Mr John Conneely - the man we called ‘Mista’

The primary school year is drawing to a close. Homework has taken a a backseat for the past few weeks as school tours, sports days and exciting adventures became a priority. Permission slips waiting to be signed for fun activities were all that occupied some very light schoolbags over the past few days. 

As our own two boys headed off to school over the last few days with big smiles on their faces it took me back to the final days of Third Class (1992), which coincidentally our eldest is in now.

There was excitement from pupils in St. Paul’s BNS, Castlerea about to join Third Class as stories circulated from older students about fishing trips, history excursions, nature walks and meditation to mention a few activities. When I did finally join this class, it didn’t disappoint.

Academically we had daily general knowledge quizzes and competitions for our times tables where the winner would receive anywhere between 20 and 50 pence to go wild on cola bottles in Jack Cleary’s shop afterwards. That 20 pence piece had us all rhyming off the tables after a few weeks.

It was the other areas of life where our teacher excelled and was incredibly unique for me. Every day after the Angelus we had a period of meditation where all students closed their eyes, having to picture each colour in our minds as he counted down from red seven, orange six, blue five right down to white one. When we reached white one, we opened a door at the bottom of a stairs and further used our imaginations for a good ten minutes to picture something, which brought us happiness. Of course, it would be natural for one of the 27 boys in our class to break wind or get up to some mischief to zone out of the zen period. As a grown adult I get what the teacher was trying to achieve and to this day these simple techniques can do a mind no harm.

On wet winters days he packed his Fiesta with as many as could fit, to avoid anyone having to walk home in the rain. I felt he had our best interests at heart.

On a few occasions we had nature trips to the Demesne in Castlerea where we listened to the sounds of the wind and birds in the trees. We gathered leaves which we would trace out when we returned to the classroom and learned about the different species of trees and what lived in them. He made us aware of our surroundings and to appreciate  them.

We learned about Irish folklore through listening to cassette tapes about Fionn MacCumhaill and the Fianna, the children of Lir and Cuchulain. As I sat at my desk listening to these recordings my imagination went into overdrive painting pictures in my mind of all these wild adventures.

Trips to Clonalis House followed where 27 ten year olds marched from the school up to the door of the towering Clonalis estate to learn about the incredible history of the O’Conor Don family. This was no folklore though, this actually happened on our doorstep.

The blackboard often acted as a tactics board as he picked teams to play football against the class above us on the hallowed grounds of the school football court. This wasn’t everybody’s a winner stuff; it was for pride of the school and it moulded teammates. The same court was the first stomping grounds for many future county footballers.

Third Class was really a school year that I didn’t want to end. As the summer holidays approached, we were told to bring in a fishing rod and some sausages or rashers if we had them to spare. Early one summer sunny morning we walked from the school with fishing rods in hand to Kilkeevan next to St. Patrick’s Hospital at the time. We were shown how to cast off the line into a shallow part of the River Suck. As we sat in the long grass with the sunshine on our backs waiting for the fish to bite, our teacher set up a campfire and started to fry some sausages which filled the fresh air with a unique aroma that got some bellies rumbling. Even at the tender age of 9 going on 10 I knew that this was not your normal school year and would be hard to match.

On our final day before we broke for summer, we were each handed a poetry book. When I looked at it, I realised it was all composed and written my Mr John Conneely. It may be 32 years ago almost to the day, but it still only feels like yesterday.

He gave me an appreciation for poetry, nature, and my surroundings which I’ve carried with me into adulthood, and it left me in no doubt that our late teacher Mr John Conneely was no ordinary “Mista”.