Danny Grealy lived here in Clonkeel, close to the River Shannon in the shadow of Slieve Bawn, which is across the river on the Roscommon side. Danny was great company. He had an infectious laugh that got lots of practice. I loved the way he put on his hat – he used both hands and sort of screwed it onto his head.
His hat was also a great indicator of how much fun he was having – the more fun, the further back on his head went the hat.
The road home to Clonkeel
He drove a Ford prefect that never had a problem on the outward journey to Killashee, but appears to have had defective steering on the westward return journey. I helped him retrieve it from its parked position in the ditch on a couple of occasions.
Danny had two uncles killed in World War I, Michael and James, both born in Liverpool. They came back to Clonkeel as children, but emigrated to the US as young men. Enlisted in the US army, they sailed to France in April 1918. Michael, a sergeant, was killed in the second offensive of Meuse-Argonne, one month before the end of the war.
Imagine the family getting the telegram with this news and then to see the telegram boy come back a week later to say that James had also died in France.
I often wondered how Danny felt to see the constant reminder in the church window in Killashee where his grandfather had a stained-glass window erected to their memory.
Robbie the gregarious and impetuous
Robbie Stewart was from Killeeny. He would talk incessantly to anyone, even if they weren’t listening.
On the day of his neighbour’s wedding, for example, Robbie went to the groom’s bedroom window at 6am and knocking loudly exclaimed: “Don’t keep any dinner for me today, I’ve an awful dose of diarrhoea.”
When Robbie discovered that Shannonside radio took calls he was delighted. He had a fantastic memory for dates and events and loved to recount these. The early enthusiasm shown by the radio presenter when Robbie would call in, with some trivial piece of information, wore off long before Robbie ran out of stories.
When Robbie’s father was on his deathbed, a couple of neighbours called. Robbie was making tea when one neighbour remarked how tight the stairs was, implying, but not saying.
When the implication dawned on Robbie he rushed upstairs, burst into the room of his father and loudly exclaimed to the horror of his startled visitors: “Daddy, Daddy, don’t die yet, we need to get you down the stairs because we won’t be able to get the coffin down if you die up here!”
Robbie did some internal plumbing work in his house not long before his own eternal departure. A house party to celebrate saw many “new” friends attend, attracted by the prospect of rare generosity.
Although Robbie was teetotal and often spoke of the demon drink, the word of many bottles being purchased was out.
Late in the night, with the party in full swing, one of the guests needed to use the new arrangements and she ended up in the bath, fully clothed I hasten to add!
The next visitor into the new bathroom found an unresponsive body in the tub and after a brief consultation, Robbie rang the doctor. Doctors dislike 2am calls, as they usually mean it is an emergency.
Mike Magan on his farm at Kilashee, Co Longford.
The doctor (who is still in practice) was full of rage when he arrived to the scene to give his quick diagnosis and prognosis... drink.
No medication required except perhaps an Alka-Seltzer the next day for the occupant of the dry bath.
Read more
The many tales of: teachers from Killashee old school
The tale of the plumber, the farmer, the fight and the fuel
Danny Grealy lived here in Clonkeel, close to the River Shannon in the shadow of Slieve Bawn, which is across the river on the Roscommon side. Danny was great company. He had an infectious laugh that got lots of practice. I loved the way he put on his hat – he used both hands and sort of screwed it onto his head.
His hat was also a great indicator of how much fun he was having – the more fun, the further back on his head went the hat.
The road home to Clonkeel
He drove a Ford prefect that never had a problem on the outward journey to Killashee, but appears to have had defective steering on the westward return journey. I helped him retrieve it from its parked position in the ditch on a couple of occasions.
Danny had two uncles killed in World War I, Michael and James, both born in Liverpool. They came back to Clonkeel as children, but emigrated to the US as young men. Enlisted in the US army, they sailed to France in April 1918. Michael, a sergeant, was killed in the second offensive of Meuse-Argonne, one month before the end of the war.
Imagine the family getting the telegram with this news and then to see the telegram boy come back a week later to say that James had also died in France.
I often wondered how Danny felt to see the constant reminder in the church window in Killashee where his grandfather had a stained-glass window erected to their memory.
Robbie the gregarious and impetuous
Robbie Stewart was from Killeeny. He would talk incessantly to anyone, even if they weren’t listening.
On the day of his neighbour’s wedding, for example, Robbie went to the groom’s bedroom window at 6am and knocking loudly exclaimed: “Don’t keep any dinner for me today, I’ve an awful dose of diarrhoea.”
When Robbie discovered that Shannonside radio took calls he was delighted. He had a fantastic memory for dates and events and loved to recount these. The early enthusiasm shown by the radio presenter when Robbie would call in, with some trivial piece of information, wore off long before Robbie ran out of stories.
When Robbie’s father was on his deathbed, a couple of neighbours called. Robbie was making tea when one neighbour remarked how tight the stairs was, implying, but not saying.
When the implication dawned on Robbie he rushed upstairs, burst into the room of his father and loudly exclaimed to the horror of his startled visitors: “Daddy, Daddy, don’t die yet, we need to get you down the stairs because we won’t be able to get the coffin down if you die up here!”
Robbie did some internal plumbing work in his house not long before his own eternal departure. A house party to celebrate saw many “new” friends attend, attracted by the prospect of rare generosity.
Although Robbie was teetotal and often spoke of the demon drink, the word of many bottles being purchased was out.
Late in the night, with the party in full swing, one of the guests needed to use the new arrangements and she ended up in the bath, fully clothed I hasten to add!
The next visitor into the new bathroom found an unresponsive body in the tub and after a brief consultation, Robbie rang the doctor. Doctors dislike 2am calls, as they usually mean it is an emergency.
Mike Magan on his farm at Kilashee, Co Longford.
The doctor (who is still in practice) was full of rage when he arrived to the scene to give his quick diagnosis and prognosis... drink.
No medication required except perhaps an Alka-Seltzer the next day for the occupant of the dry bath.
Read more
The many tales of: teachers from Killashee old school
The tale of the plumber, the farmer, the fight and the fuel
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