Up the Gatineau! Article
This article was first published in Up the Gatineau! Volume 8.
An Irish Wake
Alfred O'Hanlon
The origin of the Irish Wake is lost in the mists of pre-history. All tribes and races had some form of a brief, or prolonged, ceremony in disposing of their beloved dead. However, we will confine ourselves here as to how the lrish grappled with this very human dilemma.
There is no doubt that the Wake as we know it, with some embellishments, sprang from pagan rituals. The early missionaries the Church sent over to lreland had great difficulties overcoming pagan beliefs and practices. It is believed that a missionary named Padriac (St. Patrick) made a breakthrough by plucking and holding up a three-leafed shamrock, enabling him to explain the "Holy Trinity". The wild unruly pagans quickly grasped the significance of three Gods in one and were well on their way to Christianity. The gentle but wily Padriac and others who followed him turned a blind eye to much of the pagans’ behavior but, where possible, absorbed and sanctified many harmless rites and beliefs. Let us never forget that Irish scholarship was a beacon of light throughout the "Dark Ages" which blacked out Europe for centuries.
From the recesses of childhood memories l seem to recollect a saying amongst the Irish, which goes something like this:
When a babe is born — tears will flow
When a man dies — joy he will know!
Of course, this may come from the mournful aspect of the Irish character. But I have noticed at some Wakes an element of merriment; especially if the deceased had expired after a long useful life. It also may explain why there is an over abundance of bachelors in old Ireland.
But I have digressed enough. Permit me to relate my attendance at a Wake, one cold and windy night — up the Gatineau!
(To spare the feelings of people still living I have altered or avoided actual names of people and places.)
When Pat whistled from the road I was ready and waiting on the veranda of the house. It was a black, cold and windy night. The house was in darkness, everyone having gone to bed. I was getting chilly so when the whistle came I trotted briskly down the path to where I knew he would be standing by the mail box. My eyes, by now, were well used to the darkness and I spotted his lanky form by the gate. Being Halloween I thought I'd sneak up on him and scare him. With a roar I pounced but he merely pinned me to the ground and said, "Come on — let's get to this Wake."
Pat and I were in our early twenties in this year of our Lord — nineteen hundred and thirty-five. We went everywhere together and were to have a life long association that by right should belong in the Guinness Book of Records.
We had a two mile walk ahead, then a turn off through the bush for a half-mile to reach the farm-house set in its own fields. Our boots made a comforting sound on the frozen gravel. As we rounded “Ghost Corner" I asked Pat why he was speeding up. He disdained to reply or maybe the heavy wind in the trees blew my voice away.
To walk out of a sea of darkness and to see the warm glow of light from the windows of an isolated farm-house is something many people today will never know. The simple fact is that there is no total darkness over the land today and coal oil lamps are a collectors’ item.
Although I knew the people holding the Wake very well I was not obligated to attend. Pat had to. As he so indelicately phrased it, "I’m some sort of shirt-tail relative." I had gone along for the company. It must be remembered that Wakes fell into the same social category as weddings, births, dances, picnics and building bees. Sorrow or joy brought the lonely farm people together.
At the door we were welcomed, in a heavy stage whisper, by the son of the house. Our jackets were taken and we were ushered through into the living room. This was a very big room with a high ceiling from which hung a large chandelier. From the hissing sound it made I assumed it was fueled by some form of bottled gas. The coffin was in the center of the room resting on two saw-horses which were draped in some darkish material. Pat and I stood side by side, made the sign of the cross, then gazed down at what had been the lady of the house. If anyone had lived a long and useful life, I knew this lady had. I thought, fleetingly, of the years of toil she had endured and turned to find a place to sit.
All the furniture in the room had been removed and long wooden benches placed along the walls. Short benches were used where the walls were broken by doors — of which there were two. One door led to the kitchen, dining room area and outside. The other door led to a hallway which had a rather majestic stairway leading to the upper reaches of the house. The room was packed with people of all ages. As time wore on I noticed the smaller children did a vanishing act — no doubt to bed. In the crush of bodies I noticed few women so assumed most were helping out in the kitchen area.
By any standards, up until this time, this was as fine a farm-house as was ever built in this part of the Gatineau. Unfortunately, the Provincial Government of the day was not too interested in the welfare of its farmers. A power dam had been built in 1927 at Paugan Falls but the farmers living in the area got none of the power. They were forced to do without electricity for many long years while the power was siphoned off down to New York State.
I became aware that I was becoming very uncomfortable. I was wedged between two large gentlemen of the soil who were puffing furiously on clay pipes. It appeared to me they had also spent several days spreading manure and were even smoking some of it. Being a non-smoker at the time I knew I was going to die. Too many bodies, too much smoke, too much wood in the furnace was definitely going to call for another coffin for O'Hanlon! A hand grabbed me through the haze. It was Pat. He told me to “come on". Outside he turned to me fiercely and said, "How can you stand it in there?" Then he said, "Jack and Kelley brought a jug from the Dutch woman. Don't worry about them. They are passed out in a wagon over there. We'll have a few belts of the jug, then go back for a short while, then beat it home." After several swigs of the fiery moonshine we went back into the house. I had no sooner found a seat when a late comer entered the room. I could only gape at him. He must have stood at least six and a half feet tall. An immense bald head made him appear shorter. I judged him to be about 60 years old although his skin appeared smooth. But it might have appeared smooth being stretched on a 300 pound frame. He wore what looked like a very worn semi-military overcoat buttoned to the chin and which fell to within an inch of the floor. I had the impression that the coat might have belonged to a Hessian soldier about the time of the American Civil War. People were calling him Mr. Dom and I gathered he came from up near Gracefield. I could not take my eyes off him. His facial expression was one of extreme placidity — a veritable Rock of Gibraltar. Towering over the coffin he tilted his face to the ceiling. I was startled to see tears gushing down his cheeks. I thought, “Boy — what a grandstander". Suddenly I lost all interest in Mr. Dom and his tears.
I could have sworn I felt the floor shift under my feet. I had heard that the Dutch woman's moonshine was suspect. But, dammit, the floor was moving under me. All the glass in the windows began to rattle. The chandelier began_to rotate. The house seemed to tilt. Screams and the crash of cups and plates came from the kitchen area. I found I was paralysed. No way could I move. Then the stampede began. With a bellow similar to what I'd heard in the stockyards at Low, bodies hurled themselves at the doors. I watched, fascinated, as Irish chivalry went down the drain. In the pile up at the door I saw Mr. Dom who had what appeared to be a woman upside down in his arms, butting his way through the mob.
Gradually I found I could move. The coffin had slewed around but maintained its balance on the saw-horses. I and it were alone in the room. I could hear the pounding and snorting of horses and the rattle of harness outside. Then all became quiet except for what sounded like distant thunder. I thought I'd sit awhile when I heard something coming from the hallway. I looked out there. An awesome apparition stood at the top of the stairs. It was all in white. It croaked, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph — what's going on down there?"
As I breezed out of the house and was pointed in the general direction of home it dawned on me that the apparition was the dead lady's poor old husband who had been jolted awake by the earthquake. He was a tall old man and was wearing a long white night shirt with a night cap which had a tassle hanging down the side. Satisfied, I slowed down. Another figure passed me in the night. Somehow I knew it was one of the sons heading back to the house.
For months afterwards, people whom I knew had been at the Wake, had a curious habit of averting their gaze when I approached.
To this day, Pat won't even mention It and has never taken a drink since. I have not been to a Wake since I935.
This article was contributed by Alfred O’Hanlon who spent part of his youth near Low, Quebec but who now lives in North Battleford, Saskatchewan.