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The Saturday night ritual of shoe polishing is described in detail in this memory of a family weekly event.

The text, to the melody of Biddy Mulligan, is a nostalgic trip down memory lane to the people and ways of the past, and, to cultural practices now gone.

The poem is a snapshot in time, noticing the small nest in a less than secure setting.

The roll is called, Big Jim is gone, his voice we’ll hear no more,
But his name is etched forever on the pages of folklore.
For those who knew this gentle giant, he was an easy friend to love
And on Good Friday evening Jim was called to Heaven…

Among the rocks near "Miley's"
We had our own "Wild West"
Tom Mix, Roy Rogers And Hop Along,
Were the heroes we love best.
With wooden guns and steady aim,
We hardly ever missed,
As we shot down all the outlaws,
Upon the " Wanted List".

But…

Long, long ago ancestral lore was passed on orally;
The spark to light the Cultural Fire was lit in family
And local neighbours and the clan, all warmed to that same Flame
And so all came to act the same, all Keepers of the Flame.
Ár gcultúr…