A Slice of Life, a Piece of Cake

A Slice of Life, a Piece of Cake ©

By

Michael Casey

Elaine Polin the NY poet once said to me that what I wrote was a slice of life. Though it’s many years since I darkened her door, we did have some fun when I was on FB, but I’m NOT on FB or anywhere anymore, but a big Hello to her, she’s probably forgotten me by now.

So what do I write? I write short stories, I was even told be a female priest decades ago that she thought it would be my specialty, makes me sound like a fat cook in a greasy spoon cafe. Heart attack on a plate, with ketchup.

I am a vacuum cleaner, or totally vacuous if you are unkind, perhaps I should just change my bag inside, a bit like Kate Bush’s kick inside? Who knows? Do I have total recall, I cannot remember what I have forgot, though there are some things I wish I could and cannot. Memories are things we have to live with, the bad ones, the sad ones can scar us forever, as we all know. My earliest is 53 years old when I was left alone in front of the fire while dad collected mum from the hospital and my new baby sister. I can remember my dad telling me to leave the fire alone.

On other occasions I can remember film like what went on. The proudest moment was when we went on a family Pilgrimage to Lourdes by train. The train stopped and money and tiny bottles of pop were exchanged via the windows. It was very expensive,so expensive that dad handed them back, all 8 bottles. Only he handed back 7. The seller came on the train demanding his final bottle,  unholy uproar ensued.

The entire train swore and cursed and gave two fingers to the hawker. We were 6 kids aged 16 to 3 plus mum and dad. So Holy Uproar as we pulled out the station. Shouts of England will win the World Cup, t was 1966 after all. Other Pilgrims came to our aid with water, cursing the Bloody French. An hour later mum moved her position and plumped up her cushion, only to reveal the missing 8^th very expensive pop bottle,it was orange. It was drunk and the bottle thrown out the moving train window. The Bloody French. Two years later my big brother was studying French at Queen’s Oxford. My smaller other brother went on to Downing Cambridge in 1975, to study Economics, maybe the Laws of Supply and Demand.

So there you have it a story from 51 years ago. I can remember racing against the life as I bounced off the walls of the stairwell. My small sister aged 3 refused to take her anorak off even though the temperature soared, this was for the entire week. She later 20 years later, went to France on her year abroad and was able to pick up all the slang going. She even memorized Some Day My Prince Will Come from Snow White. The other teachers were teasing her, what had she done over the weekend in the very small village. So she turned around and sang it to them, the staff room were very impressed and collapsed into laughter. Now 30 years later she is still friends with the English teacher.

So I think La Belle France has forgiven us for the forgotten pop bottle, one brother did study there for a year, and then work in Paris for a year, bilingual was the word. I had my own misadventures in Paris, if I can find the file I’ll add it to my website. Let’s just say 1998 was a very funny year for me.

Which brings us back to the vacuum cleaner. I love stories, dad used to tell us stories over and over again, even if the repertoire was limited, I just hearing them and magnified the love between us as far as I was concerned. So I visited him every single day for 3 years after his heart attack, I did it out of Love, and my siblings loved and visited very often too. I can remember my last ever visit to him on the Tuesday, then 4 days later he asked for another breakfast egg and was dead when the egg arrived.

Our Life, our Love is what makes us, it’s the glue of Family, of any family. That story, this event, makes us laugh, makes us cry with laughter, or just makes us cry. If we cannot cry then have we forgotten the love. I never cried the day mum died, all my siblings did, but mum had said don’t cry so I obeyed her. I can remember all the days events as we gathered around the family home and our broken dad. I can remember my brother digging the flowerbeds, mum’s delights. I can remember sitting behind Mrs M in Sunday Mass as the Canon announced mum’s death, Mrs M was so shocked, she is still alive, now in her 90s.

Memories are there to save us, to help us and to treasure in dark times. That’s why I record everything in my mind and share my stories on the page. And that is why I detest things that destroy the mind, the imagination or the spirit. Lift somebody up don’t knock them down. That night playing on the radio was Celine Dion’s You Lift Me Up, as my family sat up all night they heard that song.

That’s what mum did all her hard working family life, she lifted us all  up. Mum had all the graces dad said, she was as strong as a horse too, which is high praise from a blacksmith, her husband, my dad. So if you wonder where does all my spirit come from though now my body is much weaker, then the answer is from my parents, from mum and dad. For they were Kerry people, its in the breed as dad used to say of things. And Kerry breeds for Love and Happiness and Stories, for though I may be in Birmingham, County Kerry is in me.