “Will you recite them after you play the
refrain tomorrow?
Typically
Irish stupidity. I will only perform when asked to do so, I won't
offer, or say I want to do it, and when I'm stupid enough to keep my
mouth shut about what I want to do, and someone else gets asked to do
the job, I will turn nasty.
Just
like at the party when Jonny is asked to sing a song and says no,
then when asked again insists he won't. But at the third asking
agrees to perform.
Francie,
my dad used ask once, maybe twice, and then called on another. He
was popular with some, hated by the ones who insisted all week
afterwards, that he would not let them sing.
Bloomin'
Irish traditions.
