Communing with the ancestors proves to be a very painful experience indeed
‘WHEN you were young, Da, what was your favourite subject?’ Our Persephone has a habit of asking impossible questions. Which superhero power would you most like to have? What book would you most like to have written? Which is Mother’s prettiest dress? By her usual standards, this favourite subject business was a simple question, a straightforward question, a question to which it must be possible to give a reasoned and honest reply.
Our school timetable half a century ago was a simple one, devoted to the dispassionate learning in acquiring the basics of language, culture and science. The contenders for favourite subject may be boiled down to seven – Irish, English, Maths, Chemistry, French, Geography, History…
Not Irish anyway. All love of the vernacular was lost in the sullen classroom battle between reluctant pupils and teachers who were saddled with the dead weight of the ‘compulsory’ tag. Not English anyway. A love of books and of writing was never enough to outweigh the burden of conducting joyless post mortems on the works of Shakespeare or WB Yeats. Not Maths anyway. Yes, there here was exultation in figuring out the value of ‘x’ or reckoning the square of some hapless hypotenuse. But none of the techniques so patiently acquired for the purposes of passing examinations has stuck. I could now no more complete a piece of integral calculus than I could do hand stands on a gymnastics beam.
Not Chemistry – too complicated. Not French – too foreign. And not Geography either, though it is comforting to know what an ox-bow lake is, without having to resort to Google. Which leaves History. It has to be History. Decision made. Process of elimination. ‘My favourite subject? History, Persephone, definitely History.’ ‘Why, Da?’ After the simple question came the tricky question. A father has a responsibility to encourage his child.
It would be irresponsible to tell Persephone that Chemistry is boring or that dissecting English poetry is a waste of time. My role is to let her feel that ox-bow lakes and glacial drift are important, really important. She needs to believe that knowing Jeudi means Thursday in French is worthwhile. My process of elimination was horribly negative in its approach to all the other subjects and could on no account be revealed to such an impressionable adolescent mind. Responding to ‘Why, Da?’ I required positives. History was selected as favourite subject on the grounds that it was the least bad of seven but now I needed the plus points to promote History as wonderful in every respect.
‘History is so relevant!’ I exclaimed. ‘Every institution of the State and every cultural experience is grounded in History. ‘I love the way that History puts us in touch with our ancestors. Now I have to go. It was great talking to you.’ I beat a harassed retreat to the Rolling Acres, after popping into the Potting Shed to pick up my scythe. Ever thoughtful Hermione, gave me the scythe as a cute retro birthday gift several years ago after I idly expressed an interest in hay making. It had since lain unused at the back of the shed but a rash of thistles now prompted me to dust it off.
As I set about tackling the prickly invaders, it occurred to me that this was History in action, communing with the ancestors in a very real way with each old style stroke of the curved blade. Levelling the thistles proved a most satisfying exercise, slicing off the tops of the plants cleanly and ruthlessly – surely no ancestor was ever more efficient in dispatching noxious weeds. I was evidently a natural at this scything business, working up a nice sweat and hitting an impressive rhythm…
When our Eldrick was sent out to find where his father had got to, he discovered me writhing in a heap of nettles clutching at my injured back. Between spasms, I pondered that the reality of the life lived by the ancestors was now being visited upon me in an unmercifully painful way. History teaches us that they lived lives made nasty and short by the relentless demands of physical labour. They were probably happy to die at the age of 45 from the cumulative effects of rickets, rheumatism and repetitive strain.
At least, once Eldrick had helped me to my feet, I could look forward to a restorative bubble bath laced with evening primrose oil.