ballyshannon, donegal, irish newspapers online, ireland, irish history, irish literature, irish famine
 
vindicator.ca - Linking Canada and Ireland vindicator.ca - Linking Canada and Ireland
  
 


A good natured man-A tale from the past

John James was a good natured man. A bachelor, he had lived alone for forty years after the death of his mother. And, like many a bachelor before him, felt himself grow more isolated as he aged. His health had been deteriorating for the past few years. Arthritis seized his joints, and for no good reason his teeth began to ache, and ache.

John James had a mortal fear of dentists, and he didn't have much trust in doctors either. A horrific experience with a tooth puller in his early years had left a gaping hole in his jaw bone, and as time passed the left side of his cheek fell in leaving that side of his face with a permanent tilt. After that he never went near a dentist, even the younger ones with their new fangled drills and pain-killing anesthetics.

"I didn't have any teeth when I came in, and it won't bother me if I don't have any when I go out," he'd say.

One by one his teeth began to fall out. Mind you, this didn't happen in a short space of time. And one by one his joints grew stiffer and stiffer.

Came the day he realised his days were numbered, and for the first time he thought of what the world would think of him when he was gone.
Not that it really mattered, since he had outlived most of his generation. With only a few cousins left, and a number of nephews and nieces, some of whom he had never seen, he was, to all intents and purposes, bereft of family relations.

They had all stopped coming to see him years ago. To them he was a self-centred old man, always complaining, never satisfied, always going on about the faults he saw in others. A visit with him was a trying time, and when they left they felt drained. Truth to tell, they had passed the point of caring whether he lived or died. Anyway, there was no point in caring. John James had no money, no possessions anyone would want, and if the old bugger snuffed it, so be it. His passing would hardly be noticed.

How to change their perspective? How to make his passing something for them to remember? These were the questions that now began to occupy his mind. How could he make up to them for his own behavior over the years?

If only he had money.

Well, he didn't have wealth. But supposing, just supposing, he had money how would he bestow it?

John James died on a Monday. By Tuesday phone calls had been received by the cousins and the adult nephews and nieces, phone calls from a solicitor no less, informing them of his death, when the burial would take place, and, wonder of wonders, when and where his will would be read.

"John James had a will? I don't believe it!"

"All I can say at this stage is you'd be advised to be present."

There were arguments, conjectures, and the examinations of conscience that lasted well into the night in the various households where the message had been received.

Two days later every living relative of the deceased gathered in the solicitor's office at the appointed hour.

First, a letter was read, a personal letter written in scribbly handwriting by John James himself. In it, he expressed sorrow for the miserable treatment he had shown them, hoped they would forgive him, and would now know how he wished to make amends. Then came the will.

"To my cousins £100,000 each.

"To my nephews £100,000 each.

"To my nieces £100,000 each.

"The balance of my estate to….." and there followed a list of charities.

The relations were dumbfounded. What had John James been hiding from them? Where did he get such vast sums of money? What estate?

From a separate envelope the solicitor withdrew another piece of paper.

"This," said he, "is the estate. To be divided as stipulated."

It was a sweepstakes ticket. And it had cost John James all the spare cash he had.

As I said, John James was a good natured man. It wasn't his fault that the horse which his ticket drew fell at the first fence in the Grand National at Aintree. Somehow his relatives thought otherwise.


Home | About | Canadian Vindicator | Literature | Gallery | History