The Beauty in the Silver Coat

Story ID:	53
Written by:	Veronica Breen Hogle
Organization:	Irish Cultural Events
Story type:	Story
Location:	Graiguenamanagh County Kilkenny Ireland
Year:	1949
Person:	Mrs. Earls

Everyone knew her by name, and said that the silver coat was what gave her the regal look. She’d huge dark oval eyes veiled by thick long lashes, the kind most women would die for. She also had generous warm velvet-soft lips, and a round body that was inviting. When she went to town, she was always dressed up, sporting a sprig of whatever was in season to complement the silver coat. When holiday makers to Ireland saw her, their cameras would start clicking. Like many photographed subjects, her photo is now all over the world.

She had a family who delighted in her, and a handsome companion she was with night and day. You never saw one without the other, except for the one day a month she worked. That’s the day I got to know her well, and discovered she’d a sweet tooth. Oh, did she have a sweet tooth! When I looked into her huge dark eyes, they were so clear, I could see myself and the entire Irish countryside behind me as well. While she gently ate the sweet treats I gave her, there was only the two of us in our cocoon in the world together.

Everyone called her by name. They’d say, “Hello Bertha, how are things taday? I heard ya got new shoes? Ah yes, I see dat ya did. Them ‘ill last a while now. Ya need them for da days dat ya go inta town. Ya look grand sportin’ a bit a holly an’ ivy in your lovely silver coat.”

Bertha worked for my Grandmother, and the two were a perfect pair. They’d take off together on market day with pep in their step. They were icons along the Wood Road to Graiguenamanagh. Men passing them would raise their hats and yield the road to Bertha, her head held high, with her regal look, and to my Grandmother, dressed all in black, with her Napoleon style hat, and her pink silk scarf pinned by a cameo brooch. Gran had a queenly air sitting in her throne-like seat on the cart that was harnessed to Bertha -- our beloved ass. She was known to all as “Bertha, Mrs. Earls’ ass.”

Bertha had a proud air as if she knew she was from a long line of valued beasts of burden, from Eastern countries, where nature gave her the thick eyelashes to protect her beautiful eyes during sand storms. And as she trotted along on the gravel road on her way to mass every Palm Sunday, she loved hearing Grandmother tell me about the King who arrived in Jerusalem, the same King who choose to make his jubilant entrance on the back of one of Bertha's ancestors.

Our Bertha knew the market day habits. If Gran dozed off on her way home, which she always did, Bertha knew to stay to the grassy margin on her side of the road. No tickets to the driver for sleeping at the reins, or for driving after a few extra whiskies were ever issued. Bertha knew our house, and as a wake up call to my dozing Grandmother, gave a last charge, the final surge, like the winner in the chariot races in days of old. Tossing her head, she signaled, We’re home, we’re home! Unyoke me now! I’ve got to get back to my man waiting for me at the gate! It’s been a long day. It’s time to put my feet up. Oh, the new shoes are killing me!”

Her companion, Walshe’s donkey, would be waiting for her at the gate. He’d toss his head in joy to see her, touch her velvet lips with his, and they’d greet each other like lovers who’d been separated for years. The rituals over, she’d roll with delight in the earthy patch of the field, her hooves flying in the air. Putting her feet up. Then she’d get up, and shake off the dust. Another touch of the velvet lips and the two would gallop off together towards the river, blending into the gray rocks surrounding the fields of Ireland.

In Ireland today, no one uses an ass and cart any more. The only people wanting this type of transportation, and are willing to pay big money for it are rock stars and film stars who want to experience a peasant wedding, or a market day, of bygone years. On E-bay messages, they plead they’d give anything to find an ass and cart. They want to deck the ass out with daisy chains for their own big day that will be covered by cameras from all over the world. They want to experience the wedding their old Irish grandmother told them she had many years ago. They long to feel the warm velvet-soft lips gently curling around a sugar beet, in the hollow of their hand. People are willing to pay big money for the experience I had of going to market with my Grandmother, once a month in an ass and cart in 1949.

Note: The woman in the shorts is my late mother Eileen Earls Breen. The girl is her niece, Phyllis McCormack, still living in Dublin. The other boy on the ass is the late Desmond Earls and the late Sean McCormack standing.

*This story was previously published in Miniature Donkey Talk - Baltimore, MD