In a word . . . old

I like old things; the older, the deeper the attachment, writes Patsy McGarry

Mon Mar 09 2015 - 01:00

My favourite divinity is the God of Old Things. I like old things; the older, the deeper the attachment. There’s an old pair of jeans I’ve grown so used to that, despite being almost threadbare, I cannot part with. Also an unremarkable mug I’ve used for years without which coffee just doesn’t taste as good. And my mother, now 86.

It is, of course, about separation, or its likelihood. And comfort. The sort that comes with auld acquaintance.

I had a coat once from which I would not be parted. Heavy and navy blue it saw me through my student years; protector against cold, wind, and rain. Often an overnight blanket. It began life with the FCA. A friend, still a friend, gave it to me. (I was not allowed join the FCA. My father claimed only “gutties” did.) My friend was no gutty but he didn’t want the coat.

I wore it grandly with its light green colour and brass buttons until, as a group of us headed a protest march into Galway city against cuts in student grants, a colleague said the guards could arrest me for wearing State property. So, en route and between us, we removed the brass buttons with their shiny harps.There were no arrests. Afterwards my blessed mother arranged to have the coat dyed a deep navy blue and thereafter I wore it on many other marches without anxiety. I wore it for years. Some must have thought it was a particularly unusual outer layer of skin. We were inseparable – more so as the years passed, until it began to disintegrate. Our eventual separation, though inevitable, was not easy. We had lived so much life together.