Red bricks and cabbage ...

Image courtesy of Magpie Tales

There it was. His first apartment when he arrived in New York City.  Brickwork dull, dark and dingy, just as it was all those years ago.  He noted the rickety staircase. He recalled clandestine lovers with stiletto heels in hand; giggling, ‘shushing’ and exiting sharply before the dawn chorus.

Danny was sure he could smell cabbage soup from the apartment below. Mrs. O Shaughnessy was not a cook. The stench of over boiled cabbage lasted for days. He had never known anyone cook and kill so many cabbages. He hated cabbage.

The old bicycle sign remained, now like him, a little worn and weathered by life’s storms. Robert Sullivan, the cycle saviour made bike hire affordable at weekends. On Sundays, Mickey Dillon and him cycled miles out of the city.  

Today, he returned with his student daughter.  She moved to a studio apartment.  Now settled in a fashionable part of town. It looked nothing like here. More glass, grey concrete and characterless.  

What stories might the old apartment tell if those red bricks could talk? 

What if real people answered the telephone?

New York at night Vivienne Gucwa courtesy of Magpie Tales 

I am not a great lover of automated answering services; you know the type, Press 1 for this, Press 2 for that, Press 3 for the other and on it goes. The weary tone of the recorded message says ‘Please hold the line we are trying to connect you’ has a hypnotising effect after the third announcement.  Unfortunately when it’s a needed service and I’m a ‘valued customer’, I have to wait and listen.  At times the music can be painful and all too much.  For me, that’s not customer service it’s more customer disservice! Maybe I’m turning into a Grumpy Old Woman? (Consider this a rhetorical question!)

On my ‘To do’ list today, I needed to track down a ‘lost gift’ I sent over the festive season to a friend … a little surprise … I love surprises and I hoped that he would like my surprise gift.  When I called the Company to enquire after the ‘lost gift’, a real person answered the telephone. Her name was Jane, her voice clear and friendly, her manner helpful and efficient.  Within minutes she had dealt with my enquiry, provided me with the information I needed and offered to help should I need any further assistance.  Now that’s customer service. Thank you, Jane.

I wasn’t sure how to tackle this week’s Magpie Tale but then a daft idea floated towards me.

HE       Okay, so where are we going this evening?

SHE     Option 1 – Cinema, Option 2 – Dinner, Option 3 – Walk in the park

HE       Dinner sounds good to me

SHE     Option 1 – Pizza, Option 2 – Pasta, Option 3 – Salad?

HE       Fish & Chips not on the menu then?

SHE     Selected options only Sir, 1, 2 or 3?

HE       Don’t you think you’re taking this new job as automated voice artist just a bit too serious?

SHE     Yes, No, Maybe?

Have a good week everyone and may all your customer encounters be less of the automated kind!

Magpie Tales – Streets of gold

Photo from Tess over at Magpie Tales

"But … it’s not!”

“Not what?”

“Gold, you said the streets would be paved with gold and they aren’t!”

“Keep digging, you probably haven’t dug deep enough. Not enough blood, sweat and tears from you yet, young man.”

“But Da, my hands are blistered and my back is killing me. I didn’t imagine it would be as tough as this!”

“And how did you imagine it would be?”

“I thought the land of opportunity would be better, not so much of this physical work. I certainly didn’t expect us to be building the streets and working on the pavements. We could have stayed home if all we wanted to do was dig!”

“The trouble with you is you’ve never had to exert yourself too much. I blame myself for that, I’ve been too soft in my ways and your mother constantly making excuses for you has not done you any favours. But times are tough and now we need all the work we can get. We need to feed the family back home.”

Back home seemed a lifetime ago. Several months travelling in a coffin boat full of emigrants wasn’t the most thrilling journey to New York City. Malachy O Reardon and his son Jed had managed to secure the last two places when the ship sailed from Cork harbour in Ireland in the summer of 1847.

It had been a painful farewell at the harbour for them both. Saying good bye wasn’t easy. Neither of them knew if they would see the family again. But there was no choice now, no choice at all it seemed, staying in a country no longer able to feed its people didn’t count as a worthwhile choice. People were dying, the crop had failed. In order to survive and provide for his family of five, Malachy O Reardon had to go to America, had to be on that ship to New York City and had to earn a living to send money home. He took with him his eldest son Jed, only fifteen and much to learn about the harsh realities of life. Jed hadn’t been a strong travelling companion. Three weeks into the trip he suffered from ‘ship fever’. Malachy thought that he might not even make the journey to America and questioned his judgement about taking him; he was after all only a child. How would he explain to his wife that her son didn’t make it? But Jed survived despite the odds, the overcrowded cabins and the unsanitary conditions.

Malachy knew that the boy was missing his family and friends and the familiarity of ways back home. He was finding it hard to settle in the dark and overcrowded hostel which was usually full of older men who like themselves had travelled to find work. Many of them were homesick and resented being treated like second class citizens. They often resorted to heavy drinking and gambling to while away the time after work and lessen the pain of loneliness and despair in a foreign country. Many of the men had only managed to pay for a one way ticket, in the hope that life and work in the ‘land of opportunity’ would provide enough wealth and fortune to send for their families when they got established in the new country.

“Da, da, come over here. Look at this. Quickly, down here. Just below the spade. Can you see it?” shouted Jed.

“Shh ... lad, keep your voice down. You’ll have the whole gang here in a minute,” replied Malachy trying to contain the boy’s excitement.

Malachy walked across to where his son was working. He looked down at him in the big hole of dirt filling up with water. Piles of broken pavement heaped on either side of the growing cavity.

Jed O Reardon laughed and handed his father two small, dirty coins.

“You could be right Da; maybe the streets are paved with gold after all!”