SATURDAY NIGHT WITH UNCLE ERIC

SATURDAY NIGHT WITH UNCLE ERIC
By Veronica Breen Hogle

“The evenin’ is closin’ in fast now,” says Uncle Eric, looking out the scullery window at Mount Leinster as she fast changes her cloak from purple to gray. A long barge snakes along the Barrow River as the sole Abbey Bell rings out the six o’clock Angelus, and oil lamps wink on in the cottages and farmhouses nestled around the rolling hills of Graigue-na-man-agh, in County Kilkenny.

It’s 1949 and due to an illness in my family, I’m staying with my widowed Grandmother, and her son Eric, and we live on a small, isolated farm outside the village. I’m the only child for miles around, and I feel lonely as all I see are gray rock walls and matching clouds that stretch silently and endlessly.

It’s Saturday night, the one day a week Uncle Eric come home before dark. The only clue that he lives in the house at all is finding a rabbit he shot strewn across the kitchen table, or a grouse or a pheasant hanging upside down on the back of the kitchen door early some mornings. I live for Saturday because it’s the night Uncle Eric has his weekly shave, and I’ve a prime part in it. It puts me in a position to find out some things, especially where he goes when he goes out every night.

He stands in his white undershirt with his striped suspenders hanging down the sides of his navy serge trousers. He has a lean sinewy body from working the land and getting everywhere by foot or bike. He squints into the small cracked mirror hanging on a nail near the window, and pats his wispy brown hairs several times, hoping to settle it down.

“I can hear the kettle singin’ with the water for me shave,” he says. “Get the candle in the blue enamel holder.” I spring into action, and he goes to get the water from the black iron kettle hanging over the open fireplace in the kitchen.

Night falls fast and back in the scullery, the flickering amber candlelight makes our silhouettes huge on the wall. No talking takes place as he yokes up an old leather strap to a nail on the wall; then he scrutinizes the long ivory-handled blade in the candlelight. With his tongue tucked out the corner of his mouth, the sharpening begins. His wrist keeps perfect time as the muffled strikes of steel hit the leather, picking up speed, like a train leaving the station. The only other sounds are the ticking of the clock in the kitchen, and the spits of sap shooting out from the new wood burning in the open fireplace. He flicks his thumb on the blade. A few more rapid swipes on the leather – one more flick.

“Ah! Grand. We’re in business!” his blue eyes are dancing.

Perched on the dry sink, I watch as he smothers his face and neck in clouds of white loveliness. With facial contortions and grimaces, he slices through the marshmallow puffs and plops them to float in the enamel bowl.

“Here Vonnie, hold the candle up high for me so I can see better.” While holding the candle, the time I waited for all week arrives. It’s time to find out some things.

“Uncle Er, -- where do you go when you go out at night?” Silence.

“Where do I go when I go out at night!? Now I mane ta say, is that any kind of a question from a little girl like you!?” freezing the blade in mid air. Silence.

“Well if ya must know where I go when I go out at night,” bending down to my ear, whispering,

“I go ta see … a man … about a dog …” His blue eyes are huge.

My heart beats like a hammer. A pup for me. I was longing for one for ages.

“Does the man you’re going to see have new pups?” No answer as he keeps shaving.

While he puts on a clean white flannel shirt with small stripes on it, and attaches a starched white collar to the button on the back, I ask him if he’s going to Dublin for the All-Ireland hurling final and will the Kilkenny Cats win the match.

“You could win the all-Ireland nosy parker match yourself!” he says patting his face in the mirror. I watch as he tidies up after his shave, and polishes his boots with a few spits and dabs of polish from the tin on the shelf.

“That’s grand now, that’s grand. I’m set for the week,” he says nodding his head up and down in the mirror and adjusting his cap.

“What’s nine times twelve?”
“A hundred an’ eight!”
“Ah! you’re smart for a nine-year old. Here’s a shillin’ for knowin’ your sums.”

I walk after him as he wheels his bike down the steep incline to the gravel road. Looking straight ahead he throws his leg across the saddle. The light on the front of his bike beams like a long funnel into the night, and he peddles down the narrow, winding Wood Road. I watch from the gate while the red reflector on the back of his bike becomes small and disappears with Uncle Eric into the mysterious darkness.

The sweet smell of the turf fires swirling in the night air creeps up my nostrils. Mount Leinster is now wearing her navy night cloak. Gran’s silhouette appears in the door, calling my name.

Clutching the shilling in my hand, I walk back up to the house wondering who the man is that Uncle Eric is going to see about the dog. I haven’t heard of any dogs around having pups. Word travels when a dog has a litter, and I go to see what they look like. Maybe he was just coddin’ me …

I’ll have to wait seven more days until Uncle Eric has his Saturday shave, when I’ll be in a position to find out where he goes when he goes out every night. And find out more about the man he went to see about the dog. ###

Note: This story was published in Ireland’s Own Magazine, Wexford, Ireland in March 2006. This weekly family-focused magazine has been in business for over 100 years. It was also published in "Graiguenamanagh Families: A Trip Down Memory Lane," published in October 2006. Proceeds to benefit the Graiguenamanagh Historical Society.

Story ID:	2623
Written by:	Veronica Breen Hogle (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Irish Cultural Events
Story type:	Family History
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Graiguenamanagh Co. Kilkenny Ireland
Year:	1949
Person:	Eric Earls