Seventies vibes

(from l to r) Michael, Simon, me, Mason

I find myself looking at this picture a lot just lately. It almost certainly has a lot to do with the fact that I’m writing about life in the early 1970s at the moment as my novel jumps back and forth from then to the present day. It helps me recall memories, emotions. And as such, is great material.

I have a copy of this on my mobile so I can refer to it when writing on the move. But the photo also sits on my mantelpiece so when I’m watching tv my attention often drifts over to where it sits in all its glory, centre stage among the other favourite, though random, pap shots. I remember that the picture was taken on a Sunday. I know this because my brothers are all wearing their Sunday best and I’m wearing a bonnet. Something I’d conveniently erased from my memory. I mean, who wants to remember themselves in a bonnet. If I didn’t have this picture to remind me of the unfortunate state of headwear back then, I truly would have argued blind that the frilly hat you see here never once graced my head. But, I digress…

I remember it’s Sunday, but I don’t remember whether we’re on our way to church or have just returned. What I do know and what is reinforced in the picture here is that I wasn’t happy about it. About the bonnet or going to church I suspect. I didn’t choose to go to church. We had to. And in looking at the expression on my face here it’s clear that some sort of internal struggle was going on. Maybe the patent leather shoes (with probably the biggest buckle I’ve seen on a shoe) were too tight, perhaps it was cold and I could feel the nip in the air on my exposed knees, but certainly I remember, vividly, that I didn’t want to go to church. That I didn’t enjoy sitting through the hour-long Catholic service, with its ritual, repetition and riposte. I didn’t understand then that it was ok to have your own relationship with God, outside of all that. But I do now.

I like to think my defiance shows in the way I’ve refused to hold my hands in prayer pose. A hint of rebellion, perhaps? But there’s something very vulnerable in my expression that doesn’t quite fit this explanation. I think, in reality, we were prodded and arranged and coiffed and re-arranged so the picture would be ‘just so’.

My mum took this shot. I can imagine how proud it made her. Her middle four children, scrubbed up and looking Sunday school sharp. But looking back, what this does for me is bring back all those childhood memories of reluctant Sunday morning excursions up to St Luke’s on the high street, sitting in freezing wooden pews; listening to Father Breen espousing the Catholic faith and me counting the minutes before a rice and peas and chicken lunch. Yes, really great material…