An Irishman’s home is his…porous border??
by Robert O’Mochain
My childhood home had an unlocked front door that welcomed customers, friends, acquaintances, and all manner of wayfarers. The joys of having a motor business next door in 1970s rural Ireland! At any moment of the day, Mam would hear a tap on the glass section of the front door or a quick rap on its silver letter slot that bore the word “litir” in Celtic script, a reflection of the enthusiasm of Irish language revivalists back in the 1930s. “Could you change a cheque for me, missus,” shouted across the glass panel by a farmer in cow-shit wellingtons. “Is the young lad there to wash the car?” would dispatch me to the carwash and cow-shit vehicles.
My scopic drive absorption in the glittering images of television was shattered by those friends of the family who dropped by every now and then with no particular purpose in mind. They updated us on what they had heard and asked us what we had heard about the people who formed the warp and weft of community imagination. Who was in hospital, who had died, what were the wake and funeral arrangements; who was getting married, who were they related to, how many were going to the reception? Voicing out parish banalities in loud but warm voices, the interlopers marred my viewing pleasures and made me dream of the middle-class homes of television world. In that world, people would ring the doorbell of sturdy front doors, they would arrive for the party, they would leave at the appointed time. I suspected that world might be a product of fantasy.
Now, my childhood world seems like fantasy. I live secure and solitary in my apartment, protected by intercom and politeness. “Something’s lost and something’s gained.”
Photo by Gleren Meneghin on Unsplash
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robert O’Mochain belongs to Ritsumeikan University’s College of International Relations in Kyoto, Japan. His modest literary endeavours include public readings of Yeats, essays on Irish patriot Sir Roger Casement, and efforts to find a publisher for an essay on Beckett’s “Not I.”
Silver Birch Press 
Hi Robert, I enjoyed reading this. “Something’s lost and something’s gained” indeed, in all our nostalgic musings. Thank you for sharing this.
Thank you Maria,
I wondered if I should specify that I was quoting Joni Mitchell there. I hope she doesn’t mind. I think that song’s lyrics have entered into the public domain (or the popular imaginary at least!)
Robert
Robert, I’ve been to Ireland and one of my fondest memories is of the Irish colored doors. Thanks for sharing this.
Thank you Mary,
I’m glad you enjoyed your visit. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a photo of the actual door which was removed sometime in the ’90s. As well as the distinctive letter-box it had a handsome glass panel with orange and green rims.
Robert
Lovely bit of writing, Robert. “Voicing parish banalities…” Indeed!
Thanks SonofPaddy!
Though I can’t remember the quote, I was thinking there of poet Patrick Kavanagh’s line about Homeric sagas being drawn out of small-town squabbles. Kavanagh valued people who immersed themselves in the life of the parish. In contrast, he despised parochial people who constantly compared (and devalued) their home base by constantly comparing it to the “big city,”
Having said that, I do hope to have an excuse to visit your big city before the end of the year, if the virus fates allow!
Robert
Love this!
On Thu, Apr 23, 2020 at 11:52 PM Silver Birch Press wrote:
> silverbirchpress posted: ” An Irishman’s home is his…porous border?? by > Robert O’Mochain My childhood home had an unlocked front door that welcomed > customers, friends, acquaintances, and all manner of wayfarers. The joys of > having a motor business next door in 1970s rural Ireland!” >
Thank you Joan
This reminds me of the time I was in a discussion group and some people said they didn’t lock their front doors during the day. They didn’t want to feel like they were imprisoned. And my reaction was “But that’s so dangerous!” I guess I had forgotten that was how I spent all the days of my childhood!
Robert
What a lovely warm sentimental reading of a time long ago, actually it reminded me of my maternal grandmother’s house. My grandparents owned the only store of a small village in rural New Brunswick, Canada that had a connecting door to their house, and the foot traffic of the locals coming in and out for a chat or ask a question was just a normal part of everyday life in the village. My grandmother was a morally strong resourceful person and a compass for the whole village… and we didn’t lock our doors either in the ’70 when I was a child. This reading brought back many whimsical memories for me. Thanks for sharing such a pleasant story in this age of social distancing.
Thank you Deborah. If your grandmother’s store was the only shop in the village then it surely was “the place to be!”