The Rattle of Buckets
There was a rhythm to it — a kind of joyful chaos that returned each May. National Collection Day wasn’t just a date on the calendar; it was a living, breathing event. Volunteers filled the reception in Park House early in the morning, buckets clattering as they were handed out. Laughter bounced off the tiled walls. Some were veterans of the day, others first-timers watching nervously as they were handed their badge, high-vis vest, and a location sheet.
Back then — in the years between 2008 and 2010 especially — there was energy and a sense of pride. You felt part of something. Someone would make tea while we waited for taxis, and there was always a last-minute scramble to find a pen or a missing sign. But it never felt like a burden. Staff and volunteers helped each other, and you knew everyone’s name.
Once the buckets left Park House, they were dispatched to the regional offices. From there, they were issued to the local collection point supervisors — usually the ones who had worked closely with us in the lead-up. At the end of the day, it was the supervisors who had the responsibility of ensuring each bucket was emptied of cash before being returned to Park House. They were also in charge of logging the takings into the bank — another layer of trust that kept the process local and accountable.
Once the buckets left Park House, they were dispatched to the regional offices. From there, they were issued to local collection point supervisors — usually the ones who had worked closely with us in the lead-up. At the end of the day, it was the supervisors who ensured each bucket was emptied of cash, logged the takings into the bank, and stored the buckets safely.
Interestingly, the buckets themselves often didn’t return to Park House until weeks later. They lingered in storage rooms, cars, and back offices, slowly making their way back in batches. It was a slower, more human process — no tracking numbers or couriers, just people doing their best.
No one worried then if a note was found later, buried deep in the coin pile. It was simply added to the tally — because trust still lived in the room.
Collection Day wasn’t perfect, but it belonged to us. To the community. There was no contract to chase, no call centre or courier. Just Rita, the volunteers, and a team that — even when small — believed enough to make it work.
Those were the years before things began to change.
In around 2016, Special Olympics Ireland relocated its headquarters to the newly established Sport Ireland Campus in Dublin 15. The move was framed as a sign of progress—state-of-the-art facilities, integration with national sports bodies, and a fresh image. But for long-time volunteers and athletes, it signaled something else: the end of an era. Within weeks of the move, Rita—who had coordinated the National Collection Day for years, right up until 2013—quietly stepped away from the organization. Her dedication had raised vital funds and built bridges between the public and the athletes, yet her departure passed without ceremony. For many of us, it was more than just a resignation. It was a quiet goodbye to the version of Special Olympics that had once felt personal, grassroots, and deeply human.
For Josephine, the changes that followed were stark. What had once been a welcoming community slowly became something more structured, more controlling. The new headquarters brought new policies. Personal visits became harder. Invitations were discouraged. By 2017, our connection—once strong and steady—was quietly dismantled by rules and subtle pressures. Though Josephine remained committed to the club, she often did so at great personal cost, skipping meals to afford rising fees and conforming to expectations that left little room for outside friendships.