SNIPPET: Frank FORAN, a native of Sheskinacurry, Drumshanbo, Leitrim, wrote this moving account of the wake and funeral of his maternal Grandfather. His Grandfather, a school teacher, died in 1911, and Frank, now also deceased wrote the account in 1912. In it, he describes the scenes at the wake and funeral with the reverence and respect with which the dead were treated. The account, even though seen through the eyes of a child, is detailed and beautifully written. Frank wrote, "It was the feast of our National Apostle, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eleven. As my twin brother and I walked down the narrow mountain road from our home, on our way to early Mass in the village church a mile or so distance, we were filled with that joy known only to boys. There were a few reasons for our elation: we were turned out in our Sunday best, to which were added green ties and sprays of shamrock in our caps. It was friday - an extra day free from school, but the big events to which we looked forward were our marching in the festival procession in the village, led by the bands playing national airs, after which we would go on a visit to the home of our maternal grandparents where we had spent our childhood. Having arrived at the church we took our places in one of the front seats and in a few moments the priest, led by his two servers, arrived from the sacristy to celebrate Mass. He was a tall, fine looking man, in his early sixties, very stern, and more feared than loved by school boys, but known to all to be a very eloquent preacher. Having reached the point when he would make his parish announcements and give his sermon, he turned to the congregation and in his beautiful modulated voice said, 'Your prayers are requested for the repose of the soul of Denis...who died at his residence this morning. May he rest in peace.' Immediately my brother and I burst into tears and wept bitterly during the remainder of the service and failed to listen to our good priest's sermon on St. Patrick. On our way home kindly neighbours consoled us, so by the time we reached our house we had somewhat recovered from our sorrow. Immediately we entered the living room my brother, in a somewhat loud but quivering voice said: 'Grandfather is dead.' My father, who had just entered from upstairs, turned and reprimanded him for his indiscretion, which after all was due to a boy's lack of tact. Immediately I turned to look at mother who had dropped into a chair and full of silent weeping while her tears dropped quietly on her hands which lay folded on her lap. In a short while she recovered and proceeded to prepare breakfast for everybody, prior to accompanying father to mid-day Mass. After dinner my brother and I rambled up to the top of the hill from which we could hear the bands playing in the village in the valley below, but the music had now lost its appeal. We talked of Grandfather - when would he be buried, and would we be permitted to accompany his remains to the grave. We talked about Mother: why she did not cry as we did on hearing of her father's death: why her stoic acceptance of the sad news? ! We did not know. On Saturday evening we went with our parents to the 'corpse house.' On entering the little parlour we found Grandmother sitting on a chair facing the door wiping her tear dimmed eyes, and on either side sat my uncle and aunt who had arrived from the city some hours previously. When my brother and I went to her she placed her old hands on our heads and said, 'Go in and see Grandfather.' We went to the bedroom to see death for the first time in our young lives. There he lay clothed in his brown habit. His old hands, clasped as in prayer, rested on his body, and his old rosary beads were entwined in his thin fingers. His eyes were closed as in sleep, his face was pale, but his long white beard had not changed; but when we touched his ice cold face and hands we were filled with a strange fear. We returned to the parlour which had not changed since our childhood days. By the fire side stood the old rocking chair in which grandfather sat and sang old Irish songs - 'The Rising of the Moon' and the "Shean Bhean Bhocht' being his favourites. The circular table still stood on the centre of the floor around which he had us march to the tune of the Boers' March, played on the old piano by one of our musical cousins who would be on a visit. And by the wall stood his library, indicating his literary tastes and scholarship. On the wall over the fireplace stood the old school clock, which he took with him on his retirement and which he never failed to wind each night after he had stood up from the Rosary. On our way down to the kitchen we passed the coat of arms of his family which had passed on to him and which he had fixed in the wall facing the front door, the history of which he related to all visitors who entered his home. Arriving in the kitchen we found his old neighbours, sitting around the big turf fire, smoking new clay pipes filled with fresh tobacco which was handed to each as he came in, and talking in hushed tones about the past. They remembered when Grandfather, with his young wife, came from another parish among them to open their school in an old barn lent by a kindly farmer, and later to move to a new building provided by the educational authorities and from which he would retire 40 years later. They remembered that it was to the 'Master' they came to have their letters written - some perhaps to America in connection with legacies left to them by relatives, others to the Land Commission in connection with settlements under the Purchase Acts, and others came ! to seek advice on their disputes. And again they remembered that it was in the little school their many children got all they had in secular and moral education which helped them later in life's struggle, when all but the few found themselves swallowed up in the big cities in England or America, and where 'one of the ten' remembered the 'Master and Mistress' by a letter now and then. Next day the funeral took place. Some hours before it was to leave large numbers of relatives and friends arrived, among whom were priests, in tall hats. The parlour and kitchen were filled with people and around Grandfather's bed stood his immediate relatives to look on his face for the last time before his body would be gently laid in the waiting coffin. Outside, large numbers had gathered from the two parishes and here again the clay pipes and tobacco were handed around and the recipient reverently raised his hat and murmured: 'The Lord have mercy on him.' And then a strange thing happened. A strange man standing among the crowd facing the front door commenced to sing, as from a ballad which he held in his hand. He had not got very far with his song when Grandmother appeared from inside and ordered him away; and reluctantly but quietly he disappeared in the crowd. Who he was and why he had come, I never knew. And now the funeral was about to leave. The coffin was reverently raised on to the shoulders of four men bearing the surname of Grandfather, who carried it down the lane which led from the house to the main road, and placed it in the waiting hearse. The driver was dressed in a long black coat, on front of which were two rows of shining brass buttons, and from beneath appeared his shining black leggings and boots. On one of his shoulders hung a large white sash, and around his tall black hat was a wide white ribbon which hung down his back. Looking back from the rear, we saw a long, long line of side cars on which people were taking their seats. The driver stepped up on the box and the cortege started on its five mile journey to the little cemetery on the lake side. It was a cold, dry day with an east wind gale force and overhead a dark leaden sky. We had no shelter from the piercing cold wind except that afforded by the trees and hedges along the road side. When the processi! on reached the parish border it stopped and a table, on which was a white cloth, was taken from a house and put standing on the road side. The immediate relatives then dismounted from their seats and formed a semi-circle around the table on which people placed their 'offerings.' When the last person had passed and resumed his seat, the cortege continued on its journey. We now came in view of the wide expanse of the lake to the east. Beyond lay the grey bleak hills, while across the intervening angry dark waters came rushing herds of white horses to dash against the boundary wall of the little cemetery below. Having reached the point on the road on which we must stop, the coffin was gently lifted from the hearse and carried on shoulders down the narrow path which led to the burial ground, to be reverently laid in the open grave awaiting it. The priests and relatives gathered around and Father Mick, Grandfather's nephew, gave the service, while someone held an umbrella over his shoulder to offer him the little shelter he could from the gale. Only during a momentary lull could we hear his voice mingling with the gentle sobbing of the women folk. But there were other sounds the storm failed to drown - the thud of the chunks of damp earth as it was being rolled over the coffin. The grave was closed, the final prayers were said, and we returned on the road we had come. I look back and think of the darkness which would in a few hours envelop the cemetery. I think of the winds howling around the ivied walls of the little old church and the angry waters dashing against the cemetery wall.! I think of Grandfather lying in his cold grave, never to return to the rocking chair by the cosy fireside, or hear the old school clock ticking on the wall." -- "Leitrim Guardian," 1995.