The Story of the Widow's Son

Summer is a good time for caravanning, relaxing and clearing out. Especially when there’s a Cash for Clothes shop in town. On this particular occasion however I was sorting through piles of old books, cataloguing them for a hopeful sale, which might or might not happen…In the process I found a special book which I had studied at the tender age of 15.

Sporting an off-white cover with orange arrows criss-crossing over it, its title ‘Exploring English’ gave no hint of the wonders within. At first glance its interior provoked dismay - dull pages with lines of small black type, regular instances of those dreaded ‘Dig Deeper’ questions and not a picture in sight. ‘Let’s start here!’ said my wonderful teacher and, gathering around the comforting gas heater, we began our journey into the world of Irish short stories which soon proved to be fascinating.

I think it was truly then that words alone came alive for me. I learned how a writer could create a whole world with a few adept phrases, a brief description of a passing expression, some sparse details about a rural landscape, an adjective, a name. I experienced how a half-page of print could transport me into a world completely alien to my own, where the people were so different yet so alike in their fears, loves, thoughts, feelings and actions. I realised that the best stories were the simplest - the annual journey to the beach, the father returning to his childhood home with a nagging wife and bickering children, the decision to abandon a mercenary life so that one could have time to gaze at the stars, the widow whose precious son dies trying to save a chicken…

Yes, the story of the Widow’s Son was my favourite. Despite all the literature I have since read for school exams and at university, the story of Packy has always kept its place in my mind - its endless potential and yet its inevitable ending. The widow’s son is coming home from school on his bike, clutching a newly-won scholarship, down the steep, rough hill that leads to the little cottage. His mother watches him, this son that represents all she lives for, and their main source of income, the hens, cluster around her on the dusty road, pecking and clucking. Suddenly as Packy nears the humble abode a jittery hen zigzags out in front of the speeding bike and the cyclist brakes violently. The dust blows away to reveal an unharmed hen squawking as she waddles back to the others and an inert body lying on the road. The widow runs to her son, desperately wipes the grime from his face and realises the awful truth - the impact of the fall as the boy was thrown over the handlebars killed him. ‘Why did he try to save that useless chicken?’ she wails, as the neighbours gather around.

But there was another ending to the story too. Again Packy is coming home from school, and the widow watches as he zooms down the steep hill. Again the flighty hen crosses the road at the wrong time and again there is a squeal of brakes. When the dust blows away this time, there is a dead chicken on the road and a stunned boy covered with feathers and specks of blood. The widow runs to the hen, sees its lifeless state and turns on Packy. ‘You’ve killed the best egg-layer, you ungrateful wretch! You couldn’t care less, could you? Here am I, slaving away for you to get an education from day to day and you just go and kill my prime hen…! What am I, your servant, is it? Who gets your meals, your books, your clothes, provides a home for you to live in…?’ A crowd of neighbours have gathered to silently watch this dramatic scene. They take in every word, and waves of shame cover Packy. The next morning he has disappeared and a letter eventually arrives, saying he has got a job on a trawler and will send back money every week - ‘to pay for everything you’ve done for me.’

It made me think then, and it still does. Despite different happenings, the poor widow lost her son in both stories. How often we wonder about our lives and ask that ‘What if it was different? question! We dream up alternatives and paint beautiful pictures of perfect lives and happy endings. The only One who knows the real story of our lives from beginning to end is God; there seems to us to be sometimes a way that looks just perfect but ‘the end thereof are the ways of death.’(Prov 16:25) Only ‘His way is perfect.’ (Ps 18:30)

A Day at School

A Day at School

It's another morning. I stumble out the door of the house, armed with big black handbag and laptop bag, and start the car. With heat turned on full blast, I head down the road, wipers going like crazy, hoping to miss the morning rush. Right at the roundabout, straight through Mulroy's junction, remember the speed limit, this would be a typical morning for the curley tails to be out. As I accelerate down the N4, I turn up the Cathedrals' singing Daystar, joining in at the top of my voice because no-one can hear me here. I like this song – 'Let Your love shine through me in the night', and I like to make it my prayer, because beyond teaching well, and giving grades and correcting copies, I want to make an impact on each child's soul for eternity.

School. Buses are pulled in outside, along with cars and there are kids pouring from in from every side, a blue army descending on a grey building. They all look the same, yet each one is a totally different bundle of fears and desires; some wave at me at as I pull into my car-park space, and I smile back. I get my stuff, lock up the car, climb the white steps, and enter the school. Inside, the familiar smell of baking bread from the canteen fills the air and the principle walks up and down the corridor, making sure everyone is behaving as they congregate around lockers and collect books. In the staffroom, there are teachers drinking tea, making toast, yawning, chatting and most of all photocopying. I leave my bags in my spot under the window and prepare for my first class, saying 'Good Morning' to a couple of people.

The bell goes, and the staffroom is empty in about 30 seconds. In my classroom, Room 2, a smell of fresh paint fills the air as it has been just recently renovated. The room is buzzing with noise and laughter and I say nothing for a moment, waiting for last-minute stragglers to come in and finding the right page in my book. Then I close the door, write the page-number on the board and shout – 'Okay everyone, books open, copies out, turn around in your chairs, enough talking please!' Slowly 24 fourteen-year-olds quieten down, scrambling for pencils and asking 'Miss, what page is it?' Patiently I say, 'It's on the board.' This happens about 3 times. After calling the roll, class begins, and the 40 minutes pass quickly, with questions, and complaints about homework, and threats of points and imaginative answers. Then the bell goes and there is a rush for the door; as one teacher says 'They'd run you over, so they would.'

Every day is different and you can never predict what is going to happen next; fainting girls, shoes disappearing, tears, fits of hysterical laughter, questions like:

'Miss, are you 23?'

'If all the noblemen were inside the castle having a feast and the IRA threw a handgrenade at the castle, what would happen?'

'Miss, are we your favourite class?'

'Miss, amn't I talented at English when I try?'

'Miss, when is your last day?'

'Miss, I got the Iphone 4, here look at it, do you like it?'

'Miss, was teaching your first choice?'

'Miss, have you learned a lot from teaching me?'

There are comments like:

'We never understood it before but we do now...thanks Miss',

'Miss, right now I'm bored out of my mind,'

'Miss, poetry is useless – like, nobody uses it in real life...'

There are the kids who seem unable to sit quietly in their seats, the ones who boast of the amount of points they have and say to their friends -

'Aw man I've got lunchtime detention again.' High Five. 'G'man Johnny.'

And there are the ones who never utter a peek, speak in a low tone of voice all the time, and seem to have their minds on something else. They're the ones whose hearts can sometimes be hurting a lot; they're unable to join in the lightheartedness around them, and they are overcome at any sign of care or affection.

The day goes on and when 3:30 comes around, the school wakes up from its after lunch slumber. After I've wiped the tables and filled the dishwasher for the hundreth time in 6 weeks, it's going home time. 'G'bye Miss Burke', shouts red-haired Sarah as I lug all my stuff out, unlock the car, drive out the narrow gates, and out of the small little town of Foxford. Tomorrow will be another day.

Boy

BOY

By a student teacher

There's a gap between your front teeth,

And yesterday a big black bruise

Adorned your forehead.

You pointed cheerfully at Billy, best friend

For a hundred years,

‘He did it - we were horsin' 'round,

Great craic like.'

I watch you write, each letter a trial of

Patience, pain and

Perseverance.

The marks you leave look more like a

Trail of rabbits' footprints

Than that list of German

Verbs

I spent all week trying to teach you.

Boxing matches and frogs and rugby

And Billy

And ‘Are you on Facebook, Miss?'

A boy, walking across the road of life.

Over hills, through valleys,

Step carefully on those creaking bridges,

Watch the traffic on those

Highways.

Sometimes I feel your eyes on me

During a lull in the restlessness of a boy.

Brown eyes, mirrors of the soul,

Filled with painful, frightened,

Lonely questions

That you could never ask aloud,

And I see the hidden spirit that is

Locked away behind the talk of girls and detention.

Its hard being a boy from a broken home in a

Predatory,

Bloodthirsty world.

Boy, our paths crossed for a few, short weeks,

And though I would show you the best road map

For the rough, wild way that lies ahead,

And hold your hand like a guide through the

Maze of growing-up years,

I must soon leave.

All I can do is give you my prayers

And the memory

Of someone who truly cared

For a boy.