The Good Old Days The thundering booms of the midnight tap dance sent reverberations of drops, brushes, and steps across the Irish countryside. Joe O’Dillon snuck to the secret underground meeting office, his coal pants dirtied by the mud from the day’s rebellious rain. His deep black hair, which had unfortunately fallen upon his eyes, made his struggles to see through the smoke of war and dewy mist ever more difficult. Distant gunshots and yells of pain and terror and revenge heard from miles away became a wrenching idiosyncrasy, and soon, a regularity, of the 1920s. “Ionsaímid Dé Domhnaigh!1” proclaimed Chief General of the Catholic Irish Republican Army, Cathal Bradigan. Lieutenant Seán O’Brian arrived late but heard it all. “Farr te sake ohff goodt Jeanie Mac2, Ah’f been readeh te go te war wid dem wazzies3 of peopul! Well stited, Mister Bradigan.” General Bradigan quickly reclaimed order. “On tat note, O’Dillon, Yare at de frohnt. Wa’ve preparedt mustard gas bombs far them Narthenars, ain’t weh, b’ys? Chaers to de Cath’lics!” “Sure ye know!4 Chaers, b’ys! God bey with us, and with ye langer5 ladts!” Joe toasted. In reaction, they all hurrahed and drank to the ever-famous “Black stuff6” of Southern Ireland. Roars of guffaws channeled throughout the candlelit bricks, especially from the truly drunk of the bunch, Brendan and Fergal. They clinked to County Cork’s hero, Joseph O’Dillon, with bottles and bottles of Jameson till the wee hours of the morning, when the sun traversed the grass like the sweeping flame of a match head; but for now, the celebration had just begun. Blasts of cigarette smoke and laughter erupted from their sweaty mouths as ideas of Northern Protestant defeat circulated the room throughout the evening. In the middle of the night, a rather loud whisper came from a langer friend who had passed out next to Joe. “Joe, b’y, Ah lohve you bohdt, go kick them Narthenars bohtts till de cows cohme home.7 Will ye do tat far meh, Joe? Think off mey while yare out tare, ‘kay bohdt?” “Fergal, what ya naed, a slap in de face, bohdt? Carse Ah’d do that far ye. Now go back to sleep, Ah’m tired, ladt.” The morning flames of dawn hit them only when the chugs of a beating train rumbled the men awake. Joe and General Bradigan opened their eyes to melted candles and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7
Ionsaimid Dé Domhaigh: We attack on Sunday. Jeanie Mac: Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and “All the holy Martyrs” as to not take the Lord’s name in vain. Wazzies: wasps Sure ye know: term of agreement Langer: drunk Black stuff: Guiness Beer till the cows come home: for an indefinitely long time
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