Kate Butler with some memories of a time now long gone . . .
Time is a curious thing; life has changed significantly since my childhood days. As I sit in my car, looking at people rushing by, my mind drifts back to my childhood days.
I remember growing up here in Wexford in a small village where everyone knew each other, their children played together, families worked together, and communities came together every weekend to dance at the crossroads. Half-Sets aside, card games filled the winter evenings, with 45 the game of choice. It was many an evening I sat at the fire hearth, as logs crackled on the open fire, and a toasty, snug feeling filled me. I watched my mother laugh so heartily as around the table, herself and a group of six neighbours sat playing cards, and with the happiness of a schoolgirl, she would yell and hop in her seat with delight, especially if she had won a trick in the game, or if she had the joker.
I don’t have one stand-alone memory of those days, more of a kaleidoscope tapestry of memories that warm my heart, such as every Saturday evening as a young child sitting on my father’s knee as he would cook mushrooms in the grey embers of the open fire, a pinch of salt made the juice in the mushroom bubble in its cup and taste like a 5-star meal in the Ritz, onions still in their skin and apples followed the mushrooms into the embers, hmmm a smell and taste I’d walk back in time for this minute.
Christmas
My dad passed on when I was eight, but I still see his smile and twinkling eyes as he scooped me up every evening with a welcoming hug when he came home from work. He loved Christmas, and I remember him pairing small twigs from the Ash Tree to make a trivet. He would pop these paired twigs into the base of a large iron skillet, then the turkey on top of these and a tiny drop of water in the base. The lid was put on the pot and covered with hot embers from the fire, then the skillet, turkey, and all were hung on the fire crane over a roasting hot open fire. I tell you honestly, the smell and crackle of the turkey roasting was enough to make the fullest man hungry. Never in the years that have passed have I smelled or tasted anything as delicious.
Picking Strawberries
My mother and father grew strawberries that they sold to Chivers’ jam company, as a lot of neighbours did in those days. I remember hot summers with lots of our neighbours coming to pick the strawberries. The picking started early, usually around 5.30 in the morning, and was completed when all the crates were full. This was usually around 4 pm, flasks of tea were brought from the house to all the pickers with freshly sliced, currant bread made that morning, and a big bowl of farmers’ butter to slather across it. After the long hours picking in the heat, a rest at the headland of the drills and some shade was very welcome. The full strawberry crates were loaded onto the cart and pulled by a donkey. My mother, holding the reins, would travel the eight miles to Chivers’ sorting depot in Foulksmills.
I would be delighted if I got to go, lifted onto the back of the Cart, my legs hanging down as the Donkey clopped away on the dusty old road. I always enjoyed the trip, looking over the hedges and trying to make out faces and animal shapes in the fluffy white clouds. When we arrived at the sorting depot, the crates were unloaded and brought to a huge shed with conveyor belts in it. I looked on in amazement as a child at all the people standing at these belts moving with speed and precision, removing any bruised or bad fruit; only the best was accepted. It was many a grower having not gotten their fruit to the depot on the day it was picked was sent home with the full cart they came with and not a penny to show for their labour. I only remember it happening to us once, coming down into the village there is a steep hill, the shaft broke on the cart sending crates of strawberries all over the road, most of the load was lost but with the help of a passer-by who lifted the broken shaft my mother was able to tie it together to at least get some of the crates to market. Good memories of a time now long gone, now just echoes in my heart of the yesterday.
(c) Kate Butler
The River Flows On by Kate Butler
A gentle trickle of water emerging from the ground
like a baby’s first cry as it’s born into this world
With a toddling step, it moves towards its future,
like a stream now tentatively flowing over rocks and stones
on a newly carved out river bed
With future dreams and hopes, growth moves forward,
Taken by meandering bends and the rushing force
Excited to run, play, and see the possibilities of life
The river flows on
Rushing faster, faster over stone and weir
Fast-paced life, no time to hear
Each breath is measured on the last
As water’s strength at last grows still
Gentle moments now until the next big change
A time of slow current and soundless motion
Looking back on trickling streams and gushing weir
Now, stillness ends, and all becomes one in the vast horizon of the seas
For now, and ever more
The river flows on
(c) Kate Butler
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