Sundays were a day of rest in the 70’s. Not just because Constantine said so, but also because there wasn’t much else to do.
Back then, all families went to Mass most Sundays. Chapels were packed every Sunday morning at 8.30, 10.00, and again at 11.30. There was Mass every morning and every evening too. People stood at the back and outside on Holy days when there’d be no room inside. Some stood at the back every time.
In school the following morning, the teacher would ask who was at Mass. And quiz us on what the gospel was about. Ridiculous carry-on that was!
We went to Killann Chapel a lot because my uncle and aunt lived there and we’d meet up with them, sometimes going to their house for tea after Mass.
We’d dress in our Sunday clothes and shiny shoes. We’d fast for at least an hour before communion. Do people still do that?
Going to Mass on Sundays was normal but as children, we found it very long—which it was back then. It’s about forty minutes these days (depending on the priest) and I’m certain it was much longer than that 50 years ago.
We’d get fidgety near the end. Any messing or giggling, would warrant a dagger look from Mam, and she’d separate the guilty ones. Then someone would drop a coin or a small toy that would roll under the seats. The smallest would be sent down after it—another warning look from the boss! Dad would just pretend nothing was happening and keep his eyes on the priest!
St Anne’s Chapel, Bailieborough
Sunday dinner was a stuffed roast chicken and always Bisto gravy. Dessert was Instant Whip with jelly. Brendan Grace played on the record player during dinner EVERY Sunday. Dad was a huge fan.
If the weather was good, we’d change out of our good clothes to play outside.
Maybe we’d watch the Sunday Matinee. John Wayne, or one of the Carry On films, with Sid James and Hattie Jacques. And of course Barbara Windsor. All the innuendo went way over our heads!
Shops stayed closed, except for the sweet shops. There was no such thing as heading off to big shopping centres for the day. We stayed at home or visited relatives, or the relatives visited us. Gaelic fans went to a football match if there was one on.
Sunday is no longer considered a day of rest for most people. It’s often one of the busiest days of the week.
The masked face stood over my dread-filled body. Inhale through the left nostril, exhale from the right; they said to do, in a book I read once. So I did. Imagine having your feet massaged. Visualise soft hands gently kneading away your fear. I did that too. But I couldn’t relax my tremoring body. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my sweaty hands as his latex fingers came at me.
I cried inside as I imagined life without lemon drops and fudge. I tasted blood. I felt dizzy. Then it was all over. Another rotten tooth extracted!
Sophistication in the 70’s came in the form of push button ashtrays, and nylon bedspreads that were so static we were electrically charged by morning! As soon as Mam yelled up the stairs, “GET UP,” we jumped out of bed like a bunch of kangaroos. Except the brother who had a candlewick bedspread on his bed—they were soft and cosy and non-static!
Under these very beautiful and stylish bedspreads, we had blankets. Hairy blankets that you didn’t want to touch your skin, so sheets were important. Having said that, I know people who still prefer sheets and blankets than a duvet. I’m happy with either as long as I’m warm.
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Push button ashtrays were such a clever invention. With the push of the button the tray spun and dumped the cigarette ash and butts into the bowl underneath where they stayed out of sight until it was emptied. A long-standing one was a very stylish addition to the living room furnishing.
If you were a smoker in the 70’s, you may have smoked in bed, without realising that your nylon frilly bedspread was a serious fire hazard. A mini push button ashtray sat on the bedside locker beside a lovely carriage clock; and possibly a lamp with an orange shade that had little balls on the end of its frills.
Gloria McBreen 