{"id":3864,"date":"2026-10-27T08:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-10-27T08:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=3864"},"modified":"2026-10-22T08:39:35","modified_gmt":"2026-10-22T07:39:35","slug":"at-85-she-has-played-the-organ-at-midnight-mass-in-the-same-kilkenny-church-since-1965-and-still-practises-on-tuesdays","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/at-85-she-has-played-the-organ-at-midnight-mass-in-the-same-kilkenny-church-since-1965-and-still-practises-on-tuesdays\/","title":{"rendered":"At 85 she has played the organ at midnight mass in the same Kilkenny church since 1965 and still practises on Tuesdays"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>The first chords rise before the candles are fully lit, and her fingers still know where the light is. At eighty-five, she walks the same <strong>aisle<\/strong>, settles on the same <strong>bench<\/strong>, and sets the bellows breathing like an old friend. \u201cIf you can <strong>listen<\/strong>, you can play,\u201d she laughs, patting the polished <strong>keys<\/strong> as though soothing a skittish colt.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>Her life has a metronome\u2019s <strong>discipline<\/strong> and a river\u2019s quiet <strong>flow<\/strong>. Christmas Eve gathers the town; Tuesday keeps her ready. Between those two <strong>beats<\/strong>, an ordinary week becomes its own kind of <strong>music<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<h2>A long devotion in a small place<\/h2>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>The church is stone and <strong>echo<\/strong>, the kind that holds a note until your bones feel <strong>brighter<\/strong>. She first climbed the loft steps in 1965, a year of new <strong>haircuts<\/strong> and restless <strong>streets<\/strong>, but up here the world moved at <strong>hymn<\/strong> speed. \u201cThey asked who could <strong>read<\/strong> music,\u201d she recalls. \u201cI raised a shaky <strong>hand<\/strong> and learned not to show the shake.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>Organ benches age with their <strong>players<\/strong>, collecting secrets in the worn <strong>grain<\/strong>. This one knows her patience, her winter <strong>lamps<\/strong>, the soft click of a tin of <strong>lozenges<\/strong> before the Gloria. It knows who she watches: not the priest or the clock, but the faces in the fourth <strong>pew<\/strong>, where worry sits and hope <strong>rises<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>A parishioner once told her, \u201cWhen the opening <strong>chord<\/strong> lands, I remember my <strong>mother<\/strong>.\u201d She kept the remark on a folded <strong>note<\/strong>, tucked behind Psalm <strong>23<\/strong>, a reminder that notes build the bridges <strong>words<\/strong> sometimes <strong>can\u2019t<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<h2>Tuesdays that keep the hands true<\/h2>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>She practices on <strong>Tuesdays<\/strong>, rain or bright <strong>cold<\/strong>, when the nave is only <strong>pigeons<\/strong> and her <strong>pulse<\/strong>. The music stand holds dog-eared <strong>scores<\/strong> that smell faintly of <strong>wax<\/strong> and hymnbook <strong>ink<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>\u201cI do scales to <strong>think<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cI do hymns to <strong>feel<\/strong>. And I do silence to <strong>learn<\/strong> what not to play.\u201d The room, large as <strong>memory<\/strong>, listens back.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>On the rail she keeps a modest <strong>list<\/strong>, the ritual that tethers one week to the <strong>next<\/strong>:<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<ul><\/p>\n<li>Warm the wrists and <strong>shoulders<\/strong><\/li>\n<p><\/p>\n<li>Test the reeds and the <strong>stops<\/strong><\/li>\n<p><\/p>\n<li>Revisit the tricky <strong>cadences<\/strong><\/li>\n<p><\/p>\n<li>Leave ten minutes for <strong>quiet<\/strong><\/li>\n<p>\n<\/ul>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>By noon she locks the cabinet, writes a <strong>date<\/strong> in her spiral <strong>notebook<\/strong>, and leaves a crumb of <strong>chocolate<\/strong> for the caretaker who pretends not to <strong>notice<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<h2>The sound of belonging<\/h2>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>Kilkenny is a city of <strong>stone<\/strong>, of alleys that hold their own soft <strong>weather<\/strong>. On Christmas Eve you can trace the parish by the shawls and <strong>scarves<\/strong>, by thermos <strong>cups<\/strong>, by cousins you recognize even with their backs to the <strong>door<\/strong>. The organ\u2019s first breath gathers them, and her second <strong>breath<\/strong> holds them there.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>\u201cPeople think the organ is <strong>loud<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s not loud so much as <strong>wide<\/strong>. It makes a place feel like it can hold your <strong>trouble<\/strong>, and still keep the doors <strong>open<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>Once, during a storm, the power <strong>dipped<\/strong>. Candles flickered, and the young <strong>choristers<\/strong> looked up for a sign. She found a narrow register that would still <strong>speak<\/strong>, flimsy as a paper <strong>boat<\/strong>, and rowed the hymn to shore while the rain argued with the <strong>roof<\/strong>. After, a father shook her <strong>hand<\/strong> and whispered, \u201cThank <strong>you<\/strong>. We needed one steady <strong>thing<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<h2>Passing the keys<\/h2>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>She has begun to teach a teenager named <strong>Aoife<\/strong>, whose left hand is a little <strong>brave<\/strong> and a little <strong>late<\/strong>. \u201cThe trick,\u201d she tells the girl, \u201cis to listen to the <strong>breath<\/strong> between the lines. You don\u2019t conquer this <strong>instrument<\/strong>. You learn to <strong>serve<\/strong> it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>The parish will not last without its small <strong>exchanges<\/strong>: a key pressed into a new <strong>palm<\/strong>, an old bench shared for a careful <strong>hour<\/strong>. \u201cI tell her the pedalboard is a second <strong>heart<\/strong>,\u201d she confides. \u201cYou feel the <strong>truth<\/strong> of the tune where the floor meets your <strong>feet<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>She insists her legacy is merely a good <strong>habit<\/strong> kept long <strong>enough<\/strong> to become a <strong>gift<\/strong>. But habit is the architecture of <strong>comfort<\/strong>, and comfort is what draws people through a December <strong>night<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<h2>Christmases through the stops<\/h2>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>Repertoire is a <strong>memory<\/strong> palace. She can call up the winter of the miners\u2019 <strong>strike<\/strong>, the baptism that mended a family <strong>rift<\/strong>, the year an infant sobbed through O <strong>Holy<\/strong> Night and the soprano kept right on <strong>climbing<\/strong>. Each carol opens a drawer of <strong>faces<\/strong>, each descant a small, winged <strong>courage<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>\u201cThese days I favor the gentler <strong>stops<\/strong>,\u201d she admits. \u201cA flute over a <strong>trumpet<\/strong>, a whisper over a <strong>shout<\/strong>. Age teaches your ear that tenderness travels <strong>farther<\/strong> than force.\u201d When the choir hits a shaky <strong>interval<\/strong>, she leans them back onto a sure <strong>chord<\/strong>, and everyone inhales at the same <strong>time<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>After midnight, the church exhales its <strong>crowd<\/strong> into a cold that pinches and <strong>brightens<\/strong>. She wipes the keys with a soft <strong>cloth<\/strong>, a gesture like blessing or <strong>farewell<\/strong>. The bench waits for another <strong>year<\/strong>, though of course there will be <strong>Tuesdays<\/strong>\u2014the honest middle of a faithful <strong>story<\/strong>.<\/p>\n<p><\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat keeps you going?\u201d someone once <strong>asked<\/strong>. She smiled, turned back to the <strong>console<\/strong>, and let the smallest pipe <strong>speak<\/strong>. \u201cThe way the first note becomes the <strong>second<\/strong>,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd how, together, they make a place feel <strong>home<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3960,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3864","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3864","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3864"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3864\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3908,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3864\/revisions\/3908"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3960"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3864"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3864"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3864"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}