Melvyn & Sharron Pearson |Tandragee|Co Armagh BT62
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Uncle Isaac, Wee Icky. Never married, and had a very close rapport with his mother,
Harriet until she passed on. Isaac was always sensible and never that I can recollect
rash in any way. He enjoyed his trips to his local Watson's with my dad and Freddie.
A hard man to shift out of the house as weather deterioration would influence him
no end. A man who always complained of minor ailment, and no doubt he had some. The
c
old settled on his chest countless times. Time off work for Isaac was outside the
norm for the usually hardworking Pearson family and the common cold paid heavily
on man-hours. He worked most of his life in The Factory, as it was locally known,
the only existent employer in Laurelvale. Ownership of The Factory changed hands
down the years. It started off as Sinton’s Linen Mill then Hoffman's; they made
aircraft parts during World War Two. Finally it became Air Conditioning and Engineering
Limited under the management of the Brown family from Portadown.
Air Con as it was
locally known manufactured farm bits and bobs like massive feeder bins for chicken
houses, mail feeders, vents for air conditioning and had a foundry for producing
complementary items. I can recall Isaac working a large Press Machine used to bend
metal into a shape ready for the next process. His fellow partner was Fred Lynass
from Rose Park. I actually had the pleasure of working with both during school holidays
where my father had reminded me each morning to keep working, no slacking and stick
rigidly to the timings for lunch otherwise I would be up the road, sacked. This
philosophy was not echoed by Isaac and Fred as they seemed to have a toilet roster
to read the paper, long chat periods to discuss the management and fellow workforce
and so on. Isaac’s punctuality was also in question. He had to walk about yards
from Number 24 Quality Hill to the clock in machine, all downhill as well. His goal
time was eight in the morning but seldom did he achieve this objective, much to my
fathers’ aversion. I can remember Isaac making a mad rush past the gatehouse of
the factory towards the clock machine, late, the manager Mr. Brown pulled up in his
car, lowered his window and said ‘' Late this morning again Isaac’? To which Isaac's
retort was ‘I'm a wee bit late my self'.
When the brothers congregated at Number 24
before an expedition to Watson's or the Dart Club to partake of a Guinness and whisky
chaser they found it nigh impossible to get Isaac out of the house, not that he did
not want to go, he meticulously checked the lights were out, the gas was off, the
water taps turned off, the ‘snibs’ on the doors engaged, Harriet was comfortable
and secure, shed doors closed and locked, the list continues. And not only once
did he check these items he checked and rechecked and checked again. This was probably
the reason he was behind schedule for work most mornings as he had to go through
this customary ritual before leaving the house each and every time. Isaac would
habitually have to run after my dad and co to catch them up on the Watson Pub Dander.
Having
documented detrimental, or it may seem that way, reminisces of Isaac it was part
of his character and his demeanour was often the subject of conversation when the
pub was in due course reached. I bear no malice nor harm to him and I have only
admiration for a man who seen his mother ‘right’ during her later years. He has
given me resource for this publication and kept me in craic for many hours. At the
Quality he kept the Banty Hens when Granda Jack died and worked a vegetable plot
to put greens on the table. Soup by the way was a weekly event at Number 24 and
Harriet would make it on Saturday in preparation for the Sunday. The broth was tasted
by all and sundry who passed the large saucepan on the kitchen stove. Not least
my father, before they set off for Watson's and when they came back from Watson's. It
was a wonder there was any broth left for the Sunday repast at all.
Wee Isaac died
on Sunday 12 October 2002 of a heart attack in Craigavon Area Hospital one day after
I had penned the words about him. The Pearson family has lost a truly remarkable
wee man who never said a cruel word about anyone or anything. He died having seen
the Lord and it was his wishes he was waked in Mullavilly Parish Church of Ireland,
before being buried beside his father, my grandfather Jack and his mother, my grandmother
Harriet. When Pearsons meet it will be a sadder place without Wee Icky, God rest
his soul, but at least Heaven’s gate will be locked and secure at night, for Wee
Icky will make sure of that.
WEE ICKY