“The king is dead! The king is dead!” Kenneth shouted over the garden hedge. I ran into our house and broke the awful news. “Well, he’s not our king,” Mammy said calmly.
In 1952, we were the only Catholics living in a four-house cul-de-sac off the Ballymahon Road in Athlone. We got on well with our Protestant neighbours, but tensions surfaced at times, such as when my mother overheard Kenneth say to me, “My mummy said that that the Tiernans are common.”
Protestants were different in lots of ways to us “Roman” Catholics, but to me and my brother, Brian, the defining differences between them and us were that they wore underpants, had proper toilet paper and ate cornflakes instead of porridge.
When we complained about these deprivations, our lives improved somewhat. We no longer had to put up with cold bottoms and cut-up Westmeath Independents, but Daddy would not yield to our whingeing for cornflakes. He was from Mayo, and deep in his subconscious, maize was synonymous with famine and the workhouse.
On his home farm it was fed to the animals and was known as “Injun male” or “yella maize”. It was not for humans, even if it came in a fancy box.
Such was his belief in porridge that he seldom missed an opportunity to remind us of its powers. Every heavy rock we lifted, or if we won a race or scored a goal, all were down to the “stirabout”.
“That’s the porridge for you! Keep eating the porridge,” was his mantra.
Summer holidays were spent in Laytown. At breakfast one morning, I was worried. At the table were Daddy, Mammy. Brian, younger sister Emer, myself and a teenage babysitter. “My mickey was really big this morning,” I announced.
The babysitter went beetroot and ran out, saying she was full. Mammy kept looking down at her plate, while the rest of us just stared at Daddy. He did not let the opportunity pass. “ Good man, Kevin! That’s the porridge for you. Keep eating the porridge.”
Almost seven decades later, and proud grandfather of 11, the power of porridge never ceases to amaze me.
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