PiperHawk's Way: Without a Code

PiperHawk's Way: Without a Code: "A man who lives his life without a code, is easily bought by flattery."

Without a Code

A man who lives his life without a code, is easily bought by flattery.

Memories of a Nine Year Old

It never seemed to rain in those days.  The back river smelled of the sent of Blackthorn and valerian, which grew along the river wall.  The air was filled with the sound of blue birds and bees, and also the sound of pigeons cooing in the background, under the  twenty five foot high corrugated canopies, over the timber which was piled in a criss cross fashion.  This was so that the air could pass through, helping to keep it dry.

Come half past five the workmen would finished and all that was left were the sounds of nature around me.  The only concession to civilization was the black cloth belt, which was off an old paisley wrap-around, tied to one of the bushes. There was something about this, which always nauseated me with the thought  that one day I would be left alone.  I guess it was the memory of the photograph of my grandmother, who died before I was born, where she was wearing such a wrap-around.  Maybe some where in my young subconscious mind I  had reasoned that if my mother's mother was no more that one day it would be so with my own mother.

However, the surrounding peacefulness soon soothed such feelings and I was one with nature, and at peace with myself.  This was my world and I was king.  Once the depot was closed for the day, there was no one to intrude in my thoughts or my explorations.  I have no memories of predending to be anybody else as a boy.  I did'nt need to be, for I was me and I had this world, where I was king, all to myself.

My Schooldays at the Quay

Sullivan's Quay CBS, Cork City

The handball was made from the paper wrappings from  the pupils sandwiches and tied together with pieces of string.  The play area was the enclosed section of the school yard, between the two sets of double doors which led to the classrooms overhead.  Unlike regular handball, the game played here was almost like tennis with goal posts; and the opponents goal were his set of double doors.   Shot for shot was taken across the yard, oblivious of the fact that there were other kids running around and chasing each other, between the goals.  Looking down from there you could see a large school yard; skirted on the right by the toilets and on the left by the bicycle shed.  Beyond the toilets was a large rusted looking tank, containing the fuel for the central heating.  It was here that the school bullies held court.  Directly in front, you could see the secondary school, with it's outdoor iron staircases, which were the only access to the upper floor of that building.  The ground floor housed the first, second and third years; while the upper floor housed fifth and sixth years.  This floor also contained the science lab; the home of my favourite subject. 
The science teacher was the typical academic, with the mandatory glasses and brief-case, which swung with each step he took.  He also had an extremely noticeable wart on the very tip of his nose and when he spoke to you, it was as if he was speaking for the wart; for that was where your eyes were drawn to.  For all his idiosyncrasies, he was a most interesting teacher, who made physics sound like music.  I can't fully remember but I think we also had  him for voice production; which consisted mainly of breathing exercises.  My first year in secondary school required some shuttling; for the first year classes were moved to a prefabricated unit in Deer Park on Friar's Walk for most subjects.
One lay-teacher, in his mid twenties at the time, was, I believe, an absolute sadist.  He seemed to take a perverse pleasure out of inflicting pain and fear into the young hearts that he was given charge to teach.  Up to this time one of my favourite subjects was the Irish Language.  By the end of that teaching year, I had developed a hatred of it, that lasted for many years.   
He also taught geography and history which was also done through Irish.  My desk was at the top of the class near the window and the heater, which was some help on the cold winter mornings warming my hands before the leather strap was poised high in the air.  "The other hand,"  he would shout from behind his long hawk-like nose.  "The other hand I said, and I'll teach you to make a fool out of me"  as he brought the strap crashing down on the soft fleshy mound at the base of the thumb.  We would try to take our punishment with dignity, but by the time the strap had fallen ten or twelve times the tears would flow.  We were his first and penultimate class. 
All in all, notwithstanding my experiences with Mr. Torquamada, my days at 'The Quay' brings back fond memories.  For those were the days of the introduction of television to Ireland, of long summer days, fresh autumn evenings and the realization that girls were really quite nice when you got to know them.

Assumed Status

Let us deliberate for a while on the topic of stolen values.  The butcher, at an early age will labour with one who correspondingly has at a similarly early age has worked for an attenuated  period with a Master Butcher in order to learn his trade.  In much the same way the carpenter or stonemason has learnt theirs.

However, there are those who would like to, and do assume rights earned by the labours of others.  "I should know. "My husband was a physicist and you are only a mere doctor". "How can you tell me anything?"  or;  "Who do you think you are?"  You can tell me nothing about the Neuro-whats'it?  You who have been a surgeon only eight years, when my father was a surgeon for forty-two years.  I should know more than you."

Is it any wonder the economy of this biosphere is in the circumstance it is in today?  When the progeny of the great, who cannot distinguish the difference between philanthropy and philandery, expropriate the mantels of their primogenitors, having no other qualifications than the accident of birth or marriage.

History is full of such accidents.  The world is teeming with penniless "Do you know who I am's". They swagger around bars and public places; as if by heavenly privilege they ought to be granted recognition for an other's achievements. "Honour me, for my grand-father  amassed a great wealth for me to squander on bolstering my asinine vanities".

"The name is Dr. and Mrs. Joy," his spouse corrects indignantly, as the Dr. gives his  name as 'Joy' at the club.  The title was more consequential to her, who previous to been married had boasted of her uncle the financier rather than her father the bus driver.  "I did not know that your father was a bus driver" her friend exclaimed.  "He was not a bus driver". "He was Chief Public Conveyance Technician, (C.P.C.T. for short)."  There a new title was born.

It is my belief that I will return to my creator with what I have become  in my heart and not with what I have.  As one father admonished his son, "All that I have I can give you; All that I am you will have to earn for yourself"

Dreams of My Forefathers



My dreams took me to a point of realization that this life does not begin nor end with my potential three score and ten years, but before the foundations of this world were laid. That the experiences of my ego were just a link in the greater scheme of things. In order to understand this more, I had to move out from myself and reach into the very history of how I came to be here. Who I am did not, for me at least, begin with my conception and birth but in the lives and experiences of my primogenitors. My dreams showed me that my true potential could be realized more fully in the knowledge and understanding of those who went before me. This started me on a life long quest for the genealogies of my forefathers.



A Dream of a Mystical and Ancient Land



I dreamed a dream of a mystical and ancient land.  A land where the runes were once cast and a magical web was woven.  This was a land where saint and scholar and bard were one,  and many wise ones from around the ancient world came to study there.  The High Priest of all the other lands said, "Pay homage to me, for I am the High Priest,"  And, the saints and scholars and bards said, "No!  For we receive our wisdom direct from the Holy Land, and from the fish of the lakes and the fowl of the air; the wind from the mountains and the whispering of the trees."   So, the High Priest sent the King to this land and forced the saints and the scholars and the bards to pay homage to the High Priest.   Though later the King and High Priest became enemies,  the King held this land in cruel subjection for eight  hundred years; causing many of her children to starve and many others to leave.  Those who had died called out from the ground in despair, yet, the runes had been cast and the web had been woven and the King was forced to leave.  Slowly the crops began to grow and prosperity began to return to the land; prosperity paid for by the blood of those who died and the tears of those who left.  This became an ancient and mystical land again, this land of my dream.  This land of saint and scholar  and bard; of Yeats and O’Carolan, Moore and O’Casey.  This land of gorse covered hills, lakes and rivers bordered by rushes, with its green fields and lush peat bogs.  This land of Tir na nOg.  This land of Ireland.