Understanding a beautiful mind and special gifts
Fr Jason Murphy remembers a beautiful young mind in his own inimitable way in his column Let the Busy World Be Hushed...
The light of the summer sun shone its rays through the large window in the south facing gable of their home, illumining the kitchen in which they sat peacefully, undisturbed by the passing cars on the road to Ballyhaise.
The rose outside the window was resplendent in its pink blossom, heralding the long days of summer and the visits of family from Dublin, Cardiff and London throughout the weeks of the months to come. Activity and laughter would again take hold of this quiet corner of the world; cooking for many, tents erected, barbecues and sing songs; their silence suspended. The ordinariness of their routine would be replaced by comings and goings, the making of beds and tidying up, much talk and laughter for weeks on end and, as quickly as they had descended, they would each depart and the tents would be folded up for yet another year and peace again would take hold.
And there the two would return to the quiet of their routine, just him and her, as it had been for all these years, reading as she sat back on her sofa, the Ireland’s Own; he bent over the kitchen table perusing the pages of the Celt, every detail of local news and every football match up and down the county. She would make tea and cut a slice of brack and put it on plate beside him as he read, simple actions that showed she cared for him deeply, her constant companion and indeed her greatest worry when she’d be gone.
They enjoyed the silence of these days, the undisturbed harmony of their everyday, his walk to Donohoes of Ballyhaise, up to the One Tree and over the Bridge and on in by the College, taking a lift with whoever stopped on his way, a few words of greeting, a little chat, perhaps a cigar to smoke upon the ditch beneath the tall Beech trees and while away a few moments until he began his walk home and another lift and a chat, this time the champions league, the world snooker championships, Ronnie O'Sullivan, the Cavan game the Sunday previous, recounting the details of the match to each and all.
A little news to tell on his return, chatting to this one and that which was contained within the pages of the Daily Star he carried under his oxter and there together they lived this most precious life, a life contained in the midst of the ordinary where it might seem to others that nothing really happened but, therein, they were supremely content.
To enter in through the door and to bid hello was to interrupt a holy silence but, nevertheless, you were welcomed, big smiles, warm words and his open handshake. He loved to welcome a visitor calling, to tell of all his news, the people he met, the memories of games played as a young lad and, he talked, his mother’s hearing aids whistled, ‘Arragh whisht Declan for a minute as I can’t hear what it is that you’re saying’ and, at her command he shrugged his shoulders and smiled, knowing her all too well.
They were lifetime companions and, as she grew older and more frail, she worried about him all the time - his care and welfare her main concern.
He had been a little different to his siblings as he grew, somewhat more gifted and talented in ways, a foreseeing teacher in national school suggesting to her that a class in the De La Salle school in Cavan, which catered for children with additional needs, would be a better fit for him and there, under the care of the great Anne Jenkins, he flourished and blossomed.
Declan was in fact exceptionally gifted; having a mathematical and a reasoning mind quite unlike another, being able to identify patterns in all things, be it on the chess board or on the snooker table and could foresee in his mind the path the white ball, hit at a certain angle, might travel to pot the black; anticipating the moves of the chess pieces on the board, known to have kept six games of chess going at the one-time to occupy his mind.
He had what the film of the same name called a ‘beautiful mind’, a mind that was different to others, a gift misunderstood in the Ireland of the day, neurodiverse we might call it today. He gained the nickname of Dixie after the great Everton goal scorer Dixie Dean for his prowess on the field and loved recalling the details of games played in a Ballyhaise league or in a World Cup, FA Cup and indeed an All-Ireland final from many years ago. In his early 20s, he suffered a mental health crisis, the medication and treatment he received in the years proceeding quelling his mind somewhat, but in saying that his happy and friendly nature shone through.
Thereafter the two came to depend on each other, mother and son, living quietly in that corner of the world following the routine of each and every day, new friends and support workers in Rehabcare, his daily walks to Ballyhaise, listening intently to matches on Northern Sound, reading the Celt and the Ireland’s Own, games of postal chess across Europe as a card was sent back and forth by return of post, each opponent making their move in a game that lasted a year and more.
He watched as his mother, a bright and intelligent woman grow weaker through the ravages of old age and he recognised that life for him too was changing; the time was ebbing closer when she would no longer be at his side and, when she died just over a year ago, the house donned a silence he had heretofore not known for she was not there reading the paper, or making him the mug of tea and, though his siblings rallied around to support and care for him, his health began to fail.
As the sun shone its rays, in the days that are passed, through the large south facing window of their home and the rose, pink in colour was resplendent in its bloom, he too passed away to be with her; no need for her to worry for all that time.
Once again his beautiful mind regained its radiance and all was once again made anew as the sun shone brightly and the roses bloomed and the cars passed by for the One Tree on the road where once he walked on his way to Ballyhaise.
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