A Broken Hallelujah traces a young man’s path through the Christian Brothers’ regime from Juniorate through the Leaving Certificate year to Teacher Training, and from there to work ‘on the mission’. The author describes in intimate detail the experiences and challenges he faces on the way, culminating in the final and most difficult decision of all, whether or not to remain in the fold of the Brothers’ Congregation. This unique story recalls a type of education which has long since passed out of use, and has become, for many, a piece of history in itself. In detailing his experiences, the author describes the dilemmas faced by a great number of people, dilemmas which reflect many of the choices and difficulties that have shaped the Ireland of today.
A Broken Hallelujah traces a young man’s path through the Christian Brothers’ regime from Juniorate through the Leaving Certificate year to Teacher Training, and from there to work ‘on the mission’. The author describes in intimate detail the experiences and challenges he faces on the way, culminating in the final and most difficult decision of all, whether or not to remain in the fold of the Brothers’ Congregation. This unique story recalls a type of education which has long since passed out of use, and has become, for many, a piece of history in itself. In detailing his experiences, the author describes the dilemmas faced by a great number of people, dilemmas which reflect many of the choices and difficulties that have shaped the Ireland of today.
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Overview
A Broken Hallelujah traces a young man’s path through the Christian Brothers’ regime from Juniorate through the Leaving Certificate year to Teacher Training, and from there to work ‘on the mission’. The author describes in intimate detail the experiences and challenges he faces on the way, culminating in the final and most difficult decision of all, whether or not to remain in the fold of the Brothers’ Congregation. This unique story recalls a type of education which has long since passed out of use, and has become, for many, a piece of history in itself. In detailing his experiences, the author describes the dilemmas faced by a great number of people, dilemmas which reflect many of the choices and difficulties that have shaped the Ireland of today.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780752480718 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The History Press |
| Publication date: | 11/30/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 160 |
| File size: | 353 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
A Broken Hallelujah
The Making Of A Christian Brother
By Lorcan Leavy
The History Press
Copyright © 2012 Lorcan LeavyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-8071-8
CHAPTER 1
AT THE CROSSROADS
So there we were, chugging away in the old Ford Anglia, destination Dublin; Mam and Dad in the front, Dad driving, Mam navigating; me and my sister Anita in the back. As the miles scudded past and the idyllic countryside faded into the distance while the threatening bulk of the approaching city loomed, my heart sank deeper and deeper into my new black shoes. Was I mad? What had I been thinking? I could have gone to the local vocational school in Killucan, like everyone else did; could have studied Woodwork and Rural Science and Mechanical Drawing as my brothers did, could have become a mechanic or a carpenter ... but no, I had to be different. I had to choose an original road – a secondary school miles from home, a boarding school at that, and one that set me on a course that would lead to me becoming a member of a Religious Order. The choice had been mine. There was no way out.
Maybe we'll get lost.
Maybe we'll never find the place.
Maybe ...
CHAPTER 2BEGINNINGS
17 January 1946: that was my birthday. I was born at home in Bracklyn in the county of Westmeath, just like all my older brothers and my one older sister. I was the fifth of a family of five – much later to become six. I hated being the youngest, the tag of 'pet' of the family being a difficult one to bear. I feel though, that being the youngest made me fiercely individualistic, always wanting to go my own way, rather than being the scut who tagged along after the rest. I had three brothers: Seán, who was seven years older than me; Mícheál, who was six years older, and Jim, who was five years older. My mother had a few years' rest after Jim. Then came Maureen, and then, eighteen months later, I made my entrance.
Because of the way that our ages ranged, I tended to be 'lumped in' with Maureen, and this I didn't like. I always wanted to be with the boys, doing the things that they were doing. I suppose this made me grow up quickly because in order to keep up with them I was always at full stretch, so to speak, acting beyond my years. I had a summer job at seven years old, for example! Well, to be exact, my brothers had a summer job between them, thinning kale, and for peace sake they allowed me to go with them. But I did learn to do the work, however, and did it right from the beginning. In spite of my best efforts, I never succeeded in being included as one of 'the boys'. This term referred to Seán, Mícheál and Jim. When I was eleven years old, my mother, to her own amazement and to everybody else's, produced a baby girl whom she called Anita. At last, I was no longer the bottom of the pile, the youngest in the house. Anita grew up almost like an only child – everybody's pet and spoiled silly. Unfortunately she was only with us for seventeen years, as she was involved in a traffic accident and died in the summer of 1974.
My father, for his own reasons, wanted to name me 'Mortimor'! My mother vetoed this, saying that it was a silly name. She insisted that I be called Ignatius, even though that was my middle name. My first name was Laurence, after my father, which may have been a consolation for the maternal veto on Mortimor. I hated the name Ignatius so much. I thought that the only people who were named Ignatius were fops and leprechauns. I was nicknamed from the start: Éannaí, which I quite liked; Iggy, which I dreaded (although I don't mind it now). Variations on Iggy were myriad: Iggy the Piggy; Iggywiggy; Iggypops ... One uncle liked to call me Éannaí Biddy Dirt and a cousin called me Ignatius Leprechaun – a fact that I had forgotten until he reminded me of it quite recently. I always swore that at the first opportunity I would change my name, and this I did, but more of that later. I discovered recently, however, that if we went back five generations through my father's family, my great-great-grandfather was called Mortimor. This was shortened to Matt, which has been a family name ever since.
My preschool days were warm and blissful. Precise memories are few; just a feeling of security and warmth. I remember hearing the radio coverage of the Queen's Coronation in England and my mother telling me that she travelled in a golden coach pulled by horses. I also remember hearing, but not necessarily listening to, various programmes on the radio: Listen with Mother; Mrs Dale's Diary; Dan Dare and Digby on Radio Luxembourg. I remember lots of music too. The name of one group has stuck in my mind from way back then – Edmondo Ros and his band. We didn't have electricity then – I was definitely going to school by the time we got that – so we had light from a blue oil lamp which was hung on the wall of the kitchen. The radio had two big batteries: one operated the radio while the other was being charged in a shop in nearby Delvin.
My mother cooked on an open fireplace, as did most people in our locality at that time. The fireplace had an iron grate with bars across the front and two iron hobs on either side. There was also a crane, from which pots were hung, and it swung out from the fire when necessary. I have a vague memory of bricks or stone surrounding the fireplace, and a high mantelpiece overhead with a serrated valance or pelmet. The iron hobs were always hot and were used for slow cooking or simmering food. Because of all the boiling water and food, and the fire itself, the open fireplace was quite dangerous – a fact of which I became very aware at the age of five, when I pulled a teapot full of scalding tea down on top of myself, resulting in severe scalding on my upper body.
The accident with the teapot gave me a whole new status: I became 'the boy with the scald'. Lots of neighbours called in, with consoling words and cures and holy medals, but more importantly with sweets and biscuits. Unfortunately my mouth was very sore, some splashes of the scalding tea having even got in there, so I couldn't eat much. However, the other children in the house showed remarkable bedside manners and the goodies disappeared a lot faster than it took for my scars to heal over.
I did heal up quite well eventually, except for two troublesome spots on my left arm. 'Proud flesh' started to grow there, which wouldn't allow the areas to heal properly, and so it had to be burned off with caustic acid. This was very painful and frightening, as the flesh sizzled and fizzled like a rasher on a pan – it even smelt like frying meat. Other than the day of the accident, that was the only time I cried – an important fact for a small fellow often referred to as the pet of the family. I have the scars from the scald to this day, including my mother's thumb and index finger prints.
Another strange after-effect of the scald, or rather the healing from the scald, was the fact that the new skin which grew over the damaged areas became very tight, with the result that my arm became permanently bent at the elbow and I was unable to straighten it. So I had to carry something heavy in my left hand for weeks in order to stretch the new skin. The something heavy was usually a hammer. At that time we also had a small hand axe, which I always tried to get hold of (an axe had far more possibilities than a hammer!), but wiser heads decreed that the axe was not allowed.
Shortly after my accident, the fire grate and hobs were taken out and replaced by a beautiful Rayburn range which heated the kitchen and had a fine hotplate and a good big oven for cooking. The Rayburn graced our kitchen for the remainder of our time in Bracklyn – more than fifteen years.
Our house had a kitchen, a back kitchen (utility), two bedrooms and a small pantry, which was pressed into service as a tiny bedroom for Maureen. We also had a parlour, which was used only at Christmas and whenever a visitor called. There were two beds for the four boys in our room; Jim and I shared one, Mícheál and Seán shared the other. We had a small glasshouse at the back which was my mother's pride and joy but it had to be taken down when a new bedroom was built for us boys. Then Maureen moved into our old room. My dad's employer, Captain McCarthy, who owned the house, had a small bathroom built for us – but that's all he did. We had no water supply to the house and he didn't see that we needed it, so we were left with a bathroom with no water, no bath, no toilet, no hand basin ... And so it remained, certainly up to the time when I left home in 1959. Until then, our toilet was the wood behind the house and toilet paper was a handful of grass or weeds – whatever was to hand (hopefully not a clump of nettles!).
We had a fine big garden with good black soil where we grew nearly all our food. We all worked in the garden and I suppose we learned a lot there. My three brothers attended the vocational school in Killucan and they all studied Rural Science, during which they had to do a gardening project. They were given a big supply of seeds for a kitchen garden, along with lessons on garden management. At the end of the summer, the Rural Science teacher visited all the gardens and assigned marks to the projects. My brothers won year after year. Personally I believe that their victories were down to me doing so much of the weeding.
We had our own cow, who supplied us with milk and a calf every year. We reared pigs, geese, turkeys and hens, all of which played a role in the economy of our household. The pigs and turkeys and geese were sold for cash, and the hens supplied us with eggs, before eventually ending up in the pot. Preparing the turkeys or geese for the Dublin Christmas market was a big family affair. The birds were despatched to the great turkey roost in the sky by having their necks wrung. It was a bit gruesome but quick and effective. They were then hung up in the cowshed where the plucking took place. We all played a part in this operation and there were many warnings of 'Don't tear the skin!'. The downy feathers were kept for pillows and cushions while the long wing feathers were tied together to make very useful brushes. The rest were burned. My parents prided themselves on how well they 'dressed' the turkeys and they were often complimented on their presentation at the auction.
My mother used to rear chickens from the hatching stage, so our flock of poultry was constantly being renewed. In later years, she bought her replacements as day-old chicks, which arrived in a flat cardboard box with holes in it, on board the Granard bus to Delvin. They were reared indoors, sometimes in our back kitchen, either with a 'clocking' or 'clucking' hen or an infra-red lamp to keep them warm. Occasionally, one of the chicks would get sick and my mother would make a little nest for him in a woollen sock. Having coaxed a few drops of brandy or whiskey into the little patient's beak, she would perch him in his woollen nest under the Rayburn and here, heated within and without, in his drunken slumber he would carry on his own little battle for life, sometimes successful and sometimes not.
We had one cow, as I said; a big, lumbering, gentle Ayrshire. She spent her days in the field behind the house, which we called the Bog Field. Part of my father's terms of employment was that we had the grazing of the Bog Field for our cow. We also played hurling there. At the furthest end of the Bog Field was our spring well, from which we got our drinking water. I never saw that well to go dry, even in the most arid of summers. There were stone steps down to the water and a big smooth rock, about two feet in diameter, in the middle. I often went down to the well on a summer's day after being out playing in the heat. I would lie flat on my tummy on the rock, bring my mouth down to the surface of the crystal-clear water and slurp away to my heart's content. It was never very deep – maybe eighteen inches – so as you lay drinking you could watch the little bugs and beetles scurrying around, some on the surface and some on the bottom. Bringing home water was a constant job that we all had to do. It was quite a long walk from the well, carrying two full buckets. In very hot weather, one of the hazards of bringing home water was the attention of our cow, who would sneak up behind you, stick her big muzzle into the bucket and empty it in one big noisy slurp. Then it was back to the well, with herself waddling along hopefully behind you.
The cow was milked twice a day. I never learned to milk but the boys did. My mother was the best milker – or at least she got the milk quicker and with less fuss than anybody else. The milk was kept in a basin or crock and when the cream had risen to the top it was skimmed off using a saucer and stored in another crock to be used later for churning butter. Our churn, which consisted of a barrel that revolved on a four-legged stand, held about three gallons of cream and water mix. Everyone had to help with the churning and it certainly made your arms ache. I remember that it used to take forever to make the butter, which I didn't particularly like anyway because it was so salty. There was a little circular glass window on the lid so a practised eye could see when the particles of butter were forming. Then the lid was taken off and the bits of butter were scooped out by hand. We used butter 'hands' to batter the pieces into blocks. I have to admit that I preferred the shop-bought product.
For fresh meat we used poultry (mainly our own chickens), some shop-bought meat and lots of rabbit. These we caught ourselves. This wasn't too difficult, as they were plentiful at the time – indeed too plentiful for the farmers, who regarded them as vermin because they ate their grass and young crops. I always thought rabbit meat was very nice although I heard recently that it is very hard on the digestive system. We seemed to thrive on it anyway.
I suppose, in common with all children, the most magical times in my childhood would have to be the days before, during and after Christmas. Some things we had plenty of – holly, for example. We got our holly from the woods and the house was absolutely bedecked with it. To get a Christmas tree, my dad simply walked back into the wood or out to the edge of the bog and chopped one down. We had some decorations, such as paper chains and the like, which were used year in, year out. They had to be put up with great care and taken down with even more. Fairy lights were unheard of at that time, although my mother used to put a big orange star with an ordinary bulb inside it in the fanlight over the front door. One year, when I was quite small, the local postman, Joe Doyle, who was something of an artist, taught us how to make decorations out of cardboard and tinsel, so a lot of what went on the tree was homemade.
I remember one Christmas in particular – I'd say I was about eight years old – when the kitchen was being redecorated and when I went to bed the place was a shambles; wallpaper torn off the walls, replastering done here and there, no decorations and no tree! I was quite upset because I couldn't see how order would be restored before morning, to say nothing of what Santa would think. However, I eventually fell asleep and it was early morning when I awoke. We scrambled down to the kitchen as we always did on Christmas morning and were greeted by the most beautiful sight we had ever seen – new white wallpaper with a raised floral design in silver, decorations, holly and a fine big Christmas tree. To my childish eyes it was like an ice palace! And Santa Claus was as good as ever. I must have been a bit innocent; I believed in Santa Claus until I was quite big. I got into many a fight defending the good man's reputation. I was a bit hurt when I eventually discovered the truth because I felt they let me take all that flak for nothing. However, I got over it.
There is another Christmas I remember for the lesson it taught me: that childhood doesn't last forever. I was about ten or eleven, I'd say. My brothers were well into their teenage years and had gone out to a dance or to the pictures on Christmas Eve night. Maureen and I were first up on Christmas morning – in fact we were the only ones up, as Mam and Dad never got up early on Christmas morning. The boys were still asleep. Santa had brought us an accordion and I strapped it on and marched up to the boys' bedroom, rattling out my version of 'Fáinne Geal an Lae', only to be met by a stream of swear words which were definitely not in keeping with the Christmas spirit. I was astonished that the boys would rather stay asleep in bed than share the delights of Christmas morning as we always did. I realised then that the magic of childhood was definitely moving on and that it would soon be time for me to move on too.
I think that this sadness stayed with me right through to my last year at home. I was then the only Leavy attending Killough School, since Anita was still only a baby. I used to remember all the fun and adventures we had together; now I was alone.
CHAPTER 3BRACKLYN ESTATE
My Dad came to Bracklyn at eighteen years of age to work as a herd or stockman. He had to have a helper with him so he brought his younger brother Johnny. For the first few years they lived in Killough, not far from Bracklyn, in the home of their aunt, Mrs Ellen Kelly. Almost forty years later, he was to return to the same house to make it his home after he finished in Bracklyn. Four or five years after starting work in Bracklyn, my father married my mother and they moved into the herd's house, down near Bracklyn Lake.
The old herd's house was completely isolated; there wasn't even a road leading to it. You crossed the fields to get there. My parents lived there for a year, or maybe two, and then they moved to 'our house', where we were all born (except for Anita, who was born in Mullingar Hospital). Even as a child I thought our house was an idyllic place. I often asserted that I would never leave it ... although in fact I was the second one to leave and when I left I only returned for one summer holiday over the space of six years. By the time I was eventually free to return, my parents had left the place.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Broken Hallelujah by Lorcan Leavy. Copyright © 2012 Lorcan Leavy. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title,Dedication,
Introduction,
At the Crossroads,
Beginnings,
Bracklyn Estate,
Summer Work,
School Days in Killough National School,
The Beginning of the End,
18 August, the Leaving and the Entering,
Life in the Juniorate,
The Door Closes,
A Holiday at Home,
Second Year in Baldoyle,
The Novitiate,
Taking Vows,
Mount St Mary, Bray,
Coláiste Chiaráin, Bray,
The Leaving Certificate Examination,
Teacher Training in Marino,
UCD – On a Bike,
Changing Direction,
Teaching,
A Holiday in the Real World,
On the Mission,
Decision Time,
Leaving,
Epilogue,
Addendum,
Copyright,