Two From Twenty Years Ago

 Two little posts from October 2005. Mum was still around then, as was George.

Also, where have all the street drinkers gone? They must all have houses now, which is nice.

Belfast City Airport was officially renamed George Best Belfast City Airport on 22 May 2006, to honour the footballer shortly after his death in November 2005.

The cafe that Matty and I liked to frequent back then was Ditty's in Castledawson. Happily, it is still there and still serves delicious food.

Matty Misunderstands

Whilst sitting in a cafe in Dawson City today I picked up the Sun newspaper. The front page story was about George Best and I showed this to Matty. We both examined the accompanying picture which showed Bestie looking frail and wan. I said it was a sad thing that he had destroyed two livers with his drinking. Matty continued to peruse the photograph and said, "He's looking well."

Overheard

Overheard on the streets of Ballymena today

Street Drinker 1: Hows about ye mucker!

Street Drinker 2: Long time no see!

Street Drinker 1: I heared ye were murdered!

Street Drinker 2: Naw. I was in Coleraine.

Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.  

Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

A Tale Of Two Cakes

It was just over a year ago that Bert took over baking the family birthday cakes, and I was only too happy to let him. Our system was simple: we agreed on what he’d bake, I went shopping for the ingredients, and then I laid everything out – the recipe, the scales, the bowls, the spoons, the tins, and their liners.

Bert would assemble and bake the cake, take it from the oven, and leave it to cool. I prepared everything for the icing and decoration, and Bert handled the finishing touches. We’d stand back to admire the cake. Compliments would be lavished upon Bert. Afterwards, I cleared away and washed up.

The very first cake Bert baked was for Martha. He chose the recipe, though neither of us remembers which one, and the photographs don’t offer many clues. What is clear from the pictures is that Martha didn’t look especially pleased to receive it. At the time, this is what I wrote, back in 2024:

‘When a young woman hits her mid-teens she may not be just as excited about birthday cake as she once was. But that's OK. When you've experienced many birthdays, you can be excused for feeling a certain ennui.’

As it turned out, I was wrong. Nearly a year later, the real reason came to light.

In 2024 Martha had been asked what cake she wanted for her birthday and she’d asked for chocolate. Didn’t matter what recipe I picked, just let it be chocolate. Then Bert decided he’d make the cake and I let him choose the recipe. It wasn’t chocolate. I was so excited for him to be baking the cake that I forgot Martha’s request.

Bless her. She never said at the time, but she could not help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t teenage angst at all. Well, maybe it was – just a teeny-tiny bit.

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I chose Zoe's photograph because it showed Miss Martha (now a sweet 16) beaming her beamiest smile.

Chocolate, mascarpone and cherry cake

Happy Birthday, Martha!

Seamus and Granddaughters

 

Unposed pictures are always the best. This one must be from the late ’80s or very early ’90s, around Christmas time. Daddy has just come in, or is about to head out, still with his cap on. It was taken on Drumkeeran Road, before his younger daughters laid the wooden floor. My three are there, together with their cousin Sadie, and Jess, Mammy and Daddy’s collie, looks as though she is still just a pup.

Today is his birthday.

Gently Does It

 

Just easing myself back into blogging after the longest break ever.

Since my last post, I spent five days in London with our newly widowed sister. What a hard loss it has been to her, and to all of us who knew and loved her Jonny. 

Then, barely home, I was straight into preparing for a four-day visit from the children’s father and his partner. That all went smoothly enough, though on the second day, we had to say goodbye to our oldest dog, darling Judy. 

Today Jonny’s funeral date was set, and Zoe, who is far more capable with these sorts of arrangements than I am, booked our travel and accommodation. I was grateful to leave it in her hands.

Meanwhile, Bert baked me a cake from a recipe in Saturday’s Guardian. The family were here for supper, and I blew out some candles - for I will be 72 years old tomorrow. Zoe had to take the photographs in portrait mode to fit in those tall girls, who tower over their little granny.

I used to think I looked like my ma, which made me feel old enough. Now I’m starting to resemble her mother, my Granny McAnespie — and that makes me feel really old. But who cares? I’m here, and so are you. We might as well make the best of it.

Stuck

 Stuck

The photograph was taken in Leitrim about ten years ago at a large gathering of family and friends, marking a special birthday and all that comes with it. It was a wonderful party, so well attended that cars had to be parked out in the fields -and the fields in Leitrim can be fairly boggy. All three of my brothers-in-law are in that picture, along with Bert. 

There’s another big occasion coming up in the autumn, one we’ve all been looking forward to - because it isn’t often that we get together as a family. And I think it may still go ahead. But this time, someone very special and dearly loved will be missing: London Sister’s husband, who died so suddenly just over a week ago.

There is so much that could be said about Jonny, for he was one of the best. But for now, just this: he brought so much, and we will miss him terribly.