“May you have a long and
happy life.”
Mosey's road
home
Written by: Thomas John McClean
Hetherington, with the assistance of Andrew and Gary McClean
Hetherington, September, 2013.
This is a story about “wee folk”,
fathers and sons and a place in Ireland. It is based in fact and was
told to me by my father, Robert John McClean Hetherington (Robbie).
Robert John McClean
Hetherington (Robbie)
My father was a story teller, and as
such may not have let the truth stand in the way of creating a good
yarn. I apologize if I misrepresent the true nature of the people
described. My story is based on the 52 year old memories of a child.
I leave it to the reader to judge its truth.
When I was a boy my father told me
stories about the place where he was born -- a troubled place filled
with family members who exist only in the memories of their loved
ones -- people brought to life in his stories.
The date was November 1960, the year
before the death of his grandparents, and Robbie Hetherington and his
9 year old son Tommy sat in the living room of their house at 925,
6th Street in New Westminster.
925 6th Street, New
Westminster
Robbie was in his favourite chair next
to the fireplace. The smell of Erin More pipe tobacco filled the
room with a pungent odour that Tommy always associated with his dad.
These were special times listening as his dad told stories about the
“Old Country.”
Robbie took several short pulls on his
pipe to stoke the embers, exhaled and said, “ Aye, the last
Hetherington still on the hill is my sister Eileen. The rest have
moved away because of troubles and better pensions. Was a time when
Creggan Hill was home to the Holmes, McCleans, Johnstons and
Hetheringtons.” “Most are gone now to the other side of the
border – my parents and William James moved to County Down.” The
Johnstons are the only ones that remain there in any real numbers.
With everyone gone the house was turning into a pile of rubble,” he
said.
Robbie was born on Creggan Hill in 1910
in a house near Raphoe in County Donegal. His life was to be shaped
by civil war, immigration to Canada in 1928, heroic military service,
and his later years, a thyroid problem, sleep apnea and bouts of
alcoholism. He was a spiritual man and a Mason, and not really a
church goer. He believed in always doing one’s duty, and the trauma
he experienced from doing his, damaged his soul. He died at age 65.
His ashes are spread in the garden of St. Mary's Anglican Church in
New Westminster.
The land where Robbie was born was
initially leased by the Hetheringtons from the Church of Ireland, and
eventually purchased in 1905. Located in Upper Glenmaguin, it is best
accessed from a narrow road that ends at the crest of Creggan Hill.
The Hetherington plot is straight ahead.
“Aye”, Robbie started again,
sipping on a warm cup of tea. “Was a time when we were all related
there. Before the automobile we got around by foot and that meant
that there weren’t many people that you could marry -- so we
married each other, like the royal family,” Robbie said with an
impish grin. “You can see that in our family tree, McCleans
married Hetheringtons for several generations. “It’s why our
last names are McClean Hetheington,” he said in a matter of fact
tone.
“There were two McClean families on
the hill, and the Mosey McClean branch had a reputation for being a
bit wild and strange. A lane, we called “the street” passed in
front of Mosey’s place,” he explained. “McClean's had a garden
immediately across 'the street' from their house and I remember
picking gooseberries there - they were terribly sour.” he said
puckering his lips.
Mosey McClean House with
child in door frame
He continued, “the McCleans could
hear a piece of music once and then play it from memory. Some say
they could read minds.”
“But when it came to ‘the gift’,
the person I learned the most from was William James,” he said.
“When I was growing up, William James lived with us, at least he did
when we weren't all separated because of work away and The
Revolution,” Robbie said with a deep sigh. “I had to stop going
to school at age 10. They turned Glenmaquin School into barracks for
the Black and Tans and that was the end of my schooling.”
After a pause, “William James was a
fine man with a shovel. One time he dug a drainage ditch down “the
street” by hand,” Robbie said, obviously impressed.
William James and Andrew
McClean Hetherington
After a sip of his strong dark tea,
Robbie reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an old
photograph, he passed it to Tommy who examined it closely.
McClean Hetherington House
“The house was built of stones, from
fist sized to arm sized, gathered from the earth ‘round about.
There was no money for mortar so we used local 'blue clay'. This
clay is found underneath the turf. I remember being out with my Dad
clearing out a sheugh, and he showed me the gravel layer with the
blue clay on top. This he said was from the time of Noah and the
Great Flood. He was a very religious man,” he paused, puffed and
continued.
“The clay was fine as a binder as
long as it was dry, but we had to whitewash once a year to waterproof
it, and we had to tar the bottom foot or so to help prevent rising
damp,” he said gently waving his pipe in a painting motion.
“As you can see the house was a
single story affair. The thatch was made of rushes taken from the wet
ground in front of the house. We usually kept a cow in the byre on
the left, next was the main room. Everything happened in the main
room. It was our living room, bedroom, and kitchen. There was a
hearth with a crane and crook for cooking, with a cast iron kettle
permanently on the boil. Never was a man turned away without the
offer of hot tea. My dad and William James never drank tea from a
cup or mug, it was always from a bowl. They said it was to keep
their hands warm.” He paused again sipped his tea, briefly closed
his eyes as if searching his memory and said, “there was a table, a
couple of chairs, a homemade bench to sit on, and a dresser to store
a few plates and mugs. This dresser formed a bit of a wall, and with
another bit of thin plywood, created a small room with a bed. Along
the far wall beside the hearth was my parents’ bed which had a
curtain to keep the draughts out. Not too much room for us all and
sometimes I'd just go out into the fields to look at the stars and
find peace,” he said with a far off look in his eyes.
As if waking from a dream, he
continued, “there were no house numbers on the hill, and the local
postman had the job for life and knew everybody. When I was back
during the war, the postman was Henry Gallagher who was based at
Knockbrack post office 3 or 4 miles away. The house was at the end of
his round and he would have his tea and a piece of homemade bread and
jam before heading back. Occasionally, he'd come up to the house in
the evening with his melodeon for a bit of a ceilidh. Aye, was always
was good to hear music on the hill, made it magical: music, laughter
and the warm glow of the hearth,” he paused and rubbed his eyes
with a hankie that he drew from his pants pocket and blowing his
noise said, “Aye, it was grand”.
Replacing the hankie in his pocket and
referring back to the picture he continued, “You see the hawthorn
tree beside the house? As a boy I would pick the unripe haws and
with a piece of weed with a hollow center use it as a pea shooter, I
remember one time I hit my brother Johnston with a haw and it caused
quite a row. “
Johnston and Robbie
1943/44
Robbie paused a took a draw on his pipe
which had gone out due to the length of the story so he fished a
match box out of his small black leather tobacco bag, struck a match
on the striking paper on the side of the box and put it to the bowl.
After a couple of draws the tobacco started to glow and after one or
two more puffs he continued putting the box and bag on the table.
“The blackthorn bush is related to
the hawthorn and both have magical powers. Fairy folk are said
to guard blackthorn trees and will not let anyone cut branches - if
you do you will be cursed with bad luck. Farmers would plough around
a blackthorn so as not to annoy the fairy folk,” he said earnestly.
“I have seen instances of a single blackthorn in a field is
undisturbed by the farmer. The wee folk seem to like the thick,
impenetrable thorn bramble, may be because it hides the entrances to
their houses,” Robbie said knowingly.
After a short pause, he started, “many
years ago, Moses McClean, stumbled out of the Red Hand Pub in Raphoe
and into the darkness.“
Mosey
McClean
“He was a young man then, a grand man and very well liked, when wasn't drinking. Almost named you after him,” Robbie said to Tommy, “but your mum didn't think a name like Moses was quite right for a Canadian lad, so we named you Tommy instead.” “She said it was to remember her uncle Tom Achtimechuck but to me you were named after my brother in – law Tommy Johnston.”
This story is about Mosey before he
took the pledge,” Robbie added as if to defend the man's honour.
“Mosey was a bit of a dare devil always tempting fate with some
kind of antic. I will always remember him, on his bicycle careening
erratically down the Creggan lane, bouncing off the seat, barely
avoiding collision and laughing like a mad man as he left for the
pub!”
Suddenly Robbie looked pensive, “he
met a sorry end, he did. He left Raphoe for Scotland......... they
found his shoes on the shore and body in Kirkcaldy harbour. Sometime
later both his sons, Willie and Sam drowned in the same harbour.
People say they were suicides........” he said in a hushed tone.
After another draw on his pipe he
continued, “but that night as the barman locked the door behind
him, Mosey prepared for the long walk down the Convoy road to Creggan
lane and then up the hill to his bed. He mumbled to himself, I need
to drink less or find a place to sleep in town, I am sick of this
long walk, especially at night. Luckily, a full moon was just
appearing on the horizon. Good, I’ll not have to walk in the dark,
he thought as he buttoned up his ragged coat. Fortunately, he had
managed to buy the remnants of a bottle of Bushmills from the
barkeep. Now penniless but with fortification against the cold night
air he stumbled off across The Diamond.”
“He avoided the graveyard at St.
Eunnan’s, Mosey never felt comfortable around graveyards especially
at night. His sister had told him that was because he was afraid of
going to hell because of the trouble he caused by his fondness of
“drink”.
“By the time Mosey got to the Creggan
lane he was really starting to get tired and was tempted to lay
down for a sleep. Instead he reached in his pocket and pulled out
the partially consumed bottle and took a long pull. That will help
me get home he thought as a stumbled up the narrow lane. After a
while he walked past the Johnston house and eventually reached the
end of the road. He stopped and finished his bottle. Throwing the
empty into the hedge he looked across the fields and saw Hetherington
place straight ahead. He noticed a small light flickering in the
window. I wonder if Andrew or William James were up? They are not
big drinkers but may be they'll invite me in for a drink, or at least
a cup of tea, he thought, and started walking toward the dimly lit
window. The field was very mucky and each step made a sucking sound
as his foot lifted from the muck and a squishing sound as it went
back down again. Suck, squish. suck, squish, he plodded onwards,
until he found himself it the door of the Hetherington house. He
knocked.
Unfortunately, it was not Andrew or
William James who answered but his sister, Maggie. “Whose there”
she shouted from behind the door. “Your brother,” Mosey
responded. The door opened and a woman in a nightshirt stood in the
door frame. What are you doing up in the middle of the night, you
been drinking again? She asked in an angry tone. “May be just a
wee drop” Mosey responded, looking down at his feet. “I told
you before, don’t come around when you’ve been drinking, I’ll
have none of that.” Go home and go to bed,” she said, slamming
the door in his face.
Maggie
McClean Hetherington
Disappointed with his reception (and
the absence of even the of a cup of tea) he turned and started to
walk home. After a few paces, he became dizzy, lost his balance, and
fell face first into the clabber. Too tired to get up he bundled up
in his coat and rolled up near the hedge and closed his eyes. He
wasn’t sure how long he lay there - he must of fallen asleep.
Robbie paused and tapped hot ashes
from his pipe into the fire. Once empty he put the pipe into an
ashtray on the metal TV tray beside the chair.
He started again, Mosey was awakened by
a tugging on his boots. For a moment he thought he’d made it home
and his wife, Bella was putting him to bed but then he remembered
where he was and opened his eyes to discover a small creature trying
to pull to his boots off.
Bella McClean (Orr)
playing her melodeon
“The wee folk are excellent
cobblers,” Robbie said as an aside, “they really can not resist a
worn pair of boots.”
Suddenly, and with more coordination
that he demonstrated in years, Mosey shot up and grabbed the being's
leg. “Got you, you thieving little devil” he cried. “You’ll
not have my boots”, he said tightening his grip.
The creature responded, “forgive me
kind sir, I saw you were asleep and I was only trying to take your
boots off so you’d be more comfortable”.
Then it dawned on Mosey, he captured a
wee person, his mind raced to determine how he could best take
advantage of the situation. “I’ll not let you go you evil little
thing, I ought to murder you for trying to steal my only pair of
boots” he exclaimed.
“No, no, no don’t hurt me,”
responded the little man, “let me go and I will give you great
wealth.”
“Great wealth”, Mosey responded,
“what do you mean by that?”
“Let me go and I’ll fill your
pockets with gold,” the little man said.
“Show me”, Mosey responded.
Still held upside down, the little man
pointed to the base of a blackthorn bush. “Look there,” he said,
“and you’ll have gold a plenty.” Mosey looked and saw a small
pot of pebble sized gold nuggets. “Boys oh”, he said, picking up
the pot with his free hand, his mind racing with excitement.
“Now let me go,” said the fairy
man. “You’ve got gold a plenty - you’ll not need me.”
Mosey responded, “I am a man of my
word,” and he freed the wee one from his grip. Quickly it vanished
into the tangle of blackthorn roots.
“I am rich, I am rich,” Mosey sang
to himself as he filled his coat pockets with nuggets, I’ll have
whisky to spare, he thought. Still drunk and pockets full, he
stumbled home. Once there, he passed out on his bed.
He was awakened by the dawn. He opened
his eyes and remembered his good fortune of the night before. “I
am rich, I am rich,” he said to himself over and over again. But
when he got up and retrieved his coat he sadly found his pockets
sadly empty. Pulling his pockets out he discovered that each one had
a hole in it. Gold must have fallen out as I walked, he thought. He
then went to the door and looked down the street.
Sure enough there was a zig-zagging
trail of gold nuggets leading to the Hetherington place. Relieved,
he went back inside to get a bag. I'll retrace my steps and put the
gold in this bag, he thought. As he stepped out of the doorway the
first rays of sun appeared from over the horizon and touched the
ground. He was horrified when he saw that as the sun touched each
nugget it transformed into an ordinary wee pebble! His now aching
head filled with rage, he had been made a fool of and duped by the
little man. He began to curse and as he did he thought he heard
faint laughter from the hedge. Sure enough his exploits of the night
before had a very different look in the clear light of day. In the
end all he had was a mucky coat, bag of pebbles and a very sore head.
This story had
stayed in Tommy's mind all of this life. How much of this is true he
wondered? So, in 2012, at the age of 61 he and his son Matthew, then
18 set off in search of “leprechauns” (that is what they call the
wee folk in American films) . While they discovered many things
during their odyssey, they were not able to verify the truth of the
story nor did they manage to find or capture any leprechauns (in
spite of placing traps baited with old boots). They were however able
to find and document some of the places mentioned in the story. The
a future blog post will archive their findings.
