I should have known we'd get some funny looks, walking down Main Street with an axe. I should be more specific, lest I be accused of gilding the lily in the interests of a good narrative. Tony was actually carrying the axe, I was just enjoying the difference between shopping in Manorhamilton's Killasnett Co-Op, and the huge, trendy DIY stores in Dublin, where everybody wears a little uniform, but nobody knows where anything is.
We'd known that we needed an axe since last September, when the nice ESB man came all the way from Dromahair to cut down some dead trees in the garden. If the branches are extending into the wires, the ESB will do this for nothing, but it was out of the kindness of his heart that the man left the wood neatly piled in a corner.
"That'll be great for the fire," said Tony, ignoring my arched eyebrow at the thought of an imminent "Iron John" experience. Needless to say, the tree bits have remained untouched ever since and it was only because we were in one of those DIY emporiums on a recent visit to Dublin that the question of the axe raised its head again. I caught Tony staring lovingly at a Gucci version, with a leather shield priced £36.
"Maybe we should try the coop at home," I suggested gently. The co-op, after all, is the real thing. Screws, nuts, bolts, silver ladders, hoses, gloves, hammers, every conceivable tool, chimneys, string, paint all crowding in, seemingly in random order. And the men who work there really know where everything is. "An axe? Sure, Hubert will show you where they are."
So down the yellow brick road we descended, into Killasnett's Emerald City, only to find the Gucci version (for £10 less than its Dublin equivalent), and also a perfectly practical one, with a red handle, for half the price. With all those male hormones embedded into the timber shelves, I could see Tony getting into the swing of things. "Is Tony going to put the wood on a block and then go wham?" was Leo's question.
It was too hard to explain that, as we spoke, Tony was discovering the reason for the existence of chainsaws and the feminist backlash. Could I help it if I found all that swinging for very little result totally hilarious? Not to be bested, he returned from the garden with a whole basket of chopped tree. "You see, that ash was the problem, so I thought I'd start with the dead wood," he said triumphantly.
And great stuff it was, flaring away in the fire, just like a real rural hearth. Tony's stress levels were the only problem: "Jeez, burns fast doesn't it?" he kept saying all evening, the prospect of another trip to the garden rather spoiling the experience.
We decided we'd stick to the Manor Blocs, locally manufactured, which burn forever - just until the weather improves, you understand, and Tony's upper body recovers from the experience. I'll also have to stop making snide remarks about The Wizard of Oz, tins of oil, and Mr Woodcutter's little silver hatchet.
Other than abandoning a log-fire Christmas, everything else is going swimmingly. Last week Leo and his pal Ross Elliot and I decorated our front window which looks out on to the street. It was the can of snow which drove the two boys wild. "How about a big 2000 sign, in white snow letters?" suggested Ross. "Yeah," chorused Leo. "We could put a crib in the window, or would that be too Leitrimy?" I think he meant traditional, so we settled for a lantern and candle, some sprigs of holly in a vase, and a robin perched on the edge. I'm still not sure about the robin, but you have to concede occasionally.
It was great being in Leo's classroom for the school play, with so many parents from the town, everyone mouthing the lines we knew by heart. It was an amazing experience to see people whom we interact with every day gathered in that small room. The classroom became the town for that short hour, vested with a sense of community I know I'd never, ever experience in Dublin.
We've booked our perch in Mary Gilbride's pub for Christmas and the New Year, and I'm so looking forward to bringing in the new century having a drink with Mary and her husband Willie.
Other than that, I just want to thank all those who have written and e-mailed me about this column over the past four months, from Antwerp to Arizona, from Lurganboy to Limerick. And, of course, to wish everybody in Manorhamilton a Happy Christmas and prosperous New Year, and my heartfelt gratitude for their acceptance of the oddities within their midst.
Living on Main Street will next appear on Thursday, January 6th, 2000.
emcnamara@irish-times.ie