Remembering Matty on Mother's Day

Tyrone (written twenty years ago)

Getting Offside

The Kerry sister wanted to do a bit of decorating for Matty. Dutifully, I asked if she would like me to help her. Instead, she requested that I take Matty out for the day so she could get on with it.

So, we headed in the direction of Tyrone, stopping first for coffee in Draperstown. When I was a market trader, I visited Draperstown twice a month. I had always liked the town’s wide streets and the way it nestled among the foothills of the Sperrins. I loved the soft voices of the people. I also encountered my first transvestite in Draperstown—wearing a cheap wig and a dowdy cloth coat, far from glamorous, yet possessing a quiet dignity.

While we were there, Matty said she wanted to look at some shops. She led me into the most old-fashioned hardware store in the world. The only objects that could possibly have held the slightest interest for me were some Pyrex measuring jugs.

‘Can I help you?’ ventured the young assistant.

‘No, just looking,’ I replied. Looking at what? Coils of rope? Shovels? Galvanised buckets? Then Matty piped up, ‘But I thought this was a dress shop.’

Onwards to Tyrone—Land of My Ancestors

Gortin

Matty’s parents came from Tyrone. Granda’s family were from Moy, and Granny was born in Newtownstewart. While Granda’s people had migrated to Belfast in search of work, Granny spent her childhood in Plumbridge. There were cousins in Gortin, so to Gortin we went, as Matty reminisced about a wonderful holiday she and her sister had spent there in the summer of 1947 as guests of their mother’s cousin, Mamie. We found the road where Mamie had lived, but the lane was overgrown, and the cottage was long gone.

This is one of the joys of driving Matty around—she starts remembering and telling stories. As this journey was one she had taken many times with Daddy, some of the stories were particularly poignant. Once again, I listened to the tales of their meeting and courtship. She told me about the funny sayings and silly games they enjoyed as they traveled together. She recounted the wonderful holiday she had with Mamie. It had been her first time apart from Daddy since they had started going out, and she had written to him three times in two weeks.

‘Did he write back?’ I asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Sure, he never wrote a letter in his life.’

Apparently, she had written to reassure him that she hadn’t run off with some Tyrone boy. For according to Matty—and I do not doubt her—she had been very popular with boys in her youth.

Hearing Matty’s stories, I sometimes feel envious of the times she lived in. That holiday in Gortin, a mere 60 miles from home, had been such a novelty for her. She told a story about how she and her sister, out on borrowed bikes and having gotten lost, met a group of young, kilted men, also on bicycles, returning from Twelfth of July celebrations. These fellows escorted them back to the right road, and she recalled how exotic it felt to be riding alongside a troop of Protestant boys in kilts—something that would have been unthinkable behavior at home.

Matty and I behaved very well in Tyrone. We waved at passers-by and were extremely courteous on the road. ‘After all,’ Matty said, ‘anyone here might be your cousin.’

On the way home, Matty asked me, ‘Do you ever look at the clouds and imagine you can see pictures in them?’

I replied, ‘Not while I’m driving.’

One From Nineteen Years Ago

 

Hannah has a new enemy although she remains at daggers drawn with her old enemy Evil Nat West. She declared war on Evil Northern Ireland Railway yesterday evening after one of their vile and smelly trains refused to let her off at Cullybackey. The door wouldn't open and she was whizzing off to Ballymoney before she knew it.

All that after a hard day at Nixt! and an evening session with the dentist. She had been so pleased to make the train as, ever the considerate daughter, she wanted to save me the trouble of picking her up in town.

But oh! The rage. Apparently, she gave the poor guard a right earful. And her with the frozen mouth and all. I bet he was scared. He refused to take any responsibility at all. All I could do as she raged all this down the phone to me was agree with her that NIR were evil and their employees all stupid. And of course, their trains are crap.

Bert the Wonderful volunteered to pick her up in Ballymoney. By the time he got her home, she had calmed down. A little.

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The above was posted in 2006 – a lifetime ago. Why, I was only a girl back then, rather than the decrepit old crone I am today.

We no longer think of NIR as evil; in fact, I took two train trips just this past week. The first was to Holywood, a town I had never visited before, and the second to Ballymoney, from where I continued on to Balnamore – a village I've never been to, despite it being a mere sixteen miles away.

I was going to see Leitrim Sister and her extended family and friends, who were staying in what was once Balnamore Hall – an intriguing house that I hope to visit again.

The main purpose of this visit was to meet the apple of Leitrim Sister's (and Dmitri's) eye a little fellow just two and a half. He was definitely the star of the show and well worth the journey.

Update

I was summoned to court for jury duty on Monday along with many others. I was not among the chosen few and did not need to attend in person for the rest of the week, which was just as well because Kerry Sister was Up North for the week.

On Tuesday we visited most of the local charity shops, with the one in Ahoghill being, by far the best.

On Wednesday, we visited Belfast, where we explored the Ulster Museum, the Tropical Ravine, the Palm House, the charity shops on Botanic Avenue, the Linen Hall Library, and An Cultúrlann on the Falls Road. We walked everywhere and had a thoroughly enjoyable day. 

Thursday, Friday - Kerry Sister made herself available to other family members, and I caught up on some house and garden chores. Thursday evening she called to my house and gave me a quick tutorial on the sewing machine that I've had for more than a decade but never used. Truth be told, I was scared of it. But not any more! Since that evening transformed a Monsoon dress into a skirt, a Laura Ashley one into a top and made myself some new PJ bottoms from an Ikea duvet cover. Looks like I've found a new hobby. 

Then yesterday, KS and I popped into the Factory Craft Shop, where I bought new scissors and a stitch unpicker. I'll definitely be needing that! 

What I thought would be a week filled with civic duties turned into a holiday instead - and I enjoyed every moment of it. More please!

Tomorrow is a bank holiday, St Patrick's Day so no court. Instead I'll go grocery shopping with Vee and I'll take a wee juke into the Factory Craft Shop. I need new blades for my rotary cutters. It seems if they are not used for five years (or more) they go blunt. Then I should be able to complete the patchwork quilt I started all those years ago.  

I will be in court again on Tuesday. Hope I'm not picked.

Hand-sewn quilt top made from Pearlie's aprons. I'll be finishing it on my not-so-scary-now electric sewing machine.

Gardening Time

 That’s my first day of jury service done, and as everyone should know, the first rule of jury service is – you do not talk about jury service. Today involved a lot of waiting around – and in the end, I wasn’t one of the chosen few. Phew!

I’m let off for tomorrow, too, which is just as well because Kerry Sister is Up North, and I will spend some time with her. I'm looking forward to it.

With her visit in mind, I had ventured out to the polytunnel on Sunday - my first proper working day there since Storm Eowyn ripped the cover off the middle bay. I wanted to tidy up my overwintered perennials in the hope that she’d take some off my hands.

Bert was working there too, and as usual was telling me about all the jobs I could be doing.

Those Sweet William could do with being planted out.

That honeysuckle needs cutting back. You could do that.

He always does this. I told him he was overwhelming me. He said I just don’t like being told what to do. I disagreed. However, after giving it some further thought, I realised we were both right - I did feel overwhelmed, and I definitely don’t like being told what to do.

One From Five Years Ago...

 ...just before lockdown.

Silly Spring

Merzy dotes and dozy dotes

And little cavvsy divy

A bird'll eat peanuts too,

Wouldn't you?

Dance like no one is watching

Play like no one is blogging

She said to him,

The Bann is great

It's not too late

To learn to swim

He said to her,

I would not dare

For I don't care

To wet my fur

What Chickens Think

There's a quare stretch in the evenings

It's nice to see a wee blink of sun

I wonder will the woman bring pizza again?

What Robins Think

Gardener - dig!

Any other robin comes near me I'll rip his head off!

Only 292 days to Christmas.

Masterclass

Martha and I went to Belfast yesterday. She had a masterclass at the Opera House, taught by Melissa Hamilton, a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet.

I took the train from Cullybackey; Martha boarded at Ballymena. For a moment, I didn’t recognise her. Her hair was pulled tight into a ballet bun, she was wearing contacts, and there was a light touch of makeup. She looked lovely.

I walked her to the front of the Opera House, where she was meeting a friend, and then set off for the shops. I had an hour to spare.

I went to the Seasalt sale, looked at everything, and bought nothing. In the next shop, I did the same- looked and walked away. There was something oddly satisfying about not buying.

For old times’ sake, I stopped by Fresh Garbage. At first glance, it was just the same - cluttered, dimly lit - but everything seemed tawdry, thrown together. The place was full of teenagers. I didn’t stay long and, of course, bought nothing.

For a short while, I sat on a bench in Royal Avenue and listened to a street preacher holding court. He railed against stealing, lying, and fornication—then warned against Muslims, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Rome. Muslim, he said, not Islam. That annoyed me. I felt an urge to walk over and tell him he was a narcissistic prick, but I didn’t feel up to making a scene.

My next stop was Waterstones – as I had a gift card worth ten pounds. I chose two short story collections, one by Kate Atkinson and one by Jan Carson. At last, something worth buying, and I only had to part with £9.98. Time to return to the Opera House.

Martha’s class had fifteen minutes left, so I took a seat in the auditorium to watch. It was a delight to see. Afterward, Miss Hamilton made sure each dancer had a photograph with her before they left the stage, all flushed with happiness. Martha wasn’t so tired that she wasn’t up for a walk to Botanic and she told me everything that she loved about the experience.

At Botanic we made a quick foray into the vintage shops, but unfortunately, coffee was unavailable across the whole of the avenue due to a water supply issue. I had to make do with apple juice but, despite that small setback, it was still a wonderful day.

Gossip

During a conversation with a friend, I mentioned that someone from our townland had suffered a serious financial setback many years ago. She was shocked to hear this and asked how I knew. I replied that I had heard it at home—local gossip.

"I never gossip," she said. "Nor does my family." I took this with a pinch of salt; everyone gossips.

The original person who had shared that information about another's finances was in our house again this morning. He told us that a house on our road had been bought by a lord. According to our friend, this ennobled and putative neighbour wished to be addressed by his proper title at all times.

Bert queried,

"And what would his proper title be? Your Lordship? Lordy?"

I replied,

"No! We'll call him Ballbeg. That's his proper title. But if he's a Scottish lord, we must call him Bawbag."