Reminiscences of an Emigrant by Ken Kingston   If my memory serves me right, it was Charlotte Brontë who wrote: “Memory in youth is active and easily impressible; in old age it is comparatively callous to new impressions, but still retains vividly those of earlier years.”   Though I don’t think I am more “callous to new impressions”, memory is hesitating and it takes longer to remember things. However, I have found that, perhaps, she was right about retaining the memories of earlier years, at least some of them.   Having lived in England for forty years, I have not set foot in Castleconnell in all that time. This summer, as President of the Irish National Services Museum Association, I was an invited guest at the unveiling of “Ireland’s National Monument to the Fighting 69th Regiment and Brigadier General Michael Corcoran” at Ballymote, Co. Sligo, by the Honourable Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York, on August 22. While staying with my brother, Gerard, in Co. Dublin, for a short time, he showed me a copy of An Caisleán, 2005. In it, among other things of interest to me, was a photograph of the Fitzgerald School of Dancing in the 1950s. There, among the rows of young people of the village were my sister, Sheila, and myself. I amazed myself by being able to name several others, without hesitation.   On returning home, I started to wonder what else I could remember. I searched deep but initially nothing sprang to the surface of my memory. As the days passed, it became important to me to try to remember and, gradually, snippets came from nowhere. I am sure there should be an awful lot more.   Among the earliest memories was of that of standing outside our house, “The Bungalow”, watching bigger boys playing football on the road by Carroll’s field, between our house and Carroll’s shop. One of the players came running down chasing the ball, which had either gone wide or had been a goal. Unfortunately for me, he knocked me over and broke my collarbone. I was tiny but I do remember the pain. Next, I remember the building of the village hall—a truly community effort. As I recall, the young men of the village all worked on the project, giving their spare time to the physical building of the hall. I remember being really surprised to see the local curate actually taking part in the manual labour.   This was an important milestone in the life of the village. Concerts, competitions, even the County Feis, were held here. The previously mentioned photograph of the Fitzgerald School of Dancing was taken on the stage and it was here that I won a medal for Scéalaíocht, in the Feis (1962 or 1963). I am still very proud of this medal. It is silver, bearing a Dublin hallmark for 1960, with enamelled arms of the Four Provinces in small circles at the four extremities—Ulster arms at the top, Munster arms at the base, Connacht at the left (west) and Leinster at the right (east). Celtic scrolls between each of the arms complete a circle. A circular band inside this bears the inscription Feis Conndae Luimniġí. The very centre has an open book imposed on an Irish harp. I also played the tin whistle, for a short time, in the village band. I remember that I was not very good at it. Music was never my forte, though I did take music lessons in Limerick and passed The Royal Irish Academy of Music Preliminary Pianoforte Examination, 1961. However, the constant rapping of a pencil on the knuckles, as a punishment for hitting the wrong keys, became a little tedious. I also remember that retaliation did nothing for the progression of my piano lessons. I have not played a musical instrument since.   Religion played a huge part in the village life and early memories of the retreats have remained with me—the rather terrifying but fantastic sermons delivered by preachers from religious orders, who came to our church to keep us on the straight and narrow. I can recall a certain lady member of the congregation, who burst into tears at one of these services. Jehovah’s Witnesses from Limerick created a rather unnerving atmosphere in their efforts to convert us as we came out of Sunday Mass. This effort was not sustained for too long a period. Another thing, which seemed rather strange to me, at the time, was the arrival of a curate who owned a couple of greyhounds. This was something one expected from gambling men, not men of the cloth. The next curate to arrive possessed a horse. One did not expect to come across a priest out riding. This seemed to me to be the prerogative of the rich.   Swimming in the Shannon was also a great pastime of the young in the village. We would swim near the bridge, which crossed over to Co. Clare. A number of us, including my late brother, Harry, were fishing on a stone weir near the World’s End when some boys on bicycles, wearing their swimwear, came past shouting that someone was in trouble. We went to the World’s End but there was nothing we could do. A boy had already drowned. He was visiting a family in the village. A search party eventually found his body. There were other tragedies, I recall. An infant, who lived on The Lane, was run over by a reversing coal lorry, while another child was killed by a kick from a horse, near the Tontines.   Unknown to my father or mother, at certain times, I would be paid a couple of pence to collect beer from Castleconnell Railway Station, where it would arrive by train. I would place the beer on a two-wheeled luggage trolley and negotiate it down the station steps. It was then pushed to its destination—Richardson’s public house. The most difficult part of this operation was the step-negotiation. A wooden barrel of Guinness, when it had fallen down several stone steps, was prone to cracking. When this happened, a creamy coloured liquid would squirt out all over the place. One would then have to slow down, pray the beer would settle and push it very gently to the pub, in order to receive payment.   The village “cinema” was the old wooden hall, which seemed to hang out over the River Shannon, at The Spa.  It was enjoyable, even if it was a little cold, windy and, sometimes, tended to be a little rowdy. Those who misbehaved during the film were liable to receive a light blow from a torch. The programme included Zorro and Hopalong Cassidy, and the cowboys (and cowgirl) often featured were Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Gabby Hayes, Tom Mix etc.   I also recall seeing torch-lit processions in the village when Republicans, who had been interned without trial in the Curragh, were released and returned to the area.   It is claimed that everyone remembers where he/she was on November 22, 1963, when he/she heard that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. At first, people thought it had to be some sort of sick joke. It had been less than five months since he had made a speech to the Irish Parliament in Dublin and presented the flag of the 69th Regiment New York State Volunteers, Irish Brigade, of the American Civil War, to the people of Ireland, June 28, 1963. The flag is on display in Leinster House, Dublin. I saw it during my last visit. Where was I when I heard the news? I recall being present at one of Davy McQuaid’s evening Irish language classes when someone arrived and broke the news. Everyone present was astounded.     Flag of 69th New York State Volunteers in Leinster House   Castleconnell was famous for fishing and ambassadors and other dignitaries would visit John Enright to be taken out on the Shannon and to buy his world famous fishing rods. I seem to remember the expression “green heart” in relation to these rods. We fished for, and caught, eels, perch and bream, while the older boys caught pike and salmon. The fish we caught were received willingly by our mothers, cooked and served at dinner. One memorable catch by the older boys was a huge pike, which was pushed up the village over the handlebars of a bicycle. I think virtually everyone in the village had a piece of this fish. The other thing that struck me in relation to fishing was the numerous occasions on which a man of principle, Seán Carroll, was escorted away by a member of the Garda for refusing to give up his right to fish without a licence on the Shannon. Several terms in prison could not shake his resolve to continue fishing where he had always fished without anyone’s permission.   The Gardaí patrolled by foot or by bicycle. There was great excitement in the village when an arrested man made a run for it and was brought to the ground by a Garda, on the Main Street. Such occurrences were rare in Castleconnell. Occasionally, there was the odd fistfight, usually about nothing of any importance. Poitín makers were another group that had to be dealt with and though not very exciting to hear about, clamping down on them could be dangerous for the individual Garda. When the film Mise Éire was released in early 1960, with the fantastic music of Seán Ó’Riada. it did not take long for people to let it be known that O’Riada’s father had been the local Garda sergeant, in the not too distant past. History, as taught in schools, had very little interest for me—long lists of dates of battles etc. Along came this film and it awakened a keen interest in me of the exploits of Irish soldiers, particularly abroad, which has remained with me to this day.   Other visitors to the village included Tinkers. They did not call themselves Travellers in those days and they did actually repair pots and pans.  Many people were afraid of these travelling people because they were different to us. They did not live in houses and their children did not attend school. It was a mystery how they survived the wet and the cold, living in the country lanes. Though most people shunned them, I recall my mother, who now lives in Co. Meath and will be 96 years old in January, 2007, paying these strangers to do repairs. She also gave clothes to one particular family, who returned on a regular basis.   Finally, the village pump comes to mind. A few of us boys found a spring by the castle, which obviously flowed into the Shannon. It was covered with watercress and other plants. As we stripped away the covering there was a spirit bottle lying in the water, which I foolishly picked up. The bottle broke in my right hand, slashing me between the thumb and index finger. It was very bloody. I ran all the way up to the pump, bleeding profusely. Scared, I placed my right hand under the water-flow, while I pumped with my left hand. The blood flowed all the time. My next stop was Scanlan’s public house. This was always the first stop for members of our family, in the event of injury—not to drink but to visit Mrs. Maureen Shanahan (nee Scanlan), the sister of the renowned Ahane and Limerick hurler, Paddy Scanlan. Mrs. Shanahan was a nurse and she tidied up the wound and bandaged it. Luckily, I did not need an anti-tetanus injection. The wound healed and I had no ill effects but I still have a scar on the inside of my right hand, between the thumb and index finger.   I am sure that, given some more deep thought there are other memories of those “earlier years” waiting to come to the fore.