“Will I ever be ready?” she asked.
“Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her.
“I’m not so sure,” she said doubtfully.
“What you need is a deadline,” I suggested. “You’ve been talking about this art exhibition for the past few years but you’re getting no nearer to it. When exactly had you in mind?”
“When I’m ready,” she told me.
“But when will that be?” I persisted.
“Well, I’m not sure,” she said vaguely.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for the right time,” she asserted.
“I have a suggestion,” I said hopefully. “Next year, Cork is European Capital of Culture. There’s as much culture in Innishannon as Cork. So next year could be your year.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” she agreed slowly, and I sensed that she was considering it seriously. But then she had second thoughts. “Would I ever be ready?”
“Sure, of course you’ll be ready,” I assured her; “you’ve a whole year and a half and you already have paintings. Not enough, but once you’re focused you’ll get there.”
“It’s probably a good year to do it,” she said thoughtfully, and I could see that the idea was beginning to take hold. As we drove home, we discussed the entire project, and by the time we reached Innishannon, the decision had been made. She had one whole year to get ready.
“Michelangelo did a big patch of the Sistine Chapel in that much time,” I told her.
“I’m no Michelangelo,” she said with a laugh.
Years previously, Mary and I had both started painting with Lia Walsh, who after the parish history exhibition started an art class in the village hall. When Lia no longer held classes, we joined up with Brother Albert in Cork, who patiently over the years tried to turn us into artists. Mary is the more talented of us, and many local people had come to her to do paintings for them. Now it was time to spread her wings, and an exhibition was the way to go.
The first decision to be made was the venue and, after much discussion, it was decided that the parish hall was the best place. Easily accessible to locals, it had the advantage of being on the side of the main road to West Cork; even though we were always complaining about the through traffic, on this occasion it could serve our purpose.
During that summer, autumn and winter, Mary painted and painted. She loves her own place and that love found expression in beautiful scenes of Innishannon. A great walker of Dromkeen Wood, which lies at her back door, she would have seen it in all seasons and at every hour of the day and night. Now these woodland observations poured on to the canvas in the shapes of pheasants flying over the wood in the early morning and the waterfall glistening in the evening light. Dromkeen in spring is a bluebell wood and in summer a place of light and shade. Mary’s paintings brought the viewer into her wood in all seasons.
The parish hall needed a bit of an overhaul for an art exhibition. Con Dan, a builder neighbour of Mary’s, came to the rescue and, with Mary’s husband Joe, created the more intimate space of an art gallery. To the left of the door we planned long tables for wine and eats and, to the right, seating where five local teenagers would provide soft classical music on violin and harp. A neighbour who worked with a wine company would take care of the wine. When we discussed the eats, Lena, who was home on holidays from America, surprised me by assuring us that she would take charge of that department. She was then working in the financial world in Boston and told us that she knew exactly what was required for such an occasion. But I was apprehensive about her one-woman catering effort.
Dromkeen Wood on the morning of the exhibition was a carpet of bluebells spreading from under the trees into Mary’s garden. She came into the parish hall with arrangements of primroses and bluebells. They filled the hall with their woodland scent and highlighted the paintings of bluebells and ditches of wild flowers waiting to be hung. All day, Mary, Ellen and I, ably assisted by Joe, hung the paintings. Hanging an exhibition is a challenging and exhilarating exercise; as the paintings went up, the wonderful beauty of Innishannon spread out around us.
Suddenly we realised that we had been so engrossed that we had forgotten to eat and time was running out. But before we left the hall we stood at the door to admire the entire scene. Mary and Joe went home to eat and get ready, while Ellen and I walked down the village looking forward to a cup of tea and to putting our feet up. We were exhausted! But when we opened the kitchen door we gasped in horror. Lena had every available space covered with dishes, trays, bowls and all kinds of everything.
“Have I the two of you for the rest of the evening?” she gasped in the relieved tones of a drowning woman. Ellen and I looked at each other in mutual dismay. No resting time to be had here!
“Where’s you father?” I asked, seeking temporary relief.
“Evicted to the front room,” she informed us, and there we found Gabriel calmly reading the paper.
“That kitchen is a war zone,” he said with a smile and added, rising to the rescue, “You two look in the need of a cup of tea.”
After tea, Lena issued instructions and the two assistants did as we were told. She had created little bits and pieces that I could not even christen not to mind guess what was in them. But potato skins I did recognise—after all, I had been reared on spuds.
“What the hell are you doing with potato skins?” I demanded.
“They are now a delicacy,” she blithely informed me.
“Well, they might well be in downtown Boston, but some of tonight’s clientele will be West Cork farmers,” I protested. “Here we still regard potato skins as something that you give the dog after the dinner.”
“Mother, you’re caught in a time warp,” she dismissively informed me. That’s America for you!
When all was in readiness, I had to admit that the display looked good, including the potato skins, though I still had my reservations about them.
Mary’s now-retired boss, Dr John Crowley, who had laid the foundation stones for the very successful SWS group where Mary worked, performed the official opening. All her fellow workers and the people of the parish came in strength. She was taken by surprise when Paudie from the local GAA club—for which Mary had done an immensity of secretarial work—presented her with a wonderful bouquet. She had also done major work for Tidy Towns and, when we presented her with a tree, one wit behind me commented, “That’s a great present for someone living in a wood!”
People wandered around expressing “Oohs” and “Aahs” of delight as they recognised familiar scenes and, of course, we had the people who were interested only in the prices and meeting the neighbours. Early in the night, a young man had bought a painting of a local cottage as a surprise for his mother. Later, when she arrived in the hall, she was very disappointed to see the red dot, as she had wanted to buy this picture of her old family home. There were smiles all round when she discovered that he had bought it for her.
The night was an outstanding success and by the end of it the paintings were speckled with red dots. The eats had gone down a treat—even the potato skins; I had underestimated the farmers of West Cork.