Nom de Plume—An Extraordinary Life—Vol 1

The True-Life Adventures of Djuna Shellam

 

Excerpt

Chapter One—Nom de Plume

Siobhán Aoife O’Shea

Until my early twenties, Siobhán Aoife O’Shea was my name. Throughout the years I have adopted several names for as many reasons; but today, I am the writer, Djuna Shellam. Why Djuna Shellam? I’ll just say it might be an anagram—then again… it might not. As my Da used to say to me, and always with a mischievous chuckle, his eyes twinkling, “Don’t ever let people know ya, Siobhán. Change your name like your knickers, girl—at least twice a year!” Rest assured, dear readers, my knickers are fresh every day. My identity, however, hasn’t changed near as often as twice a year, but unusual circumstances in my life have led me to take the gist of my da’s suggestion to heart.

Born in Australia, for a long time, I had no idea when I was born or even how old I was. Irish-born Kellen and Eoin O’Shea had raised me in the Australian countryside, but beyond that, I knew nothing until after I left our farm for good. I was approximately sixteen when I took off. Up to that point, though I was unaware of it, I’d lived quite an extraordinary and secluded existence. As a wee child, the O’Sheas, who I knew only as Mam and Da, often told me how I was born in our barn, delivered from Mam’s belly, and by Da’s own hands.

Oh, it was a fine story. I loved hearing it, and never tired of it. You’ll soon discover, as I eventually did, their story of my birth, and most else in my young life, was a monumental tale. The tallest of tall tales, in fact, and an earth-shaking discovery for me when I realised it. It took many, many years for me to overcome the shock and disbelief of it. Ultimately I did, leaving it all behind me. Until now, I’ve not really looked back. As I tell my story, I’ll attempt to reference my age, or what I think it might have been, or the approximate year; understanding in most cases they’ll both be guesses or suppositions.

Mam and Da O’Shea

My mam and da, Kellen and Eoin O’Shea, were slight, wiry people. Da had black hair and dark eyes. Mam’s hair was a light brown that lightened in the summer, but her eyes were blue. Sometimes, amid a story or conversation, they’d roar with laughter and proclaim we were Black Irish. Mam would say, no Da was the Black Irish, and he would say since Mam married him she got Black and because I was theirs, I was Black, too. Though I was never sure what they meant by it, that the very idea of it filled them with such mirth, I concluded it was a pretty fine thing that’s what we were. 

My da was taller than mam, but not by much; and he wore a considerable moustache he’d shape with some waxy muck, twirling the ends until they pointed out as if magnificent wings. Sometimes, for a laugh, he’d let me twirl them, which, I have to say, was quite entertaining for me. Whenever I think of him now, along with his spectacular facial hair, what stands out most vividly were his hairy arms and bushy eyebrows, which fascinated me to no end.

Da’s hair was straight and shiny, and fell over his shoulders, though mostly he kept it tied into a ponytail with a piece of tanned leather. It was black and lightly peppered with grey. His eyes were deep grey, that would sometimes go almost black, depending upon the light or his mood. A pronounced extension of his forehead, Da’s nose was slightly crooked with a distinct, jagged scar across the bridge. I’d ask him if his nose was always that way? With a wink and a touch of pride, he’d remind me it was from an accident while building our house, “With me own bare hands, lass.” 

I especially favoured Da’s smooth cheeks and chin in the mornings, right after he shaved. With a straight-razor sharpened with a thick leather strop, he’d quickly drag the blade to his right, then left across the leather several times back, then forth, slow and sure as part of his morning ritual. To this very day, all I have to do is close my eyes and I can hear the blade pulled against the strop, as if he were standing right next to me. I so loved watching Da shave his tan, weathered face. He could make his bone-handled razor do his bidding without ever drawing a single drop of blood, not even once.

I’d watch him, spellbound. The scent of his shaving soap, another part of his morning habit, also remains with me after all these many years. As the earthy aroma filled the room, I’d experience such a great and overwhelming sense of love and contentment. Late in the afternoons, his beard would rebel against the elapsing day. I didn’t care one bit for his sharp and scratchy whiskers against my tender young skin. He knew it, too, teasing me mercilessly as he’d chase me, threatening to rub his scruffy face against mine as I squealed.

My da wasn’t a substantial man, considering the back-breaking work he often did around the farm. His muscles were of the long, sinewy type and strong. Not a tall man, with somewhat narrow shoulders that slouched, it was almost as if my da’s worn leather suspenders pulled him right over, making him seem even shorter. 

I cherished everything about my da, but I loved his hands the most. Large for his body, at least I always thought as much, they were a right obsession for me. Powerful, and rough from working around the farm they were; yet, deft, graceful and fast as lightening, in particular when he’d show me his endless and magical collection of card tricks. Though his skin seemed coarse to me, Da’s hands could be like giant, gentle and loving mittens. My hand in my da’s was heaven to me, leaving me feeling safe. 

If I got hurt, needing his comfort, he’d quickly gather me up with his big mitts and hold me right close to him, stroking my skin to soothe me. Truth be told, Da was always the one I wanted when I’d fall and scrape a knee, get a scratch, or any of the other myriad childhood injuries or illnesses for what one might want comfort. 

Far less compassionate than my da, my mam would look at my injury, scoffing, “You’re not gonna die today, Siobhán. No need for tears now. Wash yourself and get back to yer work.” But, my da? Oh, he’d pick me up, cuddle me close to him, with the faint odor of tobacco, and say, “You’ll be just fine, wee girl. Wait ’n see. Hmmm…? Have I ever lied t’ya?” His soft, yet deep timbre voice could soothe me like no other. From the moment Da spoke, comforting me in an instant, my condition always improved.

When I think of how he must have been off the farm, the one thing about him that stood out was his large and inviting smile, and hearty laugh. Both were likely winning attributes to strangers. When he laughed, Da’s large, crooked and pale yellow teeth would show from behind his whiskers. His chest puffed with pride, he’d often brag about how he still had all of his teeth. I always thought it was a right peculiar thing for him to say. Why would anyone not have all of their teeth, I wondered? I never asked, but I found it a puzzling concept until I found myself in the outside world with other people. Soon enough, exposed to all levels of dental neglect, decay and toothlessness, I understood his pride. 

A hand-rolled cigarette, or sometimes a small brown cigar, were as a part of Da as any physical characteristic. One or the other was ever-present, clenched between his teeth at the corner of his mouth. It amazed me that Da’s smoking devices never got in his way, no matter the task at hand, managed with a skill I found unduly impressive. In my entire life, I’ve never seen such clean and artful management of a habit that, for most who smoke, can be a dirty and dangerous one, with dropped ashes and burn holes evidence of such.

More than any descriptive I have for him, Da was a nice, loving man. I was glad he was my da and no one else’s.

Beautiful and sweet, my mam had a personality and physicality both similar and dissimilar to Da’s. Though petite, I suppose you could call her body average. Despite her size, she was a hearty woman in every way. It was a rare occurrence for her to ask Da or me for assistance. 

In warmer weather, Mam’s daily attire was a simple cotton shift dress, sleeveless with a length just past her knees. During colder temperatures, she’d wear dungarees and a wool jumper. In the house, no matter the season, she wore moccasin loafers. For working outside, she’d put on a pair of well-worn desert boots. 

Unless plaited into a single braid, or wrapped into a neatly braided bun on the top of her head, Mam’s slightly wavy and shiny hair hung down just past the small of her back. A shock of white hair about two-and-a-half centimetres went from above her left eye to halfway down her back. Her eyes were a brilliant pale blue that could flash crystal with her mood. Dark eyebrows framed her eyes like arches and almost, but not quite, joined over the bridge of a nose I considered strong, dignified. Not pert, but also not too large, Mam’s nose fit her face perfectly. 

Like my da, Mam enjoyed a good laugh, hers being hearty and boisterous. She’d often play tricks on Da just to give herself a piece of fun. They always had a magnificent time together. Not once did I ever hear or see them argue or even use cruel or disrespectful language with each other. 

Mam also had a great and captivating smile, accentuated by a fairly decent gap between her two front teeth. Some might say her teeth were a flaw in her beauty, but I thought the gap made her even more beautiful. Although, once I entered the real world as I call it, based on other people’s definition of beauty, I realised some might consider my parents homely or even unattractive, particularly by those who didn’t know them, judging them by looks alone. But, where Mam and Da lacked conventional popular looks, they made up for it with an overabundance of charm.

Oh, yes, my mam and da were quite a charming pair. In fact, I believe they charmed me into proper behavior. Not only did they not use unseemly or unkind words with each other, but I heard nothing but kindness from either of them, even when I fully expected otherwise because of my misbehaviour. Oh, to be sure, me being a child prone to do childish things, they’d get cross with me. I’d get a good chewing out and sometimes extra chores, but that was the worst I’d ever experience from them.

As I mentioned, Mam and Da would often tell me how much I favoured them, though at some point, I towered over them by a head. Mam always kept my hair short, quickly snatching up remains from the floor when she’d give me a haircut, mumbling something about spells being cast. When I’d try to glimpse my clippings, Mam would swiftly admonish me.

“Siobhán! Don’t look! D’spirits’ll catch ya! Ya don’t want none of dat, girl,” she’d warn.

Because I didn’t know any different, I thought my parents were normal, as was my life. That the books I read about other people and families were pure fiction, the oddity, not the norm. Mam and Da were always kind to me. They also took great care to educate me in all areas of life, whether it was outside around the farm, or learning about the world from our expansive library. Their own competencies and education limited, they still taught me everything, including how to read. Early in my education, especially once I began reading on my own, I soon surpassed their meager abilities. Particularly when they needed information from one of the more advanced books in the library, I became their teacher! I often wondered if their interest in teaching me might have been less about educating me and more about improving themselves. 

Once I began reading, I started noticing the way we spoke didn’t match how some of the words were spelled. Obviously, the English language is fraught with inconsistencies and confusing spelling and pronounciations, but I was particularly curious about ‘th’ words, or ‘ing’ words where we dropped our gs. I once ask Mam about it, how to say th words, and why there was a g on ing words, but we didn’t say it, but… she couldn’t say. She actually didn’t seem to fully comprehend the question.

Later, of course, I learned that think is not tink, or that, they, them, etcetera, is not dat, dey and dem. Eventually, I learned the h and ing gs are silent in the Irish dialect of my parents’. It took me a while after I entered the real world to adjust my speaking. It wasn’t that I wanted to erase my history, but that I had a strong desire to speak as correctly as possible, and not be identified or judged by some dialectic region. I wanted to blend in, not stand out.

From before I can remember, I’d often helped Da on the outside and Mam on the inside in every way needed to maintain our farm. I was both their daughter, and the son they never had. Da taught me to care for the animals, the machinery, the house; how to hunt and butcher, build things, and everything else you can imagine one would need to know to operate a farm. From Mam I learned how to take care of the inside of the house; doing the wash, cleaning, canning, cooking, sewing and various other necessary homesteading skills. By the age of ten years old, there wasn’t much I couldn’t do around the farm by myself. From an early age, they had already begun leaving me to care of our property on my own—sometimes for weeks when they’d leave to “get supplies.”

Beyond the meager information my parents meted out, I had very little understanding of who they were. From time to time, they’d mention Ireland and their families, but without further elaboration. If I dared inquire, they’d change the subject. I didn’t learn their given names until after they’d passed, as they only ever referred to each other as Mam and Da, or Mammy and Dada. I couldn’t say how old they were, if they had siblings, or how they even met. I didn’t even how old I was! They never celebrated their own birthdays or mine, though sometimes they’d allude to me being certain ages. Because I learned about the world from reading, I was well aware of the concept of birthdays, so I’d pestered them about when I was born. 

“How old am I, Mammy? When was I born, Dada? Shouldn’t I have a birtday?” I’d ask too often to count, with always the same reply from both: “You’re here, ain’t ya. Dere’s plenty time t’worry about all dat. ’n who gives a monkey’s, anyway? Birtdays? Rubbish. Mebbe someday…” 

I knew our last name as they would often address me using my entire name: Siobhán Aoife O’Shea in conversation. “Siobhán Aoife O’Shea… it’s time t’milk d’goats. Best get t’bed naw, Siobhán Aoife O’Shea. Siobhán Aoife O’Shea, go fetch yer Da for supper,” etcetera. Once they passed on, however, I ultimately learned the answers to certain questions I either didn’t think to ask, or dared not ask. 

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