memories of uncle joe

It was some lost night in the 1970's.
Uncle Joe arrived in from the pub to Sunnyside, my grandfather's house where he'd brought his family from America for their Summer holidays.
He sat in an armchair and began holding forth in the most erudite terms about the 17th century English diarist Samuel Pepys.
He pronounced the name Pepys as Pee Pees.
Presently Grandad turned and said to no one in particular: "He's langers."
The Mammy who was fascinated by the Pepys talk, decided to contribute a comment of her own.
She knew nothing about Samuel Pepys except how to pronounce his name.
"Joe," she said, "you're calling him Samuel Pee Pees. I think his name is pronounced Samuel Peeps."
Uncle Joe favoured her with a gentle smile.
"Oh I don't think so Lilian," he said kindly.
Three months later he phoned from America and asked to speak to the Mammy.
"Lilian," he said, "I checked it out. You were right about Samuel Peeps."

Every Summer he and his wife Eileen moved heaven and earth to bring their family from Boston to Ireland for a holiday.

It was the Summer of 1977.
I was bullying some of Uncle Joe's kids.
He took me to one side and said something gentle but firm.
Something like: "You really don't want to be doing that."
He was right.
I didn't.
And I stopped.

He told a joke once about a woman's shirt falling off in church.
The priest roared at the congregation: If anyone looks at her he will be struck blind."
And an old guy clapped a hand over his right eye and turned around to look at the woman anyway saying: "I'll chance one eye Father."

He sometimes recited a humorous poem called Casey At The Bat.

Every Summer of childhood they'd arrive into our lives like lightning from 3000 miles away bringing with them a touch of glamour, excitement, and the exotic. The Americans! Uncle Joe, Aunty Eileen, Pauline, Joe, Marie and Annie. Names that would be forever imbued with a touch of magic. Names to conjure with.

We were driving down the fields with Grandad in the old Volkswagen.
Uncle Joe turned to me.
"Jamie," he said, "isn't this just like driving across the African veldt!"

It was 1993.
I was staying for a few months at Uncle Joe's house in Boston.
All Summer long he told me about a horse he'd bought.
The horse was called Dithyramb.
"How did you pick the name?" I wondered.
"A dithyramb is an ecstatic invocatory song in praise of the ancient Greek god Dionysus," said Uncle Joe as if no further explanation was necessary.
The horse had problems with his joints.
"I've devised a plan with his trainer," Uncle Joe told me confidently. "We're going to keep him suspended off the ground in a harness for a few months to give the joints time to heal."
I thought this was the craziest thing I'd ever heard.
In my circles, that horse would have been an ex horse as soon as the first joint went ping.
To me the whole suspension in harness idea seemed like throwing good money after bad.
For the next few years it became a regular event in my life to receive photos in the post from Uncle Joe, showing himself in the winners enclosure at various race tracks with a horse called Dithyramb.
I think the beast won ten races with prize money in the region of 30 grand every time.

When his daughter Pauline moved to Ireland to live, he told her: "Never lose your principles."


Sometimes Uncle Joe had a stammer.
Sometimes he didn't.
It never stopped him smoking big cigars.


He once gave me a book of Gerald Manley Hopkins poems.
Presenting the book to me, he recited from memory with serene fervour:

"As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes its self; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: For that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is -
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces."

He was a librarian.

In retirement he toured Greece, Italy, and Germany, took a trip across America by train, and attended his daughter Pauline's wedding on the Irish speaking Aran island.

There were always horses.
After Dithyramb, I remember Mister Goodie.
I have a photo of Mister Goodie winning a race in 2004.
Then there was Henry R.
I have a photo of Henry R winning in June 2007.
The photos of Uncle Joe and his horses remind me to believe in things.

A few days ago, just before he died, I chanced upon a book he'd sent to Ireland one Christmas as a gift for my sister.
The book was a collection of short stories by Ernest Hemingway.
On the inside flap Uncle Joe had left a note saying: "My favourite racing short story is on page 189."
I turned to that page.
The story was called My Old Man.
It was about a jockey who had a son called Joe.
Father and son travelled in carefreedom around Europe for race meetings, making a living as best they could.
It ended with a death.

Uncle Joe, I praise God for the gift of you.
The field is won.