Uncle Mike

Uncle Mike

My uncle Mike is a unique character in many ways. He could best be described as a mild mannered tornado, with a huge smile. He has his own particular way of looking at the world, and some of the things he gets up to would leave you shaking your head in amazement. Uncle Mike always had one scheme or other brewing, but things didn’t often go to plan.

Mike's greatest gift is his ability to take anything that the world throws at him with a laugh and a smart comment.  If Uncle Mike had been on the Titanic, he would have said “What’s all the fuss lads, sure tis only a bit of water.” So, as an introduction to this larger than life fella, I thought I would tell you about the time he went to buy a Christmas tree.

Back in the eighties, Mike had been married to Rita for about seven years. They had three young tearaways, who seemed determined to follow in their father’s wild footsteps. I don't know how Rita stayed sane, she was either a saint or had a huge stash of Valium someplace. The trail of destruction, that was Mike's life, was rapidly being added to, by his three little helpers. One shared room in Granny Begley's house could no longer cope with the madness, they needed a place of their own. That was why they moved, lock stock and barrel, five miles, to the neighbouring village of Killblany.

Let me tell you, Ireland was a tough place to live in, during the recession hit eighties, and rural Ireland was positively spartan. Uncle Mike was a mighty wheeler and dealer, always on the lookout for a bargain, but he was too soft by far, to ever make any money from his schemes. Mostly, Mike’s job consisted of driving his rusty old JCB on building sites. That is, whenever there was work to be had. 

Like most Irish men, Uncle Mike loved a good knees-up and was the life and soul of any party, always quick with a joke, or a song belted out with gusto. Within weeks of moving to Killblany, Mike had made friends with nearly everyone in the village. There wasn’t a table in the place that hadn’t shaded his feet, while he drank bucket loads of tea over a good chat. When Paul, the teenage son of a widowed neighbour, needed a favour, Uncle Mike was only too happy to help. Paul wanted to get a Christmas tree as a surprise for his mother, and who better to rope in to help, than Mike.

At this time, Uncle Mike was driving a bright orange Renault C4 that had seen nearly half a million miles as a post van, before he picked it up in one of his famous deals. So it was, that two weeks before Christmas, on a frosty winter’s afternoon, Uncle Mike and his young sidekick coaxed the little van to life and went in search of a cheap tree. They vanished into the gloom, leaving an oily cloud of smoke trailing after them.

They ended up in Clonmel Town, which was packed with Christmas shoppers. It took them ages to even find a parking space, and that was only by a bit of luck. The amount of people out shopping was crazy, considering they times they were living in. Most weeks, the average family classified their needs into two main categories, can you eat it, or can you drink it? If you could not eat it or drink it - it was a luxury, and have you ever tried chewing on a Christmas tree? Uncle Mike thought that the place would be awash with the things. He imagined they’d be practically giving them away for free. As it turned out, there was only one man selling trees in the square, and thankfully, he had plenty left in the back of his truck. Uncle Mike waddled up to him, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to look as casual as possible.

“Well there, you-sir,” Mike said, in his sing song way. Uncle Mike had the worst memory, and he called everyone he ever met “You Sir,” the two words rolled into one, “Yousir.”

“Well, lads,” said the man selling the Christmas trees.

“What are you asking for a tree?” asked Mike, nudging one with his foot.

“Fifteen Pounds,” said the man.

“Fifteen! Are they gold plated, or what?” Mike laughed.

“Fifteen, and that is a fair price, look at the size of them,” said the man, holding one out, to be fully appreciated.

“Aye, grand size, but look at the needles on it. It's half dead.”

“It’s not, tis only cut fresh this morning,” said the trader, angrily.

“Twenty-five for three of em,” said Mike, spitting in his hand and shoving it forward. The man looked at Mike's hand like it was the sweaty armpit of a leper.

“Forty and that is the best I can do.”

“Twenty-five and you’re lucky to get it. The hills are covered with the things,” said Mike.

“Forty quid, or piss off!”

“No need for that,” said Mike.

“Take it or leave it.”

“Thirty.”

“Feck off, you chancers,” said the trader, throwing the tree into the back of the truck.

“Suit yourself,” said Mike, with a shrug, and walked away with his neighbour’s son trailing behind him.

"What about the tree?” asked the young lad, when they were out of earshot.

“Don't worry about that fella, there will be loads trees this time of year,” said Mike, but there weren't. They looked everywhere they could think of, but no one else was selling Christmas trees. 

"Thanks for trying, Mike, I couldn't afford fifteen quid anyway. We might as well head for home."

"Don't be talking like that you-sir, we came for a Christmas tree, we’re going home with one. There is more than one way to skin a cat, you know." Mike threw the van into gear and left town in a haze of blue smoke.

***

It was getting dark, when they pushed the overheating old motor up the mountain road. The bushes rubbed both sides of the van, long before they reached the top of the forestry road. It wasn’t long before they had to park up the C4 and make the rest of the journey on foot. Uncle Mike got a rusty old bushman from the back of the van, and walked away into the undergrowth, with young Paul tripping along blindly behind him. They had been walking for fifteen minutes when the sky clouded over killing whatever little light the moon was providing. They were as good as blind.

“We’ll never find a tree, now,” Paul said.

“Jesus. Hold that,” Mike said, shoving the saw into Paul's arms. Uncle Mike swung himself up into the lower branches of a massive tree. He was surprisingly nimble, for a man that thought a triple helping of dinner was just a nibble.

“What are you doing?” Paul called.

“Look at the top of this one. That will make a grand Christmas tree.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

"Hold on there,” said Mike, leaning down to grab the saw out of the young lad’s hands. He clambered up the tree like a chunky, thirty year old monkey. Soon he was sawing like a mad man, eighty feet above the ground. Paul could just make out his shadow, against the lighter sky. The top of the tree came crashing into the undergrowth nearby, scaring the life out of Paul. He could only just make out the shape of Uncle Mike, swinging around in the sky, and laughing like a teenager.  

“That’s fantastic,” Paul shouted up, when he pulled the decapitated treetop from the brambles.

“I told you we'd get a Christmas tree.” laughed Uncle Mike.

“You sure did, Mike, come back down now, will yea.”

“What about me and Mrs O’Brien?"

"You’re going to kill yourself."

"Rubbish. I did this all the time, as a kid," Uncle Mike said, starting to sway the tree top, over and back.

“Come down, Mike.”

"Shush, you old woman!” Mike shouted. It dawned on Paul, what Mike was going to do. He was trying to get the top of the tree to swing far enough over, so he could grab the top of the next tree.

“MIKE COME DOWN!”

“I am nearly there, one more swing.” Mike shouted, as he swished backwards and forwards, clutching what remained of the tree. With one final sway, Mike launched himself into the dark night sky.

Uncle Mike grabbed a branch, but it never stood a chance against a flying eighteen stone Irishman. The branch snapped like the dry twig it was, and Mike sailed past the trunk of the tree, into the darkness beyond. Uncle Mike whistled through the air before landing with a sickening impact in a briar patch, a few feet away. Paul felt the ground tremble under the impact, and he fought his way through the undergrowth, finding Mike laying spread-eagled on his back. He was awake, but the wind had been knocked out of him good and proper. Mike managed to take a few strangled breaths. 

“You okay, Mike?”

“No, fairly sure I’m not. I felt something go squish,” Mike managed to say, between shallow painful breaths.

"Squish?"

"Yea, inside," he said, pointing a finger at his ample belly.

“Can you stand up?” Paul asked. Mike strained, but nothing moved, his face a picture of agony. Uncle Mike's knuckles cracked as he squeezed the life out of the branch he was still holding.

“I think I am in big trouble, Paul," he said, realising that he couldn’t move his legs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” said the young lad, walking in circles.

“I’ll go for help,” Paul said, running off in the general direction of the van.

"Wait! Ouch!” Mike wheezed, squeezing the branch to control the pain. Paul came back and knelt beside him, waiting for the pain to subside.

“Don’t leave me here,” pleaded Mike. Paul was in a blind panic, he was on the verge of running off again, when Uncle Mike asked, “Where are we?”

“How do I know?”

“How the feck will you find me again?”

“I don’t think I should move you.”

“It will be okay, you have to get me back to the van," Mike said, as reassuringly as he could. 

"You're too heavy, Mike. I can't lift you."

"You're going to have to drag me." Mike winced, as he lifted his arms, allowing Paul to get a grip of him.

"I don't think we should do this." Paul said, once more.

"It'll be okay, trust me." 

Paul heaved backwards, and Mike slid out of the bushes. Uncle Mike stifled a groan of pain, concentrating on squeezing the branch he still held in a steely grip. Every tug was agony. Brambles ripped at Mike's skin and clothes, as he was dragged back in the direction of the van. An excruciating hour later, they arrived, it felt like a lifetime for them both. Uncle Mike was a sweaty mess, as pale as a ghost. Paul didn’t look much better.

"It feels like my guts are hanging out,” Mike said, when he got his breath back.

"You look okay to me."

"It hurts like hell. I can't move my legs."

"I'll get you into the van," Paul said, opening the back doors. He got Uncle Mike’s arm over his shoulder, and heaved with all his might. Mike landed in the back of the back of the van, with a thump.

"Oww, Jesus, take it easy. I am not a bag of spuds."

"Sorry, Mike."

The little orange van rattled down the winding rutted road. From the back of the van came grunts of pain, each time they bounced over a rough patch.

When Paul swung the van onto the main road, Mike called out from the back, "Hey, Paul. You better turn back. I think you missed a pothole." 

"If you don't like my driving, why not get out and walk," said Paul, with a smile on his face. The way he looked at it, if Mike was still able to crack a joke, he couldn’t be that bad.

"You’re a right funny man, right funny," said Mike, from somewhere behind him.

"I don't know what you're complaining about, I was the one doing all the pulling and dragging. You were just lying there, you lazy lump." Just then the van hit yet another hole in the road. The bounce caused Mike to cry out. Paul felt bad for teasing him, so he drove on as carefully as possible.

***



Paul pulled the van into Dr Carey's driveway and jumped out, leaving the engine running. He ran to the front door and rapped the knocker, quick and hard. The lights came on in the hall, and the door opened. Mr Carey was standing there, a newspaper in his hand.

"Is Doctor Carey there, it’s an emergency!"

"Mary," Mr Carey called, and a grey haired lady appeared from the kitchen, wearing yellow washing up gloves.

"Hello Paul, is everything alright?"

"It's Mike Begley, Dr Carey, he’s taken a fall and can't feel his legs."

"Where is he?" she asked, stripping off her marigold gloves.

"In the back of the van, doc."

"Bring my bag will you, dear," Doctor Carey said to her husband, following Paul to the back of the orange van.

The doors creaked open, and there was Uncle Mike, stretched out on the floor, where a Christmas tree should have been, still clutching a fir branch across his chest.

"Hi Doc, how you doing?" asked Mike.

"I think the question should be how are you, Mike. I heard you had a fall?"

"He fell off a -" started Paul, but Mike cut across him.

"A roof of a house, Doctor." Mike said, the look he gave Paul said, shush.

"Don't move from there, Mike, I am going to get a light to examine you." said Doctor Carey, going back inside her house.

"Why did you tell her you fell of a roof?" asked Paul

"We don't need every man, and his dog, knowing we were robbing the forestry, do we?"

Doctor Carey came back with her bag and a big red torch. She climbed into the back of the van and began examining Mike.

"I think it's my guts, Doc, I felt something go squish, when I hit the ground."

"Well, they are all still on the inside, Mike. That's a good start," she smiled at him. After ten minutes, she got out of the van.

"I can't tell how much damage you’ve done, Mike, but it is fairly clear that you have injured your spine. There could be internal organ damage. How high was this roof you fell from?"

"I would say - about the height of a telephone pole," wheezed Mike.

"That’s well over the height of a three story house, you’re lucky to be alive." said Doctor Carey, not looking one bit convinced by Mike’s story. "I am going to call an ambulance, it is too dangerous to move you again in this heap of junk."

"Is there really any need of that Doc, Betsey here is sensitive." Mike said, patting the floor of the van.

"Mike, one jolt and you may never walk again," Doctor Carey said, her voice grave and cold. She turned to Paul and said, "You had better run up and get Rita, someone will have to go with him, to Cork."

"You’re sending me to Cork?" shouted Mike, from the back of the van.

"We have to Mike, you might need surgery," she said.

"Jesus, that's great, Rita always wanted to go Christmas shopping in Cork, she will be delighted."

"It's not a shopping trip, Mike, this is serious." Doctor Carey snapped at him.

A quiet "Sorry" floated out of the back of the van, making Doctor Carey crack a huge smile. It was all too surreal. "Run on and get Rita, Paul." Doctor Carey said, again. As Paul turned to run down the driveway, Mike shouted out of the van.

"Tell her to bring my razor, and some clean clothes. Tell her not to forget the underpants. Remember the underpants, clean ones!"

"I’ll be back in a minute Mike," said Dr Carey.

"Did he hear me about the underpants," Mike asked, before she could leave.

"I am sure he did," she said, with a smile. As she walked away, she heard Mike saying to himself.

"Can’t be going to hospital without clean pants on."

From the house, Dr Carey called for an ambulance transfer to University Hospital Cork. She detailed spinal injuries, possible internal bleeding, and possible organ damage. After she hung up the phone, she wondered if she should have included possible brain trauma. No, she thought, Mike was about this mad all the time. As it turned out, the ambulance arrived before Rita did. Mike was being slid onto the back board, when a winded Rita looked in the back of the van.

"Holy God, Mike. What have you done to yourself?" she asked.

"I fell off the roof," Uncle Mike said, as his head was being wedged into a neck brace.

"What the blazes were you doing on a roof, I thought you were going to buy a Christmas tree for Paul's mother?"

"It’s a long story. I‘ll tell you later," Mike said, going very red in his face.

Dr Carey was standing outside the van, and laughed to herself. It all made sense now. Up to now, she had been baffled by the branch Mike was holding when he arrived. He was still very reluctant to let it go of it. Only when she said she would give him a shot for the pain, would he release the thing.

"Did you bring the underpants?" Mike asked.

"I did, two pairs."

"Two pairs, we’re not going on holidays, woman, just a quick trip to the hospital." At this comment, even the paramedics laughed. When Mike was settled into the stretcher, Dr Carey gave him a morphine shot, for the pain.

"What CC was that, Doctor?” asked one of the ambulance men. When she told him, he looked surprised, and said "That's quite a bit."

Dr Carey nodded and said, "I know, but he is a horse of a man."

As the ambulance doors were closing, Dr Carey could hear Mike asking the driver what his name was, and if he was anything to the O'Briens up near Grange.

The ambulance crew would later tell the staff in the hospital, it was one of the strangest call outs they’d ever been on. For a guy with such terrible injuries, Mike didn’t stop talking once. Halfway along the sixty mile journey, he treated them to a couple of jokes and even a song. The paramedic turned to the driver after a while, and said in a low voice.

"Do you think he is having a reaction to the morphine?"

Rita, who had sat quietly the whole journey, holding Mike’s hand, overheard the comment and said, "I wouldn't worry, this is actually quiet, for him."

                                                                                   

Rita's comment got Mike going again, this time with mother-in-law jokes. Before long, the ambulance was making its way up Patrick Street, in Cork. From where Mike was lying, he had a great view of the sky above him. 

"Holy God Rita, look at the lights."

"They’re lovely, like thousands of stars," she said.

Smiling, Mike squeezed her hand and said, "I told you, I’d bring you to see the Christmas lights, one day."

Rita squeezed his hand back and a little tear fell from the corner of her eye. Rita was the only one that could read him like a book, and she knew, despite his good humour and joking, he was terrified. She knew he understood exactly what could happen, what the consequences might be. She also knew, that if this big bear of a man ended up in a wheelchair, it would kill him, for sure. Mike saw it in her eyes, and smiled his biggest reassuring smile.

"Hey lads, how much further to the hospital?" Mike asked.

"Five miles, Mike."

"Bet you a tenner you can’t make it there in under ten minutes," Mike said, with a wicked grin.

Rita saw the ambulance crew exchange a smile, before the lights and siren screamed into life, rocketing them through the city traffic with four wildly laughing people inside. The happiest little emergency vehicle in the west. 


If you enjoyed this story, you can get all of Uncle Mike's adventures in one place by checking out The Misadventures Of Father Tom. Hope you enjoy them.

http://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1457927921&sr=8-1&keywords=the+misadventures+of+father+tom

The Catechism Test

One of the milestones of growing up in catholic Ireland is making your first communion. I know you might think that involves turning up in your best clothes, saying amen at the right parts of the mass and not dropping the host on the ground. If that's what you think is involved you never went to through what I did. I remember when I started first class. I was devastated that Mrs Feeney, who had taught me all of my school days, was not going to be my teacher any more. This grief was balanced with a tremendous pride in being in the big classes.

The thing that took me by surprise was the leap I was taking into the world of serous academia. Gone were the 'Tom and Jane' books which were the hight of literature up to that point. Mathematics became a quagmire of abstract concepts now that two plus four was no longer accompanied by pictures of apples and oranges. Little did I realise these were but baby steps in comparison to what was to come. The impending first communion introduced the dark days of catechism studies.

"Get out your catechism books," grumped the headmaster one day. A flurry of excited squeals erupted as the white books were retrieved from school bags. On the cover was a picture of a friendly looking man with a beard holding out his hand to a flock of sheep. I though he looked a bit like Benny Tobin the local mechanic. It turned out he was actually Jesus.

"This is the story of our Lord, when you make your first communion you will be entering into his eternal flock." the headmaster said. Even at this point I was confused. I was still looking at the sheep on the cover.

"Who can tell me what Holy Communion is?" asked the  headmaster.

"It's the body of Christ, Sir" said Amy Scott

"That's correct Amy. Do any of you know the story of the first Communion?" Silence followed. You have to remember we were only seven.

"At the last supper Jesus gathered disciples to him," boomed the headmaster in his best theatrical voice "where he shared bread and wine with them. He told the disciples I am the living bread that came down from heaven, this is my body, he who eats my flesh and drinks of my blood has eternal life." The headmaster gazed over his glasses with devotion burning bright in his eyes. I can't remember anything else the headmaster told us. That day I went home with one very clear thought in my mind. 'The disciples were all cannibals.'


In the months that followed I did my best to learn the catechism. I could not keep the names of the places and the people in my head. I thought the stories were great. What boy would not like those stories. Jesus was some man, with few scraps of bread and a half dozen mackerel he managed to feed more people than went to the county football final. Another time he changed water into wine. The man could walk on water for goodness sake. But my favourite story and the only one I remembered all the names for was Lazarus coming back from the dead.

The story went that Lazarus was in a bad way, his sister Martha sent for Jesus. It happened Jesus wasn't around, but had gone for a walk in the desert. By the time Jesus came back Lazarus had kicked the bucket. His sister, Martha, was well miffed at Jesus and said if he had come on time Lazarus would not be dead. Then Jesus did a mighty thing, he stood in front of the house and said "Lazarus come out!" Lo-and-behold, out lands Lazarus, large as life and twice as ugly. He scared the britches off everyone including Martha but after then Jesus was the man to call on when anyone was feeling rough.

The day Father Byrne came to the school, he asked us all questions from our catechism. I had my fingers crossed he would ask me the story of Lazarus, I had that one off by heart. Instead he asked me about the Feast of Cana. I had no idea what he was talking about. In the end it turned out he was asking me about the water and wine party. I wish the priest had said so, I knew that story as well. At the end of the class Father Byrne told me I would have to study harder or he would make me wait till next year to do my communion. He gave me another week to study and then would call to my house  to quiz me.

All week I studied and studied but could not make the names stick in my head. I was terrified by the following Friday waiting in my kitchen for the priest to call. It was only me and Mam waiting in the house. Dad had taken my brother and sister into town with him in the car. Just that day a local farmer had given Mom a young new cockerel to put to our chickens. The old cockerel did not like the new fella one bit and they stuck in each other the minute he was let loose in the chicken run.

"You'll have to get rid of that rooster Missus." said the farmer. "The only good place for him is the pot."

That comment sealed the fate of the old cockerel. Mam scoped him up and tucked him under her arm. With a flick of her wrist and a jerk of her thumb the birds neck was rung. At the same moment the priests car pulled into the gate of our little house.

"Here," said Mam passing me the body of the chicken, "put him somewhere the dog wont get at him while I say hello to Father Byrne."

With no idea what to do I took the still warm body of the chicken into the house and stowed it in the pantry off the kitchen. Father Byrne came in with my Mam an settled himself at our kitchen table. A pot of tea was served up in our best wear and a huge plate of biscuits. My mouth was watering looking at the biscuits, I had not even sniffed one since the Christmas.

"Have you been working hard at your Catechism young Harold?" he asked.
"I have Father very hard."
"I asked you about the Feast of Cana the last time, what can you tell me about that now?"

I recounted the story of the water into wine as best I could remember but the angry look on his big red head told me I had made mistakes. Just then out of the pantry came wobbling our old cock with his head dangling at an alarming angle.

"Sweet Devine!!! What is that Mrs McFinnigan?" demanded the priest as the nearly headless chicken strolled around the kitchen without a care in the world.

Spotting my opportunity I said "That's just our old cock, Lazarus, he is always doing that." I launched into the only catechism story I knew while my Mam and Father Byrne watched the old cockerel bump into things. Needless to say I made my First Communion along side everyone else in the class but poor old Lazarus ended up in a cooking pot the minute the priest was out the door.

The Clever Raven

This is my first go at writing a kids story. I did it specifically to share it with he bedtime story community. Hope they enjoy it.

Rusty the raven lived in a tree high above a motorway rest station. Rusty was not very fond of the cars and trucks that vroomed up and down the road all the time but he was very fond of all the food people left lying around the place.

Another thing that Rusty was not fond of was being called a crow. He was a raven, there was a very big difference. Ok; crows were black as well but a dull dirty black not like his shiny feathers. Crows were bigger than ravens, but most importantly crows were bullies. Like most bullies, crows were not very smart. The crows wanted all the food for themselves and would chase off ravens and even other crows. Crows never shared. The nastiest of the crows was Kenney who lived in a tree on the far side of the station.

Rusty had tried to make friends with Kenney and the crows when he first moved to the station but they would not talk to him. One day Rusty had found a particularly tasty treat, the bun from a burger. He was just about to take a bite when Kenny swooped in and grabbed the bun. "Hay, that was mine," said Rusty.
"It's mine now said Kenney," starting to rip the bun up with his sharp beak.
"There is plenty for both of us, why don't we share it," said Rusty leaning over to take a little bite. Kenney snapped at Rusty, giving him a nasty pinch on the wing.
"Ouch," said Rusty but Kenney only laughed and pinched him on the other wing. Since that day Kenney was always mean to Rusty when ever they would meet.

One day Rusty was flying around when he got a delicious smell coming from a dustbin. As he fluttered around the bin the smell got stronger, it was salty and buttery. Rusty hopped up on the edge of the bin and looked inside. Right down the bottom was a whole pile of buttered popcorn, Rusty's favourite. But there was a problem, the popcorn was far out of reach. Rusty could not go into the bin or he would be trapped. For ages Rusty twisted his head this way then that while he considered the problem. High in the tree above him Kenney the crow began laughing at him saying that he was a stupid bird, he would never be able to reach the popcorn.Rusty was not quick to give up but it was getting late so he decided to sleep on the problem.

In the morning Rusty had an idea and flew over to the bin. In the bottom the popcorn was still waiting for him. Rusty leaned down and using his beak he grabbed the plastic bin liner pulling it up. The popcorn came closer but still out of reach. Rusty let the liner drop back down. Kenney had been watching and thought that this was all very funny. He cawed and cawed in the trees making Rusty feel very bad. Rusty pulled up the bin liner again this time he used one claw to pin the raised liner against the bin. When he let go the pop corn stayed closer than it had been. Rusty reached down again grasping the liner, pulling it closer still. Working like this he rolled the liner higher and higher until he could reach the popcorn. Above him in the trees Kenney was silent and fuming that Rusty had figured a way of getting the popcorn out of the bin.

Rusty at last picked up a piece but now he had another problem. The corn was too big to eat in one go, he needed his claw to help break it up. Rusty had no option but to hop off the edge of the bin. As soon as he did the liner fell all the way to the bottom again taking the popcorn with it. Kenney began his cawing again. "All that work for one piece of popcorn, your a fool Rusty," said Kenney.

Rusty enjoyed the popcorn but he had to admit that Kenney was right, it was far too much work for one piece of corn. The next time Rusty hopped up on the bin he had the knack of hauling up the liner while holding it with his feet. This time, when he got the popcorn in reach he tossed several pieces over his shoulder onto the ground. Rusty turned around but Kenney had flown from his tree and was eating all the corn. Rusty was furious and flew away in a temper to try and figure a solution.

The next morning Kenney was surprised when there was no sign of Rusty. It was a few hours before he heard the flapping of many wings in the sky. Kenney looked up and saw Rusty coming with nine other ravens. Rusty landed on the rim of the bin while all the others landed on the ground. Kenney was puzzled, "What was that silly little bird doing now?" he wondered. Once again Rusty rolled up the bin liner and began throwing out the popcorn. This time Kenney did not get any as Rusty was throwing it to the other ravens. When Rusty was tired he hopped off the edge of the bin onto the ground.

Kenney was laughing his harsh laugh again "Rusty your are the silliest bird in the whole world, This time you did all the work and got no popcorn at all."

"Is that so?" said Rusty with a smile. Just then, one of the other ravens having seen how rusty rolled up the liner, hopped on the edge of the bin and got to work. Soon popcorn was flying out of the bin. The ravens quickly gobbled up the corn. Kenney tried to join the feeding birds but as soon as he did the raven on the edge of the bin stopped throwing the popcorn out. At last Kenney gave up and flew up into the trees to watch the ravens eat their fill. They all took turns to do the work on the edge of the bin.

When he was full to bursting Rusty called up to Kenney sitting high and hungry above them "You see Kenney, sometimes it is better to share a little, you could end up getting much more in return." All the ravens flew away to there nests full and happy.

The Bunny Derby

Bunny Derby

The best thing about growing up in the country, is the imagination that went into making our own amusement. In the summertime, nearly every parish had a 'Field Day'. The whole community would gather for a day of exotic events, including, Welly Throwing, Hay Bale Tossing, Wife Carrying, and of course the Donkey Derby. In the spring, many communities ran 'Bring and Buy' or 'Cake Sales' in the parish hall. These events were primarily to raise funds for charities and social funds, but also provided an opportunity for everyone to get together and have a bit of fun.  Local people would donate produce, only to buy back those donated by others. When Father Tom came to our parish, the 'Bring and Buy' day was not exactly a thriving success. Father Tom suggested incorporating some of the more popular 'Field Day' games, into the event, in order to bolster the numbers.

"I can see ‘Set Dancing’ or the 'Clothes Peg Hanging' working, perhaps even the 'Ball in the Churn' but if you start flinging Wellington boots and bales of hay around the parish hall, not a window will be left," said Sergeant Kelly, during the first committee meeting. Not willing to be thwarted at the first hurdle, Father Tom asked "What about a Derby?"

"A dozen donkeys, shitting all over the place? You've got to be joking, Father!" cried Mary Byrne, who cleaned the hall each week.

"You're quite right, Mary. Donkeys would be far too big, let’s try something smaller, something that will get the kids involved. What about bunny rabbits?" suggested Father Tom? When Father Tom had a vision, not much was going to stand in his way. At last, he convinced the committee to give it a go by asking, "What's the worst that could happen?"

That was how the inaugural 'Bunny Derby' came to be run in our parish hall. The indoor games were a great success. Indeed, the ‘Bunny Derby’ was the highlight of the day. On that first year, the children supplied all the rabbits. By the second year, many adults were in on the game. The racetrack was made out of hay bales, about thirty feet long. The traps were upside down cardboard boxes. The Bunny Derby rules were super simple, the first bunny to hop into the end zone was the winner. Owners could encourage the rabbit, but no pushing or poking. The winner was awarded a plastic trophy to grace their mantelpiece. The 'Bunny Derby' was soon one of the most anticipated events of any year.

There was consternation a few of years ago when Podge Carroll entered a wild hare in the race. The hare took off like greased lightning, as soon as the trap was lifted. He cleared the length of the track in a split second, vaulting the bale wall at the end, like it wasn’t even there. It dashed among the crowd, drawing yelps from women wherever he went, and laughter from everyone else. In the end, the hare made a break for freedom through a closed window. Thankfully, it knocked itself senseless, rather than breaking the glass. When the terrified animal had been captured, and released, Father Tom announced that the hare was disqualified (as it was not a bunny), and banned Podge from entering the race ever again. That year saw Ian Barry's rabbit, Snowball, take the trophy home for the first time, and she had continued to dominate the event ever since.

Father Tom was amazed to see how many of the men came along for these races each year. They all seemed to get into the spirit of the thing, shouting on their favourites with great gusto. By the time the winner hopped its little fluffy tail over the finish line, there were shouts of triumph amid mutterings of disappointment. Father Tom suspected there may be betting going on, when he saw Pa O'Conner, the local publican, handing out cash to men gathered around the tea and bun table.

Last year, as the excitement began to build towards the race, it was clear the bunny to beat was Snowball. With a red hot favourite on the card, the betting book had seen little action. Ian Barry was in the pub, basking in the reflected glow of his rabbit’s skills, when things took an unexpected turn. Ian had been propping up the bar in O'Conner's for several hours, boasting to anyone that would listen.

"There is no rabbit to beat Snowball, this year," Ian slurred, for the umpteenth time. Pa O'Conner was wiping glasses behind the counter, and threw his eyes to heaven. "I'm telling you Pa, put your money on my Snowball. It will be doubled in no time." Barry managed to miss his mouth with his pint of Guinness, and spilled beer down his shirt.

"Would you ever shut up about that fucking rabbit? You’d swear it was Red Rum," snapped Terrance McCarthy, from the end of the bar. Terrance thought Ian was a blow-hole, with way too much to say for himself. A few years back, Ian had objected to an extension Terrance wanted to build. It was a slight that had never been forgotten.

"What would you know about it, McCarthy? You don't even own a rabbit."

"I know more about animals than you ever will, and that includes bloody rabbits," Terrance snarled into his pint.

"You're all talk," needled Ian.

It was one stinging comment too many for Terrance. "€100 that my rabbit beats yours."

"You don't have a rabbit!"

"I'll get a bloody rabbit, is it a bet or not?"

"Okay - but I want to see your rabbit before the race," said Ian. The size of the bet he’d just agreed to, must have begun to loom large through the haze of beer, if the worry in his eyes was anything to go by.

"Fair enough, this night next week," said Terrance, finishing his pint in one long swallow. He bounded from the high stool, in the direction of the door.

"Where you going, Terrance?" called Pa, from behind the bar.

"Rabbit shopping, on E-bay," Terrance's voice boomed, as the door swung closed in his wake.

***

In no time, the news of the bet spread far and wide. The parish practically hummed with excitement. When Friday evening arrived, Pa O'Conner's was packed from door to rafter. The bar was so busy, Pa had to send for his whole family to serve behind the counter. Nine o'clock came and went, there was still no sign of Terrance and the mystery rabbit. Ian had been keeping quiet all evening, but as the minutes ticked away, and it looked more like he wouldn’t have to honour the bet, his tongue got looser, helped along by the power of whiskey.

By the time half nine rolled by, Ian was boasting again. The man just couldn’t help himself.

"Terrance just didn't fancy losing a hundred Euro," said Ian, turning to face the crowd. He raised a glass, "To Snowball, the fastest rabbit this side of a Chinese take away."

"Don't go counting your chickens yet, Ian. Or should I say, rabbits," said a voice from the door. It was Terrance, beaming from ear to ear. Terrance made his way through the crowd with a large covered crate in his arms. A space was made for him at the counter, where he deposited his load.

 Terrance said, "Pint please, Pa."

"Show us your rabbit," said Ian.

"Hold you flipping horses, let a man take a drink," said Terrance. Ian Barry was shuffling from foot to foot with eagerness. A creamy pint of Guinness was dropped on the counter, alongside the mystery box. Terrance lifted the pint to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice, three times, as half the pint vanished down his gullet.

"Ah, come on," said someone from the back of the crowd.

Terrance smiled and put the glass on the counter. He lifted the crate and put it at his feet. Removing the cover, he dipped his hands into the dark interior of the box. When Terrance stood up, he held the most enormous black bunny rabbit anyone had ever seen.

"That's not a rabbit!" cried Ian.

"Yes it is," said Terrance, with a snigger. "It's a Flemish Giant, and his name is Rommel."

"That is not fair, he is as big as a sheepdog," said Ian, his eyes bulging.

"No one said what breed he had to be. Rommel is a rabbit, which is all that counts," said Terrance.

Pandemonium broke out in the bar, people crowded close to get a better look at the giant in their midst. Half the bar held it was unfair, poor Snowball was tiny, in comparison to this yoke. The other half just wanted to see Ian Barry get the smug look wiped off his face. Through all the hubbub, Rommel sat quietly in Terrance's arms, occasionally licking spilled beer off the counter. Just before eleven, a young guy wandered over from the pool table, and slipped in beside Terrance. It was Smokey-Joe, the town pothead.

"Nice rabbit, Terrance," said Joe, rubbing the Rommel's big floppy ears. Rommel didn't flinch, "He seems very chilled out."

"He is, a bit," agreed Terrance, sounding more worried than proud.

"Is he fast?" asked Joe.

Terrance looked around to make sure no one was listening. He leaned in close to Joe, and whispered, "I don't know, I haven’t gotten him running yet."

"Did you try shouting at him or poking him?" asked Joe.

"Sure I did, but he just ignores me," Terrance said, letting his worry show again. "I’d hoped that Ian would chicken out, when he saw the size of him. Looks like I might end up losing €100, as well as having this useless lump eating me out of house and home."

"Say nothing yet, I might be able to get you something to liven him up," said Smokey-Joe, with wink.

"Slip Rommel a Micky-Finn?"

"Just call it a pep pill," said Joe, with a smile, while tapping the side of his nose.

Terrance smiled. All might not be lost.

***

The day of the 'Bring and Buy' arrived, and the parish hall was filled to bursting. Father Tom was amazed as the people continued to turn up. Jane, his housekeeper, was helping out with the sweet stand, when Father Tom lumbered over, weighed down with even more boxes of buns.

"Have you ever seen anything like it, Jane? What a crowd," said Father Tom, accidentally knocking against the table, as he wiggled his way behind it. Jane was trying to control the avalanche of chocolate bars, which Father Tom had started, but as normal, failed to notice.

"Would you believe that such generosity still exists, given the hard time people are having?" said Father Tom, dumping the boxes behind the table.

"Pardon?" asked Jane not quiet getting his meaning.

"All these people, coming to support the missions to Africa," said Father Tom.

"I think it might have more to do with Terrance McCarthy's giant rabbit, than the Missions, Father," said Jane.

"What?"

"You must have heard about it, Father? Ian Barry and Terrance McCarthy have been betting on which of their rabbits will win the race, today," said Jane.

"Hum," said Father Tom. "Who’s favourite to win?"

"Snowball has home advantage, but Rommel is huge. You should see him, Father, he’s like a small sheep," said Jane.

"Rommel! It’s named after a German Tank Commander?" stuttered Father Tom.

"I don't know what it’s named after, but he’s one tank of a rabbit," Jane giggled. Just then, Father Tom spotted Terrance McCarthy at the back of the hall, talking to Smokey-Joe.

***

"Where the hell have you been? The race is starting in half an hour," said Terrance, as a wobbly Smokey-Joe came towards him.

"Sorry, man, it was a wild night," he said, rubbing the sleep out of his bloodshot eyes.

"Did you get the stuff?" snapped Terrance.

"Do you know how hard it is, to get performance enhancing drugs for a rabbit?" spat Smokey-Joe, clearly not the happiest, first thing in the morning, or in this case, the afternoon.

"Sorry, Joe, but did you?" asked Terrance, more pleasingly this time.

"This will do the job," said Joe, sliding a small packet of powder into Terrance's hand. "Just give the rabbit a little bit. Feck, put it away, here comes the priest."

"Afternoon, lads, can I have a word?"

"Sure, Father," said Terrance.

"I've been hearing that some bets have been placed on the outcome of the Derby, is that true?"

"I wouldn't call it betting exactly, Father, more like a friendly wager, between friends," said Terrance.

"You know, I have the odd flutter myself, but this is a church event, boys. Let’s keep it fun, okay?" said Father Tom. The “okay” at the end of that sentence was accompanied by a pat on the back, which left Smokey-Joe's eyes wobbling in his head. When Father Tom was making his way back toward the tea table, Smokey-Joe turned to Terrance, rubbing his shoulder, and said, "Father Tom would make a great bouncer, if he wasn't a priest."

Soon, it was time for the entrants to line up for the Derby. The extra-large box covering Rommel on the starting line, was drawing a lot of attention. There were about six kids lined up in the middle of the track, all hovering above their covered rabbits, waiting for the race to begin. Ian Barry, was at one end of the lineout, with Snowball in her pink coloured box, specially decorated for the occasion. Terrance was on the far end of the line, beside Sarah Harding. Sarah was a lovely five year old little girl, but not the brightest button in the world. She’d brought along her guinea pig, called Mr Snuffles. There had been valiant attempts by Father Tom to explain that, although Mr Snuffles was a lovely fella, he was not actually a rabbit and as such, could not enter the race. In the face of a crying five year old, Father Tom crumpled like a cheap suit, and Mr Snuffles was allowed to take part. While waiting for the whistle to blow, it became clear that something was wrong with Rommel.

Terrance was holding the box down with both hands, but still having great difficulty keeping the huge rabbit in check. The box was being beaten to and fro, by the rabbit trapped inside. A strange high pitch mewling came now and again, which was adding to the amazement of the crowd. On the far side of the starting line, Ian was actually looking pale with anxiety.

The compare took the stage.

"On your marks," he shouted. "Get ready, GO!"

All the boxes were raised, and the race began. Rommel shot into the air like a ballistic missile, completing a twist, before landing six feet in front of all the other rabbits. Most of them were still sitting exactly where their boxes had been.

"The gigantic Rommel takes an early lead, followed slowly by Snowball in second place, Fluffy and Thumper are neck and neck in third, with the rest of the field still in the starting blocks," said the compare. "Mr Snuffles seems to be making a nest for himself.  Come on folks, cheer on your favourite."

The crowd began to cheer, and this got most of the furry critters moving.  Even to the untrained eye, Rommel was not looking well. His ears were flattened all the way along his back, his eyes were huge and wild, and his sides were fluttering in and out rapidly, as the massive rabbit panted through exposed buck teeth. Most worrying of all, was the keening moan he was still making. Rommel took another huge leap into the air, then wildly ran in circles for a few seconds. He had nearly reached the winning line at the end of the track, when he decided to take a detour.

"It looks like it is all over, Folks. Snowball is trailing miles behind, this is Rommel's race to lose. Hold that thought - it looks like Rommel is going the wrong way. What is wrong with that rabbit?"

As Rommel barrelled back down the track, the rest of the rabbits scattered in terror. The fluffy white Snowball became the fixture of Rommel's attentions. The carnage that followed will go down in parish history, as a dark day, indeed. While the rest of the rabbits were scooped to safety by owners, Rommel and Snowball became an indistinguishable blur. Thankfully, Rommel turned out to be a lover, not a fighter.

"What’s the big rabbit doing, Mammy?" a little boy asked his red-faced mother.

"That big one is very tired, from all the hopping, so the white one is giving him a piggy back," came the cringing reply.

"The race seems to have taken a romantic twist folks," howled the compare over gales of laughter. "Many racers have been withdrawn for their own safety, but wait a minute. Here comes Mr Snuffles, making a break for the finish line. He is nearly there, Come on Mr Snuffles, COME ON!"

Mary Barry leapt into the track, to free Snowball from the loving embrace of Rommel.

"Get off her you brute!" she shouted, trying to dislodge him with the toe of her red stiletto. Rommel squealed at her, his eyes wild. He refused to be dislodged. When Snowball eventually made the break from Rommel's loving embrace, she was a changed rabbit, forever. Rommel was eventually restrained, and put back in his box. Mr Snuffles was announced the winner, the first ever guinea pig to receive the Bunny Derby Cup.

Smokey-Joe caught up with Terrance in the car park, "How much of that stuff did you give him?"

"Only a little bit, but it was having no effect, so I gave him a bit more," said Terrance.

"How much more?"

"All of it. What was it, anyway?" 

"I couldn't find anything for rabbits. Everyone just laughed at me when I asked, so I got a bit of coke," Smokey-Joe said.

"You gave a rabbit cocaine?"

"Shush, for God sake, you're the one that got him as high as a kite," said Smokey-Joe.

Neither Ian, nor Terrance, ever lived down their rabbit’s public display of affection. The following year saw the greatest number of entrants for the Bunny Derby, ever. Nearly all of them were black and white. Snowball and Rommel looked on from the side-lines with parental pride.

The End