THE PHILOSOPHER’S (SCYTHE)STONE 

              By Mattie Lennon.

If you heard me you would  agree that I don’t sound like a man who grew up with a philosopher for a neighbour. (total agreement there!!!) Well I did. His name was . . . Well all you erudite people will know that the primary definition of a philosopher is “A thinker.” And Jimmy had to be a thinker to make the profound statements that he did.

Blaise Pascal said  “not to care for philosophy is to be a true philosopher.” And since Jimmy didn’t care much  for philosophy that would further qualify him as a philosopher.

When Jimmy was in the First Communion class in Lacken school the Priest was examining the class in Christian Doctrine. He asked Jimmy “ The good what giveth his life for his flock.” You all know the answer ; it’s from Saint Lukes gospel but   Jimmy didn’t know. “I’ll give you a clue” said the Priest and he pointed out through the window at  Johhny Gallagher’s  sheep in the hill field. He put his hands in the sleeves of his cassock and YOU WOULD BE LIKELY TO FIND HIM WITH THAT FLOCK OF SHEEP. And what would you call him?”

“A ram, Father.”

 When Jimmy’s formal education terminated (or maybe nowadays ‘truncated’ would be a more appropriate word) needless to say he didn’t go into the bank or take up a clerical position. And, surprisingly enough, he didn’t even go into politics. His employment was always of an agricultural nature.

While employed in such a capacity with  a farmer  in Ballyknockan, part of his duties consisted of bringing in the eggs. One day while he was heading towards the farm-house with a hatful of healthy looking embryo-chickens, a neighbour commented. “They’re a fine egg, Jimmy”

“Begob they are” says Johnny ” it wouldn’t take many o’ them to make a dozen”.

He once advised  a neighbouring farmer against buying a specific filly on the grounds that there was a history of infertility in her lineage; or, as Johnny put it, “If I was you I wouldn’t buy that one, she won’t breed because the mother o’ that one never had a foal,”

And then there was the  time  when he cut his hand with a broken bottle and it necessitated stitching and Dr. Clearkin, in Blessington, charged him four guineas for inserting five stitches. As Jimmy was parting with the relevant amount he was heard to say,”I wouldn’t care to have you making a suit”.

There was, at the time, a travelling library, run by Wicklow County Council, which used to visit the area every Wednesday.  Jimmy’s  niece was a member and one week she gave  him her ticket with an instruction. Jimmy  went to the librarian with the ticket and the request, “Mary wants a classic novel”. “How about Pride and Prejudice”? says the librarian. “No” says Johnny “she only wants the one”.

When the Blessington Lake was it it’s lowest ever, in 1978, a British Film company decided to make a documentary on the Liffey Hydro Electric scheme.  An arty looking gentleman with a semi-BBC accent and driving a four by four stopped Jimmy on the road in Ballinastockan and said, “we would like to interview the oldest person in the area.” “Begob yer late” says Jimmy “He died last week.

One day when an learned  gentleman was pointing out the great boon that the Famine-relief schemes had been to the people of the area, ?Johnny put in his tuppenceworth. He said, “Sure, they would have died with the hunger around here on’y for the Famine”.

Like all philosophers there were many skills that he lacked  and one of them was  the ability to put a keen edge on the razor. One summers evening, at the end of Kyle lane, the subject of whetting came up for discussion among the assembled males (some barely of shaving age). Many suggestions were put forward by those who considered themselves knowledgeable in that field. Everything from, “finish it off on your forearm” to give it a rub around the outside of a two-pound jam-pot” was put forward as the recipe for a fine edge.

Jimmy  listened attentively and took on board one piece of advice in particular. Next evening when he arrived at the usual? rendezvous his face was a sight… It was in bits… It would have been a haematologist’s Paradise. His opening line, as he gingerly touched one jaw, was, ” I don’t give a %7/$* what ye say lads, the scythe-stone is not the thing for the razor”. That’s a philosopher for ye.

When the Russians put up the first Sputnik, Sputnik One, what year was that? Me oul head is going. I think it was 1957. Anyhow we’d all be out at night marvelling at this moving star flying across the night shy. That is until ?Johnny warned us of the danger, “Yez are all gone mad looking up at this Sput Nick yoke” says he, ” if a linchpin or a bould hops out of it an’ hits wan o’ yez yez won’t be so fond of it”.

I have, I believe, with this speck brought Jimmy to the world stage. And now there is only one thing left for me to do; and that is to organise a Jinmmy Norton summer School . . .which will have to be held in THE WINTER

Mattie Lennon.

 mattielennon@gmail.com