A priceless archive has come on stream: the magic of the voice of the late novelist, short story writer, folklorist and teacher, Bryan MacMahon, the Master, caught forever on tape .
Listowel in Co Kerry was his natural home though his spirit roamed everywhere and far beyond his own place. He touched the lives of people through his work as a concerned and caring teacher, and, of course, through his words.
Words meant everything to Bryan MacMahon - the lilt, the meaning and nuance, the sound of them. For a writer the word on paper has a special ring, but Bryan MacMahon was a talker second to none.
No one knew that better than his son, Maurice, a teacher like his father before him. Wisely, he set about capturing his father's voice on tape long before he died in February last year. The funeral, which I covered for this newspaper, was an unforgettable occasion, and very much a Listowel one. When the graveside ceremonial was over, Gabriel Fitzmaurice, poet and friend of the family, intoned, slowly, these lines from the lament for Padraig O Conaire by F. R. Higgins:
"They have paid their last respects in sad tobacco. And silent this wakehouse now in its haze."
But the good news is that the silence needn't be total because Maurice MacMahon was laying down tapes for 15 years. He knew his father's gift and wanted to capture him while he was vibrant, talkative and demonstrative. And he did. "I have some 100 hours of recordings going back 15 years. These recordings were never heard by any person or ever broadcast before." Even now they won't be heard far and wide: at the moment the tapes are for family and friends only.
It was a labour of love, a recognition - albeit by a son - of someone's greatness and simplicity - qualities only he could have seen in such an intimate way, although legions of admirers felt they knew those qualities too.
Bryan MacMahon drew all his sources from his roots and connections. He would have welcomed the fact that in his own place, his own people thought so highly of him.
He had a theory that the printed word and the spoken one were two different worlds, Maurice says. "The bank of say" was a euphemism used by his father who, he says, "was obsessed with the usage of words by people, particularly in the south and west of Ireland". Something, anything, that caught his ear on the street or in conversation, was a gem to be treasured.
After many years of recording - and some cajoling - in the Listowel family home he was able to bring out a limited edition of the tapes recently. "Bryan was in love with people. Encounters, speech, conversation, were the life blood that sustained, nurtured and gave him such pleasure." Thursday, mart day in Listowel, was an example.
"In later years when he could not drive or wander off to Cork, or Clare or west Kerry - his boltholes - he would wander the streets, meeting his beloved friends, in from the country, and fellow townspeople and foreign visitors."
In a personal note Maurice explains his purpose in producing the tapes. "A labour of love and a duty to share this wonderful possession and voice of dad with his own people. As a history teacher myself I realised its worth, but more importantly, it could not sit there in a drawer, all boxed up. The voice had to be given back to the people, to the town that loved him and nourished him, and to his wide circle of friends, whom he loved in equal measure.
"Some beautiful and touching letters have come back to me since I began to realise the effect of the tapes on friends who locked their doors, turned down the lights, and again wandered with Bryan along the road in step and in tune, with the occasional tear and hearty laugh: spirits in communion.
"If nothing else, these letters and reaction made the whole exercise worthwhile for me. My contribution lacks originality - just a little sweat and organisation. Lightning never strikes twice - perhaps in the next generation, the gene bank may produce again."
Maurice MacMahon has an abhorrence of his role in the production of the tapes being construed as anything other than a homage to his father. This is not an attempt to enter the slipstream of his father's fame. For good reasons, obviously, he has called these tapes - a double edition - Among My Own People. They will be treasured by those lucky enough to have them who want to walk again with the familiar Master. The tapes are priceless.
Bryan MacMahon walked the world and was enthralled by it. He tells his son on tape that on one occasion in Listowel, a young lad approached him and asked if he was the "Storyman". The "Master" could hardly been more touched and would later use the title himself. And when he turned the key for the last time as headmaster of his Listowel school, he was warned:
"Watch yourself now, master - fellows like you end up funny." He enjoyed that. But his charisma was such that he could and did change the lives of people, especially the young in the classroom who came to know his wonderment about almost everything. He valued those who were weak academically as much as the brighter ones. To him every student had something to offer - it just had to be found.
One thing worries Maurice MacMahon. As far as he can ascertain, The Final Fling, his father's last book of short stories, which he signed for Maurice in a scribbled hospital signature 36 hours before his death, has not so far been reviewed. He thinks the critics, perhaps, have been worried about paying due respects.
"Pan it, praise it, but don't ignore it," his son says. "The literary critics have observed a sufficient period of respect for the dead man - now review it - literature is literature. Bryan was not that sensitive - neither are the MacMahons. Review the stories - they have to take their chance - ignoring them is insulting the labours of a writer."