Back to school brings fond memories – McSherry’s Musings

“He‘s gone to school, wee Hughie, an’ him not four, sure I saw the fright was in him when he left the door. But he took a hand o’ Denny, an’ a hand o’ Dan, wi’ Joe’s owld coat upon him, Och, the poor wee man!”

– ‘Wee Hughie’ by Elizabeth Shane

Two years ago this column made the transformation from ‘Rants’ to ‘Musings’ as life called for reflection rather than howling at the moon. The Rants served their therapeutic purpose, while there was enough hysteria with Trump and Johnston in charge… and loud Covid conspiracy theorists everywhere.

In recent weeks, it has been difficult not to return to type – that is, rant – as foodbanks multiply, energy prices rocket, and Tory politicians sneer down their privileged noses at the plebs while Stormont money is gridlocked.

At times, it feels like we have been rocketed back to the Maggie Thatcher (school milk snatcher) era, when unemployment tripled, childhood poverty soared to 30 per-cent, while overall poverty doubled. Ominously, Liz Truss, most likely to become Tory leader, sees herself as a latter day Thatcher. God help us.

Amidst all the doom and gloom come stories that lift the heart, like Dungannon teenagers, Abbey O’Neill and Rebecca Graham, who, last week, swam 400 lengths of the local pool for a children’s cancer charity, or young McDoodles, AKA Shane McDonald, who plans to run the Dublin Marathon to raise funds to buy his dear friend, former Tyrone paralympic swimmer, Johnny Cummings, a much needed mobility car.

“People are decent people,” Bernadette once said.

Last week, footage was broadcast of a distraught dinner lady who had to refuse food to children in the queue. She said, “I didn’t take the job on to starve children. Something has to give, and I just don’t think it should be children’s spirits.”

The interview was cut short as the lady wept.

Again, stories of charity emerge to restore one’s faith and hope. In similar vein Coalisland Primate Dixon Memorial Primary School has announced a raft of initiatives to help families deal with the cost of living crisis. The statement from the school began, “We remain very conscious of the financial pressures families are under and how these are very likely to get more severe in the months ahead…”

It includes help with school uniforms, all activities, including music tuition free-of-charge; fruit for all, every day of the year; early morning care and supervision, again free-of-charge; toast every morning throughout winter; and free hot dinners for all in January.

Knowing the folk involved, I’m not surprised. Very proud… not surprised.

All a long time ago, I have very fond memories of the Primate Dixon School – so-called after Bishop Joseph Dixon (1806-1866), born in Coalisland, who became Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland.

The journey home from school was like the Warriors riding the subways back to Coney Island in the 1970s movie, as gangs from throughout the town lay in wait everywhere. However, the hours in the school were warm and inviting – not least, because of Master Barney Herron, a wonderful teacher who passed away earlier this year.

He regaled us with stories of local characters and knew the families of every boy. He was our first football coach in P7 as, in those days, the first underage group in the clubs was at Under 13.

I once forgot the wee boots, and asked him whether I could walk home and get them. Master Herron replied, “As long as I don’t see you”. I naively asked again, “So can I?” to which he wryly smiled, “As long as I don’t see you”.

The penny dropped, and the boots were got.

Trying not to giggle in P5 as we learnt ‘The Duck’s Ditty’ was not easy, while Miss Kelly glared menacingly like the emperor in the ‘Bigus Dickus’ scene in Monty Python’s ‘Life of Brian’.

One of the most bizarre episodes happened during a class test. Ten subjects were marked out of ten to give the overall mark. Sums, religion, an essay, art… so we had to recite a poem. I monotoned my way through ‘All in the April Evening,’ by Katharine Tynan Hinkson, with the enthusiasm of a boy who’d have been as happy serenading a lamb dinner… ‘All in the April morning, April airs were abroad, the sheep with their little lambs passed me by on the road…’

Then my mate, Mickey, stood in front of the class and steamrolled through, ‘Up the long ladder and down the short rope to hell with King Billy, and God bless the Pope, if that doesn’t do, we’ll chop him in two, and send him to hell with the red, white and blue!”

These days, it would likely have been recorded on an iPhone, followed by social media outrage meltdown.

I was only nine summers, and looked on incredulous; however the teacher never batted an eyelid, and awarded three out of ten!

Not that I was so clever. After missing a day off with a tummy bug, a few lads tipped me off to the spelling test. I was smug knowing that one of the ten words was ‘government’, but too blasé to check the spelling, and so wrote, ‘g o v e r m e n t… n!’

Speaking of government: Such a cruel outfit. Long live Coalisland Primate Dixon Memorial School!