Helga Raesfeldt-Mings Small Ads – Big Story

Turkish Village.

Under a broad green tree, the women gather, Shaded from the scorching sun. Their morning chores are done They've fed the children, Baked the day's supply of bread. Dressed in black, with brightly coloured headscarves, They huddle close on the cool grass And share their cares and joys. Honey-colored houses along the dusty street, Tiny gardens lush with cabbages and lettuce. Here and there, a blaze of red geraniums. Goats in sleek brown coats are nibbling sprigs of green between the stones. Two barefoot boys scoot by on a beat-up bicycle. At the solitary cafe, under faded awning, The old men sit, and while away the hours.

Noreen O'Rourke

Small Ads - Big Story

The advertisement said "Carer Wanted - North County Dublin". I drove through the suburban countryside, on through a pine wood, crunching some dead bracken and leaves scattered from last year. There was a promise of spring. The ad gave no specific details, fairly short, sharp and to the point. Carer wanted, North Dublin, capable driver and a Box No. I am a capable driver I thought as I proceeded through a tall iron gate, down a short gravel driveway and faced an imposing grey house. But was I carer material? I glanced around at the freshly mowed grass, clumps of cowslips and primroses dotted under trees and stumps. There was a rose archway leading somewhere and a crescent shaped forecourt. There's a timeless air to the place I thought. I took a deep breath. Well here goes! I rang the bell.

The man sitting opposite me on the shabby Chippendale fringed green sofa looked to be in his late 40's, perhaps older. His appearance was of an ordinary man with a rather squashed-in look, rather like a crumpled cushion, with twinkling friendly eyes. The room itself from a cursory glance was what I would call shabby chic. As he outlined the tasks the position of carer would entail, he had the air of somebody in complete control of his life. Over tea served in bone china I learned a few basic facts.... that Jim Bolger had experienced an unfortunate accident two years before that had left that part of the brain, which controls one's balance, completely and permanently out of synch. He picked up a walking stick lying by his side and remarked that without the help of this he would keel over on a windy day. He laughed in good humour, adding that he wanted to live his life as normally and independently as possible, and with the help of a carer he would achieve this. We chatted for over an hour and I had the distinct certainty that the interview was almost a fait accompli. And that interview was the beginning of an extraordinary phase in my life!

Jim Bolger enjoyed the good things of life. As a former busy auctioneer he had many contacts and he still kept up a small practice working from home, dealing in land purchase and commercial premises. He loved getting away for long weekends and though he could drive his automatic BMW, he couldn't steady his balance getting out of the car, especially in windy weather. So I was his driver and his steadying hand.

One weekend, shortly after I was formally hired in my new position we set off to the West of Ireland. He had made all the arrangements and booked Renvyle House in Connemara. I found that he was an easy travel

companion, as he loved to talk about his three little sons living in south Dublin with his ex-wife. After Galway we lapsed into silence.. taking in the scenic beauty of Yeats country, the lovely Lough Corrib on our right and straight ahead the beautiful Maumturk Mountains. It was only after we entered Renvyle House Hotel that I discovered it was the former home of a man who is immortalised in Ulysses, Oliver St John Gogarty. With adjoining rooms I did what I had to do to make Jim comfortable, and thus passed a very fragrant couple of days in a beautiful quiet glade surrounded by old trees, backed by a high cliff down which a waterfall fell in thin hairs of silver.

This became the pattern of my carer's life, and over the next 18 months there were many such trips, to places like Powerscourt Demesne, or Kinsale, a favourite haunt of Jim's, where he enjoyed the top class restaurants. Another favourite was a scenic drive out of Killarney along the more unused route via Morley's Bridge and Kilgarvan to Kenmare, and slowly drive along by the Kenmare River. The purple/blue Macgillycuddy reeks were still majestically visible on our right. There was only one aspect more perfect than pulling in on an old abandoned pier against the backdrop of a quiet flowing lake, luscious willow branches swaying over the water, and that was to sit by a turf fire in a pub - always burning even in the height of summer - for a seafood feast. Jim didn't always direct me towards an award-winning gourmet restaurant; once I drove us around the remote Beara Peninsula and we found a cafe which sold the freshest cod straight off the trawler that morning, and chips to die for.

The winter months were the most difficult season for Jim as he was forced to stay indoors quite a lot, and to relieve his boredom he increased his intake of alcohol. Though outwardly his cheerfulness prevailed, it was evident that inwardly he was depressed. He opened up to me about past escapades in his life and revealed the shocking news that his accident occurred while he was drinking heavily. He tumbled down the stairs with a full glass of brandy in his hand and ended up in hospital in a 3-month coma. In the following Spring I went abroad on holiday with my sister. On my return I heard nothing from Jim. As I called to the house I felt a chill in the pervading silence, a cool breeze and shadows in the crevices. I knew without a doubt that Jim's time had come, that he had been called to the beautiful Yeats country in the sky. For me, responding to a vague advertisement led to wonderful experiences and friendship with a very interesting man.

Helga Raesfeldt-Mings