The Potravini Bench

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

The Potravini Bench

There is a small village General Store at the bottom of the three-kilometre lane from our village to the parent village of Hronská Dúbrava. In front of its steps is a dilapidated bench, lurching under a bedraggled conifer. In front of the bench are two used car tyres which, once upon a time, must have contained flowers. However, currently they contain nothing but assorted weeds and a million-or-so cigarette butts. These giant vehicular ashtrays are surrounded by dust in the summer and a quagmire of mud in the winter. In clement weather, the bench is occupied by a small congregation of out-of-work drunks, who gather there with their dogs, fags, and the cheapest bottled beer in the village. In our village, you can buy a bottle of beer, drink it outside, and return the bottle for the deposit, which is put down on the next bottle. Of course, the beer is supplemented by surreptitious bottles of home-distilled Slivo.  

Our village drunk and executive is Jay, a regular. The most regular regular. The bench has the inestimable advantage of being adjacent both to the nearest beer for Jay and, just a few metres away, the village graveyard, where his late partner lies buried. So Jay can kill two birds with one stone—or should I say, two kidneys with one beer. He can deposit an armful of half-dead flowers higgledy-piggledy on the grave and guzzle a bellyful of beer at the same time.

By some miracle, Jay gets a 4,000 Koruna pension. This after a lifetime's non-contribution to any known, or unknown, pension scheme. Jay had, on the death of his partner, discovered religion, but not the attributes that go with it, like sobriety; he asserts to all and sundry that his undeserved pension is a blessing from God to his deserving, 'returning to the fold' sheep. He has got the Bible-thumping, self-justifying jargon of the born-again down to a tee.  

He ought to run for the American presidency: his ignorance, stupidity, and incompetence, together with his cunning, should have him in with a good chance. His main handicap is that he can speak in complete, syntactically correct sentences when not drunk. It is clear to the rest of us that his pension is the result of some monumental, post-communist, bureaucratic cock-up. Not divine intervention.  

Dog Adoption, Dúbrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

Dog Adoption, Dubrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

I have previously mentioned that after virtually every Christmas, one or two dogs are abandoned in the snow on the lane to our village. Their ex-owners, tiring of their Christmas pets, having no interest in the long-term responsibility of owning and training a puppy, and with their children back at school, simply drive up to our village and unceremoniously dump their dogs like so much Christmas wrapping.

The village, again as previously mentioned, has an extravagant collection of dogs, and this is an eyewitness account of how this heterogeneous pack came to be.

Last week, a little puppy was found abandoned, freezing, and starving to death—its ribs starkly standing out—trapped deep in a roadside snowdrift. It was found by a good neighbour and was temporarily given to us to feed and warm up. We have, for unknown reasons, by far the warmest cottage in the village. It was very affectionate and desperately anxious to please, though, as we soon discovered, completely un-housetrained—which, whilst speaking volumes about its original owners, kept us busy.

The next day, the finder of the puppy and some friends came round to discuss what was to be done with it. Most of the permanent residents are animal lovers. Between the half-dozen of us in our cottage that morning, I calculated that we had a grand total of five dogs (most of them abandoned outside the village), four cats, five goats, and three sheep. I have lost count of the chickens and rabbits, which count for eggs, meat, and cash, and are therefore not counted as pets. The former all answer to individual names and are fed by hand. Oh, I forgot: there are a few million bees, who clearly 'know' their keeper.

What's in the Pot?

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered three handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

What's in the Pot?

My partner and I use on our ancient wood-burning range—probably contemporary with our three-hundred-plus-year-old cottage—my long-departed 'aunt's' cooking pot and two skillets, one large and one small. The latter still have their original, detachable teak handles. They are extremely weighty, being made of heavy-gauge cast iron.

At first sight, when I unpacked them from a cardboard box they were far too heavy for, my partner pooh-poohed them. Understandably so, as these utensils are emphatically not for your Aga-owning bourgeois with a compulsory range of colourful, enamelled cast-iron casserole pots. My aunt, if she had known of these expensive kitchen accoutrements, would have heartily despised them.  

My partner dismissed them because, apart from being extremely heavy (the large pot and skillet, even without their lids, are a two-handed job), they had an encrusted interior due to four generations of deposits from the soot, smoke, and ash of countless campfires. They were often buried deep in the embers of a dying campfire without their handles—partly to conserve firewood, but much more importantly, so as not to betray the camp to the watching Japanese by building up a fresh fire with its tell-tale plume of smoke.  

However, for our ancient wood-burning range, they proved ideal. I showed, much to her surprise, that they were very functional and non-stick by virtue of having been cleaned from first use without detergent—just boiling water, and then, while still hot, the interior smeared with oil. This rendered them non-stick: better than any Chinese-made, Teflon-coated, aluminium frying pan guaranteed to last three years, but not four generations.  

It was the sight of these ancient utensils quietly bubbling on the stove that inspired this diary, which is a homage to my aunt's memory and her remarkable life.  

My mother's family was born into the Indian Raj and had lived there for generations. I was the last member of the family to be born there, in 1941, up in the hill station of Simla with its incongruous mock-Tudor bungalows and neat English gardens (no shortage of gardeners and water-boys, then or now). It is at the end of a narrow-gauge mountain railway and boasts a convalescence and maternity hospital because its elevation above the hot, teeming, dusty plains far below ensured a quiet, cool peace for the memsahibs, their babies, young children, and convalescing walking wounded. Both my grandmother and mother were born there.  

When the Japanese—'Nips', as they were termed in those oh-so-politically-incorrect times—invaded Burma and approached India proper, the women and children of the Raj, including my mother and me, were evacuated by convoy via Cape Town to Britain, as Rommel was then threatening the Suez Canal.  

Short Story: Splash of Colour

I sit beside a fallen tree, looking down into my field that has been transformed, these past few months. My once lush emerald pasture has been replaced with a patchwork of myriad browns. My once proud trees lie twisted and broken, like so much mangled machinery. Spread without any thought or care, refuse spoils the once manicured ground. Timber frames and mangled steel, cause ghostly silhouettes to dance across the uneven ground, by the diffused sunlight. Water, which fills the pits and troughs, reflects the dull, colourless sky, adding to my sombre mood. My heart feels heavy. Nothing moves. Nothing lives.

But, suddenly, there is clarity. The droplets from the fine rain, acting like a lens, focus my attention. Amongst the refuse, at the edge of the field, do my eyes deceive? Is there movement? Is that colour? I resist blinking, trying to focus on the mirage before me. Finally, I blink and the mirage has taken shape. A figure stares up at me. My body aches as I rise to my feet, the figure watching me closely, as I make my way down into the field, if can still be called that.

My progress is hindered by the thick mud, which sucks at my boots, threatening to pull me into the bowels of the Earth. The figure before me turns, heading toward the centre of the quagmire, seeming to float across the surface. My breath becomes laboured, as my ageing body fights to keep me moving forward. As we get closer to the centre, the figure seems to undulate in-and-out of focus. A wave of nausea sweeps through me as the figure turns and holds my gaze. Tears fill his eyes as he dips his head. With a last great effort I step forward, throwing my arms around him. But he disappears and I topple into the mud. As I push myself up and out of the mud, I notice a flower, swaying in the gentle breeze, exactly where the figure had stood. At this moment the sun breaks through the clouds and  illuminates this splash of colour. Somehow, against all the odds, surviving in the mud and detriment... a Poppy.

A Lucky Escape!

I am so lucky to be alive!

It all started last night (30th). We had finished dinner and were all just chillaxin', when it happened. A blazing row over nothing. After a few heated words and a screaming match later, I decided to go out and get some air. It must have been about 21:45 by this time. Anyway, I went out on to the field outside our house when I got jumped. I hadn't seen anyone in the field, so I guess he must have been hiding, waiting to ambush anyone that went for a wander. All I saw in the dim light were these pair of eyes and flashes of white. I tried running but my attacker was a lot bigger than me and a lot faster. He dragged me into another field and started pounding me. The wet grass made it hard for me to find me feet, but I fought back as best I could. But it seemed that no matter what I did, I wasn't even making a mark. I was so close to giving up, when someone else showed up. This one was even bigger! I thought, this is it, but it turns out this guy had come to help me. He scared off my attacker and checked to see if I was okay. I have never in my life been so thankful to anyone. I couldn't understand a word he said, so he picked me up and carried me into his house. He cleaned me up and gave me some food and let me rest. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, it's morning. My Guardian Angel was also up and came to see how I was. He tried speaking to me, but I have no idea what language it was, so I just looked up at him. Then his daughter came to see me, but I couldn't understand her, either. A few minutes later and my guardian Angel helped me up and led me to the door. We walked down the road together until I got my bearings. I said 'Thank you', but I am not sure if he understood. He made noises too, but I can't say what the words were. I like to think that we did understand each other in the end and I hope to see him again some time. Anyway, I headed off home and I suppose he wandered off to work. I couldn't wait to get home as I had missed my family and I so wanted to see them and tell them what had happened. So I ran. I ran as fast as I could. All the while I kept thinking to myself, how lucky I was. That is the last time I go out at night in this area.

West Watford is no place to be at night if you are a mouse!

Poem: Dad

Not being there

When I was young

Waiting for visits

That would never come

Going to School

Keeping to myself

Reaching Eighteen

Still not there

Making a life, a career

You must be somewhere

Then, I find you

Not by choice, but by a need

Trying to reconnect

But gone again

Years pass

I have a daughter now

A daughter, I love

 I want to tell you

I phone,

You fly,

You visit

Then out of my life again

Years pass

And I travel to you

Good times we had

Then life returns

Then you visit

I let you stay

Things are good

But it all goes astray

Not talking

Silence between us

No visits,

No contact

My daughter and I

Heard you’re somewhere

I let it pass us by

A call

A bolt from the blue

A hand reaching out

What should I do?

A visit

A fleeting glimpse

Trying to justify why

I should try

Seeing you there

Weak and alone

Wanting to hold you

Not wanting to get close

A Doctor’s words

A nurse’s hug

A mother’s look

A son’s….

Another visit

Is it too late?

Words are exchanged

Is it too late?

Two fathers together

It wasn't too late

Then you’re gone

How do I feel

Destroyed?

No.

Angry?

No.

Upset?

No.

In love?

Yes.

In Love.

We made our peace.

You are my Dad.