Morrissey’s People: ‘Discovering pleasure within the easy life’ – Homepage

Annie Croke is as distinctly Waterford because the blaa. She has lived completely in properties off the Yellow Road, Ard na Greine and Griffith Place. She spent a lot of her grownup life within the Jute Factory. She used to duck onto the Tramore prepare when her mom couldn’t afford it. Each of those information are worn, she readily accepts, as a medal of honour.

The 88-year-old spent her early years on May Lane between Newport’s Lane, now Newport’s Terrace, and New Lane, now Andrew Street, earlier than the O’Loughlin household made the quick transfer to Ard na Greine when she was seven. One of six youngsters cut up evenly between genders, her earliest recollections embrace the May Processions the place the women of the Mercy Convent would march across the grounds, and the straightforward simplicity of life ensured they by no means felt they have been lacking out on something.

“We weren’t spoilt so none of us could say, ‘oh he or she got more than me’. My mother was a great woman and we had a great childhood. When we were skipping across the road we’d have to watch out for the men coming up after having a few pints. We’d have to stop and leave them pass – your mother would have told you to watch out for Mr. So-and-so. The boys and girls both played hurling on the street as well.” 

Her father left to work in England as World War 2 broke and all year long her mom would declare “sure I know he’s alright, he’s sending me the few bob”. He would return on the Great Western every Christmas Eve, a quick stint dwelling, which got here to an finish on St. Stephen’s Day.

Snobbery was an alien idea to the residents of Ard na Greine and no one ever wanted to say “mind yourself” to the youngsters on the road as their security was by no means unsure.

“A woman across the road called Ms. O’Brien, her sons Fred and Fintan played hurling for Waterford, had a little shop and there was another woman further up the road, Ms Doyle, who had one as well. They sold sugar, tea, bread but no butter because there was no fridge.

“We had no radio at the time, very few had but there was a woman next door who had. Her husband was deaf, same as myself now, and she would put the radio on at one o’clock when he came home from work. Wattie Butler was his name, a lovely man, lovely family. When he’d go in the radio was turned up really loud so he could hear it but that meant we could hear it as well. Vera Lynn became famous and all her lovely songs were gorgeous, we would sing them out on the street together.” 

As they grew older and sought extra pleasure they might pay one and thruppence to get into the Ceili on the Olympia on Sunday nights, in addition to venturing out to Slieverue or Ballymacaw for platform dances.

“One or two people in our group would have a bike and they would give somebody else a lift. The platform was a big square wooden thing that would be taken away afterwards – I don’t know where they’d keep it.

“What was it like going out to places like this because ye would’ve been townies,” I ask.

“Oh yeah, they wouldn’t want you there because we’d be taking their fellas! If you were any kind of a good auld dancer you were gone. I wasn’t too bad. I had an uncle, Phillip Carroll, who was a champion Irish step dancer, so I got a small bit off him. My mother would go down to a matinee with a neighbour, Mrs. Shanahan, and when they’d be gone we’d be practicing doing our steps at home with a brush.” 

After coming into the world of labor with a quick stint minding kids for an area household, she picked up, unsurprisingly given her place in its shadow, a job within the Jute Factory. She loved her time there a lot she continued to work there after marriage and, when pregnant together with her 9 kids, would attempt to disguise on the jubilee nurse who might sniff out a pregnant lady like a shark detects blood.

“My mother knew a couple of the women who would pass down outside the house after they had been at work. She asked one if I could mention her when I went over to try to get a job there. The following week I heard I had got it and from there I worked in the weaving shed. I loved it. On my first day I went in and learned how to make the weavers knot, which was very important. Most of my neighbours worked there, a lot of us were the same age. We were going to dances so we’d all get a lend of each other’s dresses.” 

While she liked the work, her love of these alongside her was larger, none extra so than the person she would marry. Michael, or Mickey, performed soccer for Tycor and Hibernians and so they obtained married on November 7, 1948, 4 days earlier than her 18th birthday.

“I was there for quite a while before I took any notice of him. We used to go for walks out the countryside – out Paddy Browne’s Long Road or past Kilbarry to the Six Cross Roads. Neither of us had money to go some place. I earned a pound, two shillings and six pence. I gave the pound to my mother and six pence to the Union.

“We got married out in Butlerstown Church. My mother hired two cars, one for my family and one for Mickey’s – she got them through the undertaker she knew, Mr Whittle down in Ballybricken. We went back to the house and had corned beef and cabbage for dinner with custard and jelly for after. Then a man named Tommy Collins came along to play the box and that was it – each one of us tried to out-do the other singing! I probably sang Once I had a Secret Love even though it wasn’t appropriate since I had just got married!” 

An evening of easy pleasures on the prime of the city. She wouldn’t have had it some other method.

This interview was first printed in July 2019 as a part of the Morrissey’s People collection of interviews within the Waterford News & Star. Ronan Morrissey, former journalist with the Waterford News & Star, now teaches in De La Salle College. His partaking and humorous interviews protect a snapshot of the social material of Waterford metropolis. Thanks to all these Waterfordians who so kindly, generously and eloquently gave of their time and tales for this collection.