ACTIVITY DETAILS AND FURTHER INFORMATION
| Activity | CREATIVE WRITING |
|---|---|
| Leader | Sharon Flynn |
| Admin | Marion McDowell |
| Contact E-mail | marion-14@mail.com |
| Contact Phone | 07714009460 |
| Meeting Day | 3rd Tuesday |
| Meeting Time | 12.15-1.45 pm |
| Venue | Holmes Memorial Hall-ante room, Charlotte St, Ballymoney |
| Activity Description | The group prepare a piece of writing on a pre-allocated theme. The members read their piece and this is followed by discussion with advice and suggestions from the leader. |
| Current Arrangements | The group currently meet via Zoom on 3rd Tuesday each month. Time 12noon to 1.45pm. To maximise the time on Zoom pieces are written in advance and circulated by members to the group using email 1 week prior to the meeting. This allows time to read before attendance so that Zoom time can be used for discussion. This works well and has in no way spoiled the enjoyment of the activity. |
Our enthusiastic group continue to meet via Zoom on the 3rd Tuesday each month at 12 noon.
You are welcome to join a session without obligation if you would like to see how we work. The topic for February was “A Local Character “which produced an interesting and amusing range of pieces. From people around Ballymoney to those from childhood memory we shared our recollections.
If you would like a flavour of what we wrote excerpts are available on the BU3A Website. Feel free to browse www.ballymoney.com and let us know what you think.
For March the topic is “There was a knock at the door” which should produce some fascinating snippets.
Keep an eye on the website in April to find out how it goes.
Marion
You are welcome to join a session without obligation if you would like to see how we work. The topic for February was “A Local Character “which produced an interesting and amusing range of pieces. From people around Ballymoney to those from childhood memory we shared our recollections.
If you would like a flavour of what we wrote excerpts are available on the BU3A Website. Feel free to browse www.ballymoney.com and let us know what you think.
For March the topic is “There was a knock at the door” which should produce some fascinating snippets.
Keep an eye on the website in April to find out how it goes.
Marion
Ballymoney U3A Creative Writers have been meeting via Zoom on the third Tuesday of each month since September. We explore a different theme each month; it is always interesting to see how differently each of us writes about the same topic. As most of the group grew up in Ballymoney our theme for last month was ‘local characters’. These three short extracts might trigger some memories.
Growing up in Ballymoney - by John Pinkerton
Growing up in Ballymoney I was always aware of the characters of the town such as Mickey Mallin, Lindsay McAulay and Whalebone Kennedy. There were others who I can visualise, such as the fish man (“Herrin’ alive! Herrin’ alive!”) whose names I either never knew or have long since forgotten. There is one character, however, who I can recall very vividly and that was Robert John Wallace aka Bobby Jack.
Bobby Jack, for he was never known by his proper name or by either Bobby or Jack but always Bobby Jack, lived in one of the bungalows in Eastermeade Gardens and I used to see him regularly on my way to and from school. The houses in Eastermeade Gardens were probably built just before or just after the War and I have no idea where he lived prior to that.
My parents were married in November 1939 and for the first five years of their married life they lived in one of the three sets of semi-detached houses on the Portrush Road. Even though at that time those houses were effectively out in the country they did have their bin emptied every week. I doubt that the service was provided by the council for their bin was emptied by none other than Bobby Jack with his horse and cart. Where the contents of his cart ultimately ended up is another mystery but I wouldn’t put it past Bobby Jack to have resorted to the odd spot of fly-tipping.
I used to encounter Bobby Jack when I was going home from school for lunch. He walked with a peculiar gait, what would be referred to in these parts as a “hilch.” It was as if he had a wooden leg or else one of legs wouldn’t bend properly. He always wore a collarless shirt with a neck scarf and a flat cap, for all the world like the cartoon character Andy Capp in the Daily Mirror. When I would see him he was generally heading for the Diamond where he would hold intellectual tête-à-têtes with his fellow drinkers. Occasionally I would vary my route home after school and go via Townhead Street and High Street and more often than not Bobby Jack would be outside the Diamond Bar the worse for the drink. Just how much the worse he was for the drink would depend upon how near it was to pension day and how late I was coming home from school...
Bobby Jack, for he was never known by his proper name or by either Bobby or Jack but always Bobby Jack, lived in one of the bungalows in Eastermeade Gardens and I used to see him regularly on my way to and from school. The houses in Eastermeade Gardens were probably built just before or just after the War and I have no idea where he lived prior to that.
My parents were married in November 1939 and for the first five years of their married life they lived in one of the three sets of semi-detached houses on the Portrush Road. Even though at that time those houses were effectively out in the country they did have their bin emptied every week. I doubt that the service was provided by the council for their bin was emptied by none other than Bobby Jack with his horse and cart. Where the contents of his cart ultimately ended up is another mystery but I wouldn’t put it past Bobby Jack to have resorted to the odd spot of fly-tipping.
I used to encounter Bobby Jack when I was going home from school for lunch. He walked with a peculiar gait, what would be referred to in these parts as a “hilch.” It was as if he had a wooden leg or else one of legs wouldn’t bend properly. He always wore a collarless shirt with a neck scarf and a flat cap, for all the world like the cartoon character Andy Capp in the Daily Mirror. When I would see him he was generally heading for the Diamond where he would hold intellectual tête-à-têtes with his fellow drinkers. Occasionally I would vary my route home after school and go via Townhead Street and High Street and more often than not Bobby Jack would be outside the Diamond Bar the worse for the drink. Just how much the worse he was for the drink would depend upon how near it was to pension day and how late I was coming home from school...
What I remember is - by Marion McDowell
What I remember is an old stone built farmhouse bleak on the outside, spartan on the inside. There were outbuildings to the side: a byre, a pig house and a stable. Further down the yard was the barn, a large open building with a hayloft above.
There were two horses, Bob and Bess, gentle giants. How I loved to be in the stable when Jim fed and groomed them; the pungent smell assails my nostrils now as I recall the dark interior, the gentle snorts of the animals, the warmth of their breath on the chill air and Jim panting from his labours with brush and curry comb. They were his pride and joy.
I followed Sammy around the yard as he did his chores; feeding the hens and ducks, and carrying swill mixed by Nancy, in a wooden pail, to the greedy pigs who snarled and snapped to get the best position as the swill slopped into the long trough.
The home had little by way of comforts with a stone flagged floor in the kitchen, an open fire on the hearth over which a large pot was always suspended. A blackened teapot sat in the coals beside the even blacker kettle and it was from this that Nancy replenished the tea pot so that if a neighbour called in they would be handed a cup of a black, treacly substance which was stewed tea. I don’t know if the pot was ever emptied, I never saw it done.
On the shelves of the white wood dresser stood Nancy’s treasured Willow Pattern plates and bowls.They had come from her mother as a wedding present.
A scrubbed table and four chairs and in one corner a settle bed with its back to the wall This is where I sat when I was in the house wedged into a corner beside piles of old newspapers, my legs not reaching the floor.
On the blackened mantel piece stood a clock which ticked loudly and beside it the large key used to wind it up, a ritual performed by Jim on a weekly basis.
Bare wooden stairs led to the first floor but this was forbidden to me and seemed as mysterious as Aladdin’s Cave It was up those stairs that Jim might be persuaded to go if some of our neighbours had gathered of a winters evening...
There were two horses, Bob and Bess, gentle giants. How I loved to be in the stable when Jim fed and groomed them; the pungent smell assails my nostrils now as I recall the dark interior, the gentle snorts of the animals, the warmth of their breath on the chill air and Jim panting from his labours with brush and curry comb. They were his pride and joy.
I followed Sammy around the yard as he did his chores; feeding the hens and ducks, and carrying swill mixed by Nancy, in a wooden pail, to the greedy pigs who snarled and snapped to get the best position as the swill slopped into the long trough.
The home had little by way of comforts with a stone flagged floor in the kitchen, an open fire on the hearth over which a large pot was always suspended. A blackened teapot sat in the coals beside the even blacker kettle and it was from this that Nancy replenished the tea pot so that if a neighbour called in they would be handed a cup of a black, treacly substance which was stewed tea. I don’t know if the pot was ever emptied, I never saw it done.
On the shelves of the white wood dresser stood Nancy’s treasured Willow Pattern plates and bowls.They had come from her mother as a wedding present.
A scrubbed table and four chairs and in one corner a settle bed with its back to the wall This is where I sat when I was in the house wedged into a corner beside piles of old newspapers, my legs not reaching the floor.
On the blackened mantel piece stood a clock which ticked loudly and beside it the large key used to wind it up, a ritual performed by Jim on a weekly basis.
Bare wooden stairs led to the first floor but this was forbidden to me and seemed as mysterious as Aladdin’s Cave It was up those stairs that Jim might be persuaded to go if some of our neighbours had gathered of a winters evening...
Now, as it happened our street - by Mary McCusker
Now, as it happened our street, like others, had one or two houses where the neighbours gathered in the evenings for a bit of ‘craic’. In one of these houses lived three daughters who loved the dancing.
The woman of this house ensured the teapot was always full and on the draw, ready to fill a mug of tea. As the evening went on and the teapot was topped up and kept on the draw the tea became like tar. Still the women said it was the best tea in the town. The gossip was disclosed in strictest confidence, never a question of Fake News in those days. For the men there was always a stout to wet the whistle.
There was a dance every Friday night in the Town Hall. On the dance nights the excitement aroused by the daughters was smothering. The women would stop their gossip and reminisce about their dancing nights, waiting in anticipation for the daughters to enter the kitchen in their grandeur. The chattering and laughter didn’t prevent the men sharing the latest news in the town.
“Did you hear the latest about Hen Duck?”
“No what’s he up to now?”
“Well you know the local hotel has new owners?”
“Aye.”
“Well if Hen Duck didn’t push his fish cart up to the back door, ring the bell and ask to speak to the mistress. The maid asked him what he wanted and, as he tells the story he told her to mind her own business. Anyway, the wife of the owner appeared at the door.
“Well now sir, how can I help you?”
Hen Duck, in his usual polite military voice, the one he uses when there’s a con on the way says, ‘Mam, I want to welcome you and your good man, not forgetting family, to our town, and to wish you all the best in this fine establishment.’
‘Well thank you and what is your name?’
‘My name is William Cleary and my business is selling the freshest fish for miles around. Now, on my cart today I have a fine big fresh salmon caught in the river Bann this fine morning. You mam, will find it a worthy fish to put on your menu this Friday morning when the Roman Catholic farmers come from the market into your establishment for their dinner. I’m sure you know they won’t eat meat on Fridays.’
‘Indeed I do sir. How much are you asking for the salmon?’
‘Well, as a welcoming gesture, I will give it to you for four guineas instead of five.’
The money was paid and the fish wrapped in newspaper was handed over and Hen Duck took to his beaters out the yard.
The wife couldn’t wait to show her husband the bargain and called him down to the kitchen. The newspaper was removed and there was the fish, no head no tail ready for the oven. By that a workman came through the kitchen.
‘Is that not a fine salmon my wife has just bought?’
‘I’m afraid sir, your wife has been hoodwinked. Yon’s a dirty big Pike!” and he made a quick exit before any more questions could be asked about the so called fishmonger, William Cleary...
The woman of this house ensured the teapot was always full and on the draw, ready to fill a mug of tea. As the evening went on and the teapot was topped up and kept on the draw the tea became like tar. Still the women said it was the best tea in the town. The gossip was disclosed in strictest confidence, never a question of Fake News in those days. For the men there was always a stout to wet the whistle.
There was a dance every Friday night in the Town Hall. On the dance nights the excitement aroused by the daughters was smothering. The women would stop their gossip and reminisce about their dancing nights, waiting in anticipation for the daughters to enter the kitchen in their grandeur. The chattering and laughter didn’t prevent the men sharing the latest news in the town.
“Did you hear the latest about Hen Duck?”
“No what’s he up to now?”
“Well you know the local hotel has new owners?”
“Aye.”
“Well if Hen Duck didn’t push his fish cart up to the back door, ring the bell and ask to speak to the mistress. The maid asked him what he wanted and, as he tells the story he told her to mind her own business. Anyway, the wife of the owner appeared at the door.
“Well now sir, how can I help you?”
Hen Duck, in his usual polite military voice, the one he uses when there’s a con on the way says, ‘Mam, I want to welcome you and your good man, not forgetting family, to our town, and to wish you all the best in this fine establishment.’
‘Well thank you and what is your name?’
‘My name is William Cleary and my business is selling the freshest fish for miles around. Now, on my cart today I have a fine big fresh salmon caught in the river Bann this fine morning. You mam, will find it a worthy fish to put on your menu this Friday morning when the Roman Catholic farmers come from the market into your establishment for their dinner. I’m sure you know they won’t eat meat on Fridays.’
‘Indeed I do sir. How much are you asking for the salmon?’
‘Well, as a welcoming gesture, I will give it to you for four guineas instead of five.’
The money was paid and the fish wrapped in newspaper was handed over and Hen Duck took to his beaters out the yard.
The wife couldn’t wait to show her husband the bargain and called him down to the kitchen. The newspaper was removed and there was the fish, no head no tail ready for the oven. By that a workman came through the kitchen.
‘Is that not a fine salmon my wife has just bought?’
‘I’m afraid sir, your wife has been hoodwinked. Yon’s a dirty big Pike!” and he made a quick exit before any more questions could be asked about the so called fishmonger, William Cleary...
Orr Tongue - by Marion Mc Dowell
Ye can whammel yer buckets an cowp the stanes,
Ye can feed panada tae the weans,
But always min the tak and rhymes
An keep oor words frae bygone times.
Ye can clart the moul an scale the dung,
Ye can milk yer key an fire yer lum,
But niver forget the wae we spoke,
Our tongue is guid for a oor folk.
Ye can hoak for spuds an ginnel for troot,
Ye can bake yer fadge or a sode farl,
Always in min o times we knowed
To take us forit wae iz alang life’s road.
A cup o tae, a piece an jam,
A bit o kitchen, maybe ham,
We knowed hard times sae lang ago,
Its nae lake noo sae much to show.
So tell the weans aboot aul times,
O peat fires and brochen an stane an lime.
Keep it in min for aul times sake
So into the moro we can tak.
Our tongue in pride and honour baul,
Our past to keep for aye an aul,
Sa think lang for the guid aul ways
Tae keep them in min for aye yer days.
Ye can feed panada tae the weans,
But always min the tak and rhymes
An keep oor words frae bygone times.
Ye can clart the moul an scale the dung,
Ye can milk yer key an fire yer lum,
But niver forget the wae we spoke,
Our tongue is guid for a oor folk.
Ye can hoak for spuds an ginnel for troot,
Ye can bake yer fadge or a sode farl,
Always in min o times we knowed
To take us forit wae iz alang life’s road.
A cup o tae, a piece an jam,
A bit o kitchen, maybe ham,
We knowed hard times sae lang ago,
Its nae lake noo sae much to show.
So tell the weans aboot aul times,
O peat fires and brochen an stane an lime.
Keep it in min for aul times sake
So into the moro we can tak.
Our tongue in pride and honour baul,
Our past to keep for aye an aul,
Sa think lang for the guid aul ways
Tae keep them in min for aye yer days.
The Good Room - by Brendan Gillan
Only used for special occasions,
The family gathers in the good room.
Songs and stories by the old piano,
Keys polished for the night but sadly out of tune,
Drinks sipped, smoke rising to the damp corners of the ceiling.
Glasses clinking, laughter and chattering voices.
All quiet for the singer.
'Jonny Mac Eldoo and Magee and Me',
Eyes closed and throat warbling Into the almost silence,
Uncle Tanic sang,
With his one foot tapping rhythm
And then the cheer, the claps and calls for the next performer.
Sandwiches and pastries were passed around
Plates of crumbs returned to the dark pantry.
Many gone now,
Uncles, aunts, cousins,
Just faces in photos of family albums.
An old song heard perchance on the radio,
flashes my memory
Back to the good room,
in the old farmhouse
at Enach Cross.
The family gathers in the good room.
Songs and stories by the old piano,
Keys polished for the night but sadly out of tune,
Drinks sipped, smoke rising to the damp corners of the ceiling.
Glasses clinking, laughter and chattering voices.
All quiet for the singer.
'Jonny Mac Eldoo and Magee and Me',
Eyes closed and throat warbling Into the almost silence,
Uncle Tanic sang,
With his one foot tapping rhythm
And then the cheer, the claps and calls for the next performer.
Sandwiches and pastries were passed around
Plates of crumbs returned to the dark pantry.
Many gone now,
Uncles, aunts, cousins,
Just faces in photos of family albums.
An old song heard perchance on the radio,
flashes my memory
Back to the good room,
in the old farmhouse
at Enach Cross.