by Michael Boyle
It must be nostalgia, but when our extended Irish family gets together local trivia breaks out and there is a cacophony of sound. We all talk at the same time just like we did when we had much more hair and when we were cutting turf in the moss under a hot May sun.
And here we were once again in the family kitchen last September. Some family members have been abroad in diverse places like Nepal, Newfoundland, Ontario and London, England. Others have lived all their lives on the farm in scenic places like Drummuck and Mayogall. Peter Mc Grann a local farmer once said that we all lived ‘no more than a stone’s throw from cow dung.’
Nothing was organized, but the room gradually began to fill up with neighbors and friends. In the early part of the night, I sat on the low soft greenish sofa, that faced the yellow range and above last year’s home-made St Bridget’s cross looked down on the gathering. My brother Sean from London sat on the armchair beside the sofa and next
to the door to the hall. Everyone else tried to sit wherever they could find a seat.
Sometimes, it felt you felt you were at Grand Central railway station as visitors came into the room via the front door and the local famers trudged in the back door via the scullery. My sister Marie and others slipped out this side door to prepare tea. In our family, as a general rule, we don’t talk politics or know what small chat means. There was only one topic – Gaelic football, but a sub-group including my brother Brian, Seamus Mc Gill – and a few others debated why so few farmers now grow potatoes.
Look, Mayo will never win an All Ireland final until that tinkers’ curse is over. said my brother Harry. Then, he lowered his voice and explained that during a gypsy funeral back in 1951, the winning Mayo team back then did not pay proper respects. Harry continued.
‘This curse means no Mayo football team will win another final until the last man of that team has died.’ Then he added, ‘There are only two old geezers of them left’.
‘A lot of nonsense folks to fill Sunday newspapers.’ said Tommy Quigley.
My brother Brian had been ill all year, but he relished nights like these with all the visitors from overseas and over the fields. But he quickly changed the subject because he knew he had a chance once more to make a fool his book-learning brothers again.
‘Do any of ye smart people here – those school masters and university professors – know the name and number of the first car that my father bought? And -oh, he was your father too.’ Then he added a clincher. ‘From whom did my father buy this car?’
My brother Sean rubbed the chin of his stubby beard and quickly answered.
‘Brother Brian. This is far too easy. A black Ford Eight car with a running board and we bought it from our neighbor Bob Johnson.’
Brian clapped his hands, and now the blood was up as he went in for the kill.
He smirked a little and straightened up from his chair.
‘Mister Schoolmaster very good. But you did not remember the plate number.’
The buzz in the room rose for the home team.
Seamus Mac Gill the caretaker at the local St Patrick’s High School in Maghera had no trouble in with this question.
Name in order all the five dogs that the Mac Granns ever had’.
An objection and a steward’s inquiry followed this question because someone said Mac Granns had named all their dogs Topsy.
With a round of short snappers the noise level increased again with shouting and dramatics. The scullery door opened and my sister Marie came in with the tea: an assortment of triangular sandwiches and biscuits. . But the banter, slagging, one-upmanship and trivia questions intensified towards a fever pitch.
Then my brother Sean home from England took the stage like he did all summer as a Jack the Ripper tour guide in London. Lately he has been helping researchers from an American University on this topic.
He stumped the class: ‘Who was the merchant from Bellaghy who bought the blackberries stored up the yard in the old milk house?’
Now Brian really came into his own with car number plates questions, which baffled everyone. He was in fine fettle and he knew it and the local team roared whenever he stood up.
‘What was the name of the last horse on the farm that ploughed the Scrog field?’
And another one- ‘What did Theresa Lagan make to sell in Bellaghy fair?
The rest of us were silent and my brother Harry stood up for attention. He paused and winked at me. ‘Our Mickey has the best ever parish trivia for ye all.’
I waited and then the roars of the crowd spurred me on. And I took two attempts to get up from the low-back sofa and almost knocked a cup of hot tea over my nephew Gavin.
‘OK, I have a question for you all. Indeed I do.’
I looked around and took a sup of tea from my cup on the range shelf.
‘Next year, 2016, marks the Easter Rising. So for this question you will really need to know your Irish History.’
Brian said,’ Sir. We don’t need and further more we don’t want a history lesson, Master.’
Gales of laughter and shouts of “Well said Brian.’
I tried again. ‘Sometimes we think we know our own Irish history but we will see.’ I paused for effect.
‘Name a person from Lavey parish who attended a Dublin funeral of one of the people executed in 1916?’
‘Easy,’ said Sean. ‘One of the Mc Gurks.’, and then he continued. ‘This question is too vague. And it could be a trick. So beware folks.’
Then I heard other answers like Converys, Downeys, Dillons, McGranns, Lagans, and Diamonds. But all these answers were wrong and folks were not about to give up. Then I said,
‘First Clue. This person lived in Drummuck.’
This really did not help much. A few more answers.
‘Clue Two. This person is still alive.’
Then Sean jumped up and said ‘Holy Moses. I would love to meet that person and let him shake my hand. This person must be at least 120 years old.’
The room rocked. I almost peed in my pants with laughter.
No correct answers again. Folks muttered and wondered what would happen next.
Brian Og asked how anyone from Drummuck could be in Dublin 1916 for Easter Rising funerals.
‘Do you want a final clue?’
Everyone focused in me as I raised my right fist high in the air close to the ceiling and folks roared as my hand almost moved the large picture of The Sacred Heart.
‘For God’s sake, Mickey. Don’t knock down the holy pictures with your guldering and ganching, shouted my sister Saveen.
Final Clue. This person is a member of our family.’
This clue only added to the confusion and the noise level in the kitchen and frightened the cattle grazing in the front field.
‘OK, I have to tell you the answer.’ I paused, and the room was hushed. ‘Me. Yes, me.’
And then I added ‘Sean, you have to shake my hand.’
Protests, jeers and boos greeted my answer.
‘How could you be in Dublin in 1916 when these funerals took place? You weren’t even born then for God’s sake. Our Mickey is at his tricks again,’ and Sean threw up his hands.
‘That is like Mickey’s old trick question about the 1940 Olympics.’
I tried to make my point above the noise.
‘Folks, you did not really listen to the question. Name a person from Lavey parish who attended one of the funerals of the 1916 Rising?’
9
‘Whose funeral were you at Mickey?’ said Grainne.
‘In Dublin in 1965, I attended the state funeral of Sir Roger Casement, whose remains were repatriated back to Ireland from his original grave in a prison in London. There was a state funeral in Dublin attended by thousands of people along O’Connell St and your Mickey was there.’
‘Well. Let me tell our Mickey that Casement had nothing to do with the Rising.’ shouted Sean.
‘Oh, Yeah. He tried to bring guns from Germany for The Easter Rising.’
‘How come you were in Dublin for this event? said Brian.
‘I was at College in Belfast and a member of the Casement Running Club and a number of us attended the funeral on behalf of the club. As regards our history, none of the 1916 rebels had a funeral at all,’ I blurted out.
My heart was pounding, and I didn’t feel I was at family trivia but that I was just coming off a stage performance and I can still hear the crowd roaring in my ears. It was a stretch, my feeble attempts to bridge between family trivia and Irish History.
Then I remembered that James Joyce once said,
‘History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.’
Tinteán 