4. Play with friends in the woods with no adult supervision.
5. Talk to strangers and accept sweets and money from them.
6. Play on a building site.
7. Go to town alone for bread and milk and post a letter for the neighbour while you’re at it.
8. Hitch a lift as a teenager. (We weren’t allowed but we did it anyway)
9. Mitch school as a teenager. (We weren’t allowed but we did it anyway) Parents back then didn’t get a text or a phone call if their child was absent, unless they were missing for more than a week.
10. Pierce own ears using a needle and an ice cube.
That day in the late 70’s/early 80’s when my mam agreed to be the fortune teller at a fête in Tierworker (a small neighbouring village) was a day she’ll never forget. She wasn’t asked to be the fortune teller because of any psychic abilities she possessed. No, it was because they knew she’d do it for the fun! It was just an added attraction to the day’s activities.
You can read in this post, about how she always enjoyed dressing up and acting the lad at the festivals. All for a good laugh! Loved to entertain.
Mystic Mabel
This gig was slightly different. Mam arrived at her caravan in good time, dressed as Mystic Mabel. Someone else had arrived early too; a woman unknown to her, keen to have her fortune told. Everyone knew everyone in the small town, but this woman was a stranger.
Mystic Mabel went for a little walk around the field, to check out the entertainment. She still had at least an hour or so before the door of her mystical caravan was due to open to the public.
The strange woman came to her and asked, “When will you be starting?”
“Soon,” replied Mystic Mabel.
The woman followed her around the field watching her. She asked several times, “When will you be starting?”
The time came for Mystic Mabel to return to her caravan—with the stranger close behind. She was first in to have her fortune told. She was a little stressed about family matters; people had fallen out. Mystic Mabel reassured her that everything would be alright and soon everyone would make up. She was pleased with her reading and left happy. Mystic Mabel was relieved that she had hit the right notes!
Next in the door was a local woman.
“Hello Mystic Mabel. I’d like my fortune told,” she said.
Mystic Mabel took her hand and looked into her palm. “You’re married.”
“I am”
“You’re married a long time,” Mystic Mabel said.
“Yea, about 40 years or more,” the woman replied.
Mystic Mabel peered closer at the lines on the palm of the woman’s hand.
“You’ve one child. Mm… let me see. Boy or girl? It’s a boy. You’ve a son!”
“Yes, yes…that’s right. That’s Martin. My son Martin.” The woman wasvery pleased with the accuracy of Mystic Mabel’s insight.” She stared into her own hands, as if she too might be clairvoyant.
Mabel spoke again, taking a risk. “You’re going to be a rich woman.”
“Oh am I?”
“Yes, there’s a big sum of money coming your way.”
“Funny you should say that. I did get a lump of money. I got it from America.”
“Oh that’s lovely for you,” Mystic Mabel smiled and continued. “You have a brother.”
“Yes. He got some money too.”
She left all delighted with herself and amazed at the wisdom of Mystic Mabel. She stood outside the caravan telling the others how great this fortune teller was. “She’s great…told me things that nobody but me knows about. And she’s real too. She has one of those diamonds stuck to her forehead.”
Next visitor to the caravan was a young lad. Not a stranger this time!
“Hello,’ Mystic Mabel greeted him.
“Hello. I want you to tell me my fortune.”
“You’re very sad looking,” she said.
“Aw…I fell out with my girlfriend.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll soon find another one,” Mabel said as she examined his palm.
“Do you think so?” he replied.
“I’m sure of it. I can see a young lady here and she has long black hair. She’s a lovely girl and you’ll meet her soon. There’ll not be a bother on you then.”
His eyes lit up the whole caravan. “Oh God that’s great.” Just as he was leaving, he turned back to Mystic Mabel and asked, “What colour did you say her hair was?”
“Black.”
Lads from the tug-o-war team came in and they gave Mystic Mabel a run for her money with all sorts of questions; all to do with women and money. It was a bit of fun for them though!
She really didn’t expect anyone to take it seriously!
Mystic Mabel hung up her costume that day and never told fortunes again!
Did you have a babby house when you were a child? Do you know what I mean when I say babby house? It’s what we called our outdoor playhouse. The boys played in a fort and the girls played in a babby house. (Is this only in Ireland?) Occasionally the girls were allowed into the fort and very occasionally the boys were allowed into the babby house—and only certain boys at that!
Here’s the babby house I remember.
It’s built from planks of woods around the bottom of a big chestnut tree in the corner of a field. The roof is a sheet of rusty galvanise. There is one window, made from a panel of tough transparent plastic. The door is a sturdy rectangular flap, also made from hard plastic, hardly big enough for an adult to pass through.
There is a little shuck between the field and the big chestnut tree. A plank of wood forms a bridge for access to the babby house.
The hollows in the tree are shelves, to store old food tins and jars filled with shiny red and green haws. A broken clock hangs on the stub of a branch, and two rusty enamel mugs sit on their stove which is made of four red bricks stacked into a square.
The babby house is well-equipped with chipped plates, warped saucepans with no handles, bent spoons, and empty bottles.
Moldy dolls sleep on a layer of withered rushes that line the bottom of a wooden crate. Dinner is cooked in one of the bent saucepans; cabbage, peas, and potatoes (dandelion leaves, green haws, all sprinkled with white clover petals). Stones are used for potatoes and eggs.
Spiders dangling from cobwebs and creepy crawlies inhabit the babby house and get brushed out regularly only to return in the middle of the night. It’s cold in the wintertime and smells of damp soil. It’s balmy in the summertime and smells of fresh moss and chestnuts.
The babby house was our foxhole, a place for self-expression, a place to unleash our imaginations.
Tell me, did you play in a babby house? If you had, what was it called?
Gloria McBreen 