The Wheelbarrow

Spring came, not with daffodils or birds singing. No, it was heralded by The Da coming home with old unsold newspapers. He collected these from newsagents far and wide the week before. Spring came Saturday afternoon.

On the fateful morning, The Ma conscripted us for work. Every movable item between the front and back doors was banished upstairs. The newspapers were then laid down into a thick blanket covering the floor.

Dear Lord, his year, let there be enough – she prayed.

The Da arrived home from work about noon. A man on a mission.

He Went out back.Returning with an enormous, heavy agricultural wheelbarrow. A rugged beast. Built by his brother, a hurley maker from East Clare. This was his link to his farming heritage, a piece of himself. His pride and joy.

He, and his barrow, took up position outside the house, patiently, waiting.

The Ma took up position behind the net curtain, mortified. Praying to the lord that ‘it’ wouldn’t arrive.

But it always did

The clip-clop of the horse echoed down Poddle Park Road. Behind it, a wooden cart piled high with fresh, steaming horse manure.

Quickly tipped onto the street.

The Da rolled up his sleeves, a rare smile lighting up his face.

He spat on his palms.

Grabbed his dungfork, and started loading the barrow to overflowing.

He worked the heavy precarious load back through the house, depositing load after load onto the small vegetable patch behind.

The barrow’s wooden wheel quickly wheel grew thick with clinging moist dung.

The newspaper carpet became a soggy, brown, squelching mess.

And so, Spring arrived at the Leamy household

Year after year, the same ritual, the same tension and stony silence.

Year after year, Ma’s prayers went unanswered.

Until…

Well, until, one year the Lord did intervene

The farmer died.

His lands were sold to a developer

And the Leamy’s moved to a new Semi D on that same old farm.

Dad’s pride and joy was left behind, outside the terraced house, sitting forlorn on the footpath to be collected by the binmen – the next Wednesday afternoon. History forgotten.