WordSmith: My ‘Dear Johnnie’ letters
Gerard Smith recalls a wonderful childhood memory and paints a vivid picture in his latest WordSmith column. It's certain to bring a lump to your throat...
We all know them, that old man or woman who never married. They lived at the end of the lane or atop the hill; they always had a kind word, a gentle smile, and your brief chat with them in passing was probably the only conversation they’d have all week.
Now, their houses are long gone, yet they’re still around and living in that distant corner of your mind’s eye. Occasionally something may happen that pulls them back to front of mind. Like recently, a woman asked me where I lived. When I told her she looked wistful, “It’s all changed out that way.” As she walked away, my mind wandered and up popped my old friend Johnnie to say, “How-ar-ya, young fella?”
Walk with me, I’ll bring you back to Johnnie’s. We’ll start from The Orchard Pub, which was an actual orchard back in Johnnie’s day. Continue up the Cootehill road, on past Breifne College. Under the bypass bridge, stop and imagine it then – there was no school, only woodland; the road narrow, and to your left was a lane with a steep ascent. At the pinnacle of the hill was an overgrown boreen, it led to Johnnie’s house. It was summer, I was seven. I’d been rambling for hours and entered an orchard near Johnnie’s. As I sucked the remnants of juice from the core of a stolen apple, I knew why the St Pat's boy’s risked reprimand to feast on this forbidden fruit. I reached for another but swiftly retracted when I realised I was not alone. I feared I was to be punished for taking what was not mine.
Johnnie emerged from the foliage along with his donkey. He smiled at me – one single tooth in the bottom of his mouth stood like a lone iceberg in a sea of black; it made me laugh. “What has you laughing?” he asked. I respectfully stopped giggling and said, “Hello.”
His gummy grin lit up his ravaged face, black with soot. It was a hot day, yet he wore a suit, complete with shirt and tie, fastened tight at the neck. His clothes fascinated me, I looked at the shirt collar, I saw the aged-fabric had fused to his skin. Constant wear had glued the clothes to his body.
He fumbled in his pocket, “Can you read?” he asked, pulling me from my private appraisal of his apparel. “Yes, I’m a good reader for my age.” He handed me a letter, “Read this out for me, will ya.” I took it, “Can’t you read?” I asked. He nodded, “I can, but it’s nice to hear someone say the words.” It was joined-up lettering, I had to concentrate carefully to decipher the words.
Eventually, I saw them and read aloud a simple piece of correspondence from a far-flown sister to her much loved brother. Once finished, I looked at him; his head tilted sideways, his smile stretched wide, yet a tear streamed down his face.
Being a child, I didn’t understand his emotional response; the smile so at odds with his tears. So, I just stared.
That summer, I became Johnnie’s-reader, a job I cherished, dearly. Despite our age difference, we shared a common bond: a deep love for our respective sisters.
Johnnie died when I was 17. One lunch time I returned to Johnnie’s. I looked at what was once a fine house, time had blackened its walls. Through cracks, great swathes of ivy snaked over every surface, slithering into every nook and cranny, threatening to consume the house entirely.
Inside, I was hit by the pungent, sweet and sooty smell of him. He lived in one tiny room at the back of the house, I was compelled to go there.
That’s where I found them, on top of a sooty-old-draw – the letters. As a teenager, I had a misty-eyed emotional response to them, I didn’t want them lost, I put them in my pocket and returned to school.
The bypass razed Johnnie’s homestead to the ground. But he’s not lost; I still have him in his sister’s letters. They remind me of the gentle old man who smiled and cried when I read aloud to him. And, I hope he lives on for a moment more, in this column.]
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