Monday, October 31, 2005

HALLOWEEN, BANTRY BAY STYLE, ca. the 1890s


While writing a note to a friend, trying to explain the origins of Halloween, I decided to collecting dust off my dribs and drabs that I’ve collected over the years, and send them out as a Halloween blog. As many of you know, I grew up with a foot in three world: America, Ireland, and a somewhat Victorian version of the Otherworld. Hopefully you will enjoy this melange of stories. Actually, dressing up and using the phrase, "trick or treat" (also "trick and treat") was commonly used in southern Ireland in the 1890s... Contratry to popular belief, it was not a backwards traveling idea that came from the Americas as there was very little by way of American customs returning to Ireland until very, very recently (St. Patrick's Day celebration is an example). 

My grandmother, Jennie Walsh Reilly, who grew up in Bantry Bay, used to tell me of the trick or treating customs she celebrated as a girl. They dressed up in rags, they made and wore masks to disguise themselves so the uneasy returning dead let loose from the side (or barrows) to wander the earth for one night, wouldn't recognize or take them, and boys made bull roarers from pig bladders to scare the malicious ones away. They trick or treated. They had to either sing, dance, recite a poem (perform) and only then were they were given a treat...sometimes even a shiny copper half-penny.

She was quite irritated by the American custom of kids demanding candy without first performing. Id bring home from school the American traditions and she would "correct me, show me how it was supposed to be done. I do remember her giving us walnuts, oranges and apples. We played games: bobbed for apples, chased apples on a string with our teeth, peeled apples in one long core and let it fall to the foor to see what letter it would take (who we would marry), etc. I remember she lit a candle and I used to jump over it a la Jack be nimble /Jack be quick/ candlestick. She told me of hollowing out turnips to protect the wondows and offer a light for the souls returning home. Pumpkins are a new world food that replaced the big turnips of Ireland.

She also burned rosemary and sage from the garden in the newly lain fire: smudging the house to cleanse the air/banish the spirits on Nov. 1, and of course, we went to mass to pray for the dead. I remember all this so vividly because I used to help her with these tasks (which I thought odd), I was 5-10 years old, during the 1950s. We lived out in the wilds of N. California, where she singlehandedly raised my brother and I.

Soda bread and tea were made. She'd cut a deep cross on the top of the round loaf baked in a cast iron pan(other times of the year it was merely made in rectangular loaf pans). She told us of the special barmbrack bread but she rarely made it as she couldn't be bothered with making yeasted breads. But we knew the significance about receiving the ring, the coin or the rag.

She said, that in Ireland, they cleaned the house before Halloween, threw out any standing water, decorated /framed the windows with ivy, mistletoe and evergreens, placed hollowed turnips in the windows to light the way for the dead. They put out the fire, cleaned the hearth (once she used a plastic bucked, and it promptly melted when she put the hot ashes in), relit it from the bonfire on the hill at the farm (she used the pilot light on the stove).

At our farm, Coom an Or, my great-great grandfather drove his cattle between two bonfires, and he also made Catherine wheels out of wagon wheels covered in tar and rolled them down the hill... this custom was also done at Beltaine. Not all the All Hallows events practiced were solely for the Celtic New Year.

Some customs were used on St Stephen's Day (the wren on a stick), and Dec 31, and May 1.) Interestingly enough, she did pronounce the "m" in Samhain (it was sort of an m/v), she did learn school (Gaelic League days), she said it was not aspirated (the term they used for changing the s of certain letters. I know that because the typography of the day did not allow for making the dot o aspirated letter, that h's were introduced (thus creating a lexicographical nightmare)...

I found out later, when I attended UC Berkeley's rather rigorous Celtic Studies program (1999-2000) that sometimes that "h" was used in the medieval MSS as an aspiration, but dots were also more commonly used... We translated the Tain(s) Bo Cuailnge, & Fraoch, as well as other stories. I alsc studied with the late Provessor Alan Dudes, and collected much of my family's folklore for the foll archives. Anyway, my grannie argued that the sowen pronunciation was a post 1900 change, and, therefore, wrong. It may have been a Cork dialect or custom/or even just learned wrong... But she always fiercely tracking words in her Irish font dictionary dating from the 1880 or 1890s...Dineen’s think. but the cover was burned off in a kitchen fire.

Friday, October 21, 2005

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

Listen to the leaves, 
to the beating of your heart 
and sing to the moon.
Sing to the sun, sing to the stars.
It's time to go, to catch up, 
to smell the roses. 
Lemon spice, the names of roses
disintegrating into the mind, 
into the senses, a bouquet of thought.
Listen to the falling sycamore leaves, 
crimson against the pavements gray. 
Starfish hands grasping the air,
lightly dancing down the street 
like the scurrying of small rodent feet. 
Once I dreamed that the fall leaves 
turned into carnivorous beasts 
like strange lizards nipping at our heels 
driving us out into the light.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

Samhain freewrite


What follows the hunter’s moon, those nights when something is in the air, an expectancy. stirs us to pure verb. Muted horizons, the hills blend into a haze, marking a time for when the gates of the Otherworld will open, a time of harvest, a time of gathering in, the end of the agrarian year. Samhain, the new year in the old year's arms. Pumpkins like multiple suns, sleep in the fields of Half Moon Bay. They say on average, every American spends $16 on pumpkins each Halloween. I’ve almost reach my quota. Mini pumpkins and squash on the windowsills gaze out at me. Large pumpkins nesting on the table glow amidst seashells, ancient spirals of the conchs of Sanispac Island. I wonder if there’s an identity crisis amid the shells and squash? Shells so old they might’ve been opened by Arawak Indians. Cannibals, Columbus called them. Gone now to the otherworld. In the year 800, the pope gave up trying to get the populace to give up the old ways, celebrating the day of the dead when the doors of the sídhe rolled open in enchantment walked the land, taking fairy lovers and demons alike into the fold. And when Pope Adrian heard the Indians too celebrated the dead, he took All Saints Day from May and moved it to November. He couldn't comprehend the Aztecs taking a beating heart, holding it up to the sinking sun, crowned with marigolds and perfumed with copal. Everyone carrying on and partying in the graveyard offended the padres and so they renamed it El Día de los Muertos, the day when the boundaries between the living and the dead dissolved into el oscuridad de la noche, welcoming the dead into our lives for one day of the year.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

Thursday, October 20, 2005

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

Language is key to the thoughts of trees.
The leaves, small tongues against the wind.
Roaring river unlocking the thirst of a far shore.
This sibilance of syllables, the hissing
and glottal stop of branches cracking underfoot,
a warning the thoughts of trees, the key to language,
the small tongues of leaves against the biting wind,
thirst unlocked floods the farthest shore,
the sibilance of syllables the glottal stops,
a branch is a warning in the cambian layer
and danger rises unbidden in that deep secret place
within the brain were no words live,
only pure action. All is verb.

undated Oct 2005?

EGRETS

EGRETS

I had a dream of birds,
naked birds all lined up
in Joseph Cornell art boxes,
they were devoid of down.
Someone handed me a small egret
which I ate while alive.

undated Oct 2005?

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

We are adrift on a small raft 
and we moue small kisses into the air 
as if to say goodbye. 
The relentless ticking of the clock, 
never stopping its measured beat, 
a metronome in an empty kitchen.
Where is the music, the piano of thought?
We break out cord progressions, 
seeking patterns. 
Meanwhile time's measured march 
strings the minutes into years
until this parting where we pass 
from one existence to another. 
Oh yes, there was a time 
when we understood the language of trees, 
translating the creek's thought into song. 
The slow thoughts of trees, 
the birch writing on leaves.
Concentric time measured 
in cambian layers 
and speaking in tongues.

undated Oct 2005?

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Madeline Stannard Bedal Chapbook

Madeline Bedal was a student of mine at Merrill Gardens, an assisted living retirement home in Fremont, CA, where I taught a memoir class. It began as a poetry writing workshop but nobody was particularly interested. I tried out all kinds of writing exercises with them. I brought in Big Band music (a hit) and memorabilia, I worked with themes— anything to spark their creativity. So many of my elderly patients were very nearly brain dead from lack of stimulation. I struck gold when I stumbled upon the memoir process. 

Madeline, who was legally blind, and so she dictated everything to me, grew up in Whitefish, Montana, where she led a pioneer life, rich in memory and tradition. When she died, I was devastated as I had become quite fond of her. Her brother, Bill Stannard made a chapbook of her work, which I never knew about until after her death in November 29, 2006. Kudus, Madeline. Bill said that he sent the manuscript to Montana Arts Council, I don’t know whether or not he did that. I would like to think so. The Pruneyard in San Jose was once the Bedal Ranch. There is one tiny road named in memory of the ranch. I hope to find more of her pieces and post them, so this is a placeholder. Though he sent me the letter in 2006 I decided to post it in 2005 when he sent it out to all their relatives.

—Maureen Hurley (added 8/2023. I have so little work from 2005 to 2006, I don’t know what happened to it all. So every little thing I find helps me to flesh out those years. This becomes a diary of sorts.) See also: Della Madeline Stannard Bedal obituary