Paddy’s Day 

By Peadar O’Dowd

The village wouldn’t be the same without John Joe. Although he didn’t actually live in the little hamlet boasting a church, pub, shop and a few weathered homes, John Joe always seemed to be present or just passing through. His little adjacent farm, if you could call it that, was simply a small field for ‘Paddy’ the donkey, almost as old as himself, as well as a tiny garraí for his spuds, before foreign potatoes brought the sun from Cyprus with them in tight plastic bags.

Between Mass in the morning with Fr. Brady, P.P. , and the corner stool in Waldrons for the chat with Bridie as she poured his pint in the evening, John Joe liked to lean on the village bridge and watch the world in motion. Naturally, he had the gift of the gab, as any 70-plus retired rural County Council worker would have, and many a pearl of wisdom was dispensed to car-borne anglers, who felt the hunter’s urge to stop at the hump-backed bridge.

The dappled sunlit river also drew John Joe’s attention downwards, as lazy trout sucked Olives with typical May relish, while now and again otters caused panic among nesting coots. John Joe saw them all, of course, because little escaped his languid gaze as days tumbled over days.

His morning rush for work was over now and the sleep-in, not to mention boiled egg breakfast, and leisurely toast, welcomed John Joe to each passing day. The cup of soup and sandwiches from Bridie down in Waldrons at lunch-time was sufficient, as the passing years stole his appetite like thieves in the night. 

Supper-time in his once thatched bungalow, beyond the bend on the Galway road, saw the old kettle spout steam on its gas-filled bed, while the customary lashing of bread and blackberry jam, were the perfect aperitif for the black pint Bridie was already pulling, as the ancient bridge passed beneath his feet.

Mind you, a pint of Guinness wouldn’t last long with John Joe. It only oiled the windpipe for what was to follow! His stories, described as ‘mighty," were always in demand, and his generosity for buying "rounds" was somewhat legendary! The down side of all of this, saw the hump on the bridge grow ever higher as he waddled home. 

This then is John Joe, typical of the village don one meets in rural Ireland today. Yet, there was something strange about him, which occasionally set tongues a-wagging among friends and neighbors alike. His source of income was often the subject of conversation. 

As well as "splashing out" in Waldron’s every night, John Joe was always splendidly dressed, his clothes straight off the peg, his boots perfection. Although living alone as a bachelor since his parents died, visitors rarely visited his home, and he was never noted for indulging in shopping sprees. The money and the clothes – thereby hangs a tale.

Then there was St. Patrick’s Day. While John Joe went to the vigil Mass the night before, he never appeared to ‘down the green’ in Waldron’s or anywhere else on the national saint’s day of days. It was as if the fairies had come and taken him away. The surprising thing about it – they had!

It was a family secret, of course, but many years ago his great-grandfather, the local blacksmith, did a good deed for the little folk, or the Sí as they were known then, and St. Patrick’s Day was their annual day of recompense. You see, right down to his father, the sound of the anvil and the bellows signaled the family occupation, and their smithy was the large dilapidated shed now home to old Paddy the donkey on the coldest of nights. It was to here that John Joe would adjourn on the evening before each St. Patrick’s Day.

The sun would hardly settle in the nearby lake when John Joe would close the large old door of the smithy behind him, his old oil lamp casting a ghostly glow on the moldering leather of the bellows, while he stoked to life again the embers of long ago. The familiar swish of the great hammer on the anvil produced more than noise, however, because as each spark fell to the ground it suddenly turned into a little elf, a half dozen or so appearing with each mighty blow.

Soon the smithy was filled with the little folk all rushing to greet John Joe before setting about their merry tasks. Gradually, long strands of cobwebs were knitted into cloth as the miniature tailors measured John Joe for his annual outfitting in suits and coats even Louis Copeland would admire. 

Nearby, hosts of others molded sturdy leather boots from magic cardboard, while the strongest elves made the anvil sing as they hammered euro coins from silver veined from Croagh Patrick itself.

Music of the celestial kind flowed from the musicians among them also, while lovely ladies of this particular branch of the Leprechaun guild sang the ancient songs accompanied by an orchestra of some 50 harpists and a plethora of fiddlers. Best of all, however, were the fairy ladies who prepared a kingly feast from herbs and rabbit ribs. Meanwhile, Aran, their leader tasted the brewing mountain dew to make sure it topped the quality of the previous year – only the best for King John Joe as night slipped into morning.

Paddy’s Day was long, of course, as pompous ministers and mayors took the salute at distant passing parades. None, however, equaled that witnessed by John Joe as his army of Leprechauns finally marched by him carrying the produce of that special day and laying a new suit, overcoat and shoes for each of the four seasons at his feet.

"See you next year," they cheered as they passed by, each disappearing into a little puff of fog, which quickly dissipated into the larger mantle already covering the countryside as darkness fell.

"I look forward to it", slobbered John Joe as his heavy eyelids closed on another Paddy’s Day. The dew of the mountain was taking its toll. 
"Happy Paddy’s Day to ye all!"

The following morning, the boiled egg didn’t taste too well nor did the toast.
 
 

Author Peadar O’Dowd can be reached at Peadar.ODowd@gmit.ie. The story is reprinted with permission from Galway Now magazine.