Birthday Memories

Our mother was born 100 years ago today. Here are seven photographs of her with each of her seven children. I think they show how much she enjoyed spending time with us - just as much as we enjoyed being with her.

 Martha Byrne, 28th July, 1926 to 27th April, 2011

Remembering Matty On Her Birthday

I used to think my mother would live to be over 90, but it was not to be. She did have what’s often described as a good innings, a cricketing term, I believe. She was almost 85 when she died, which was a decent stretch by any measure.

Today would have been her 99th birthday. We’d have been holding out for one more year and a telegram from the King, but it wasn’t to be.

Still, to mark Matty’s birthday, here’s a wee story about a jaunt we once took to Portglenone. One of the things I’ve missed most since she died are those runs out in the car. She was the best craic as a travelling companion and never, ever criticised my driving. 

This was posted in 2008. Three years before Matty died.

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey today. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't understand the etiquette of Mass cards, so I decided to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings, so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily, she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of a priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. A monk is sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice, I do not know. Probably the monk, as he was 50+.

I quickly chose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile, Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand-new shoes. No shoes were purchased - she just bought another beige skirt.

Mum with her last dog, Jess. They are sitting on a bridge at the top of the Drumkeeran Road. It's not there now as the road was widened when the 'line' became a dual carriageway. I believe Matty might be wearing a beige skirt. If it's not beige, it's dusty pink, which is practically the same thing.

 I really miss her. We all do.

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.’

More Apple Dumpling

I am finding it hard to settle to fresh blogging. So back to the trusty stopgap - a recycled post. This one is almost 20 years old. Some things have changed since I wrote it, some things haven't. Swisser is still annoying me, and I have not gotten any fatter. The big change is that Matty's not here any more. She will be gone thirteen years tomorrow.

Apple Dumpling

Mother and I went to the Hospice shop in Magherafelt yesterday where I picked up a denim skirt and pink stripy cheesecloth blouse both size 20. That shop is damn good as there is little competition in the area and there are lots of rich people (good quality cast offs) about. There are also loads of large well-fed people too as there were plenty of XL sizes. I am building up an extensive wardrobe of size 20 (and above) garments since getting amazingly fat. Sometimes I console myself that I’ve only gone up one dress size and that I was only kidding myself I was size 16 anyway.

Whilst putting on the denim skirt this morning I noticed that my waist appears to have risen. Let me explain. You know ladies that a huge amount of us wear the wrong bra size and that the starting point of measuring up for the proper size is underneath the bosom. Well that is where my waist has crept up to. My under-bust measurement and my waist are the same and in the same place. Nelly is now the shape of an apple with little arms and legs sticking out – and is that a cherry on the top?

A wise woman once told me that I shouldn’t worry about putting on weight as a result of stopping smoking. She said that after about a year the weight would go down again. Oh God I hope she is right.

Then another wise woman told me that a menopausal woman turns into an apple with little arms and legs sticking out, and then she gets diabetes. Thanks for that Swisser.

One From 19 Years Ago

I posted the following piece back when our lovely Matty was still in the land of the living. It was nineteen years ago. We were still living down the road and in the process of having this house renovated.

I spend a fair bit of my time sailing Matty around the country and recently I've been coming to the conclusion that hanging out with the very old is a lot like hanging out with the very young.

Here's some of the stuff I used to have to do for Zoe, Katy and Hannah when they were little ones.

• Hold on to them in town for fear they might run into the traffic.
• Monitor their unsuitable conversations with complete strangers.
• Encourage them to eat nourishing food.
• Leave them at home if I was going to do some serious shopping.

Now take that last point. Last Wednesday I visited a plumbing supplies shop in Kilrea and Matty came too. Now when the shopowner realised that I needed a lot of stuff for the new house he went into selling overdrive. After about two minutes I got awfully bored as he was speaking Plumberese and I don't understand Plumberese except for the odd word like pipe or tap. Now normally I'm awfully good at cutting these conversations short, usually by being very blunt. On this occasion I put it to him that I didn't understand a word he was talking about and that I was just here to look at the pretty baths and basins and that Bert would be along shortly to talk technicalities with him. But because I was also keeping an eye out for Matty I couldn't concentrate properly on getting away. Meanwhile Matty was becoming very restless indeed. Just like a toddler who hates this boring shop and wants to go somewhere more interesting instead. She was at her usual tricks. Wandering around aimlessly whilst sighing heavily, looking as if she might collapse if somebody didn't come and take her to a charity shop this minute and I swear I think I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, kicking one of the baths.

When I wrote this I did not have grandchildren. That was still five years in the future but since they've been around I've had the whole taking small kids shopping experience all over again. And yes, I stand by what I said then. Shopping with the elderly is not unlike shopping with little ones. Except, maybe, if a little one falls over they get picked up, dusted down, given sweeties and all is well. If an oldie falls it's ambulance time and a day and a half in Accident and Emergency. Thankfully that never happened with Matty and fingers crossed, it won't happen to me. For it's only a year or two to when it will be Miss Martha keeping me from walking into the traffic.

A Dozen Years

 A collage for Matty's twelfth anniversary. One with each of her seven children. Let the pictures tell the story. She was well-loved and she loved well.

Dandelions

Driving to Antrim last Saturday I noticed that the dandelions were in their full flush. It brought back memories of those days eleven years ago when Mammy was living out her last days and everyone was at home. I drove out there every day, sometimes just to sit with her, sometimes to take whoever else was minding her out for a bit of respite. We were all ready to say goodbye to her and, at the same time, nowhere near ready to have her leave us.

Eleven years ago we were all there at her side when she died and Martha the first, and at that time the only great-grandchild was there too. 

Martha (her namesake) brought her such great joy in the last year of her life. This picture was taken only a few weeks before Matty died.

It seems we are not one of those spreading out families. Matty's children (seven of us) produced eight living grandchildren. six girls and two boys.

My six siblings and I with our mother. 

Then there were the grandchildren.

Again, just two boys. A third boy, Mark William was stillborn in 1993.

On to the next generation. Matty only got to meet Miss Martha although great-granddaughters Ava and Evie were both on the way when Mammy died.

These are Matty's great-grandchildren, the ones she never met. Including Martha, there were nine of them and just the two boys. Their great-grandmother would have adored each and every one of them.

The last baby, Séanaí, is happed up in a crocheted blanket made by his great-grandmother Martha. she would have been delighted so I shall be delighted in her stead.

   

Birthday Memories

Most years I write a post on my mother's birthday. Today would have been her 95th. These are some of the memories I've posted since her death ten years ago.

Martha Martha

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 86 years old.

Remembering Matty

Matty would have been 87 years old today. I would have been visiting her with my card and present. Still miss her every day.

This is one of my favourite pictures of her, cradling her great-grandchild and namesake, Martha. She loved that child with all her heart. I wish she could have met Martha's sister, Evie, for she would have been just as adored.

Birthday Memories, July 2014

Matty would have been 88 years old today. I'd always thought she'd live to her nineties for there is a saying around here,

a creaking gate hangs longest.

She had a great concern for her health and was always worrying about something. The odd thing was when she did become seriously ill she barely complained at all.

It's a strange one today. I always think about Mum on her birthday but today I am also thinking about Pearlie who died eight days ago at the age of 88.

During the lead up to the funeral, a great many things were, as we say in Ireland,

put on the long finger. 

These included the vegetable garden, the bees and, of course, the laundry. After the funeral, I washed all of Pearlie's things intending to recycle most of them and today was the first day in many years that I put on a wash that included nothing of hers. It was strange and, to be honest, a bit of a relief.

I mentioned that the bees and the garden were neglected. On the day of Pearlie's funeral, there was a swarm of honey bees hanging from an apple tree. No one had time to deal with it and they flew away. During the wake, the birds finished off the currants but that did not matter too much as I already had pounds and pounds stashed away in the freezer. The vegetables in the polytunnel were unharvested and it all turned into a jungle. I just about managed to keep on top of the watering which was just as well as we had a heatwave.

So here we are - remembering Matty which is poignant and sweet and missing Pearlie Blue which is strange and new.

A photograph of Matty and Pearlie took nine years ago when they were both fit and well. 

28th July 2015

There are only 365.25 days in a year so it's not that great a coincidence when folk share birthdays, anniversaries and so on. Even so,  at 20 years old, I was quite taken that my new boyfriend and my mother shared the same birth date.

Forty-two years later my mum has gone, the new boyfriend is an ex-husband and still a friend. We have between us, three daughters, two granddaughters and a grandson. Today is Mick and Matty's birthday. For the first time in decades, he is here in Northern Ireland and staying with us for a couple of days. He's had a lovely day and said as much on Facebook. Today he went to Belfast Zoo with his partner Linda, his two lovely daughters, his two lovely granddaughters and Fergus. Zoe made him a cake. Tonight he and Linda are here with me and we're watching TV and generally having a nice time.

Matty would be delighted. She was very fond of Mick. Last night, I sorted out a few things and came across her handbag, the handbag she used for the last year of her life, and a gift from me. We got it in an outlet centre in Antrim. For some reason, it ended up here and it was a couple of years before I could even open it. It contains a purse full of euros, all her various cards and this photograph. It was taken not long before she died. It's not even a proper photograph, just a sample from some Photobox pictures that Zoe ordered.

Martha Amy is in the foreground, the only one of her great-grandchildren she ever got to meet, and she is wearing a crazy hat that Matty knitted, And that would be one of the last things Matty ever made. I wonder where it is now? Some one of us will be treasuring it I'm sure, just as I treasure her handbag which is in the picture, sitting at her right hand.

Ah Matty. Missing you still. Happy birthday Mum.

Mick's birthday card

The following is part of a post written in 2018. 

Today was our mother's birthday. She would have been 92 years old. I always thought she'd make it to her nineties but she didn't. And although I don't believe in an afterlife I wish I did because then I'd know she'd be looking out for a special person (1) that she never got to meet but if she had, she'd have loved her very much.

This is from last year

The road, by Sinead

Today was my mother's birthday and it gained another layer of meaning (2).

(1) The special person I was referring to was Ava, Mum's second-born great-grandchild. Ava was very seriously ill in July 2018

(2) Ava died in September 2019. The first person in our immediate family since Matty.

Ava, picture by her Auntie Naoise

*

Happy, Happy Face

 Post from 10 years ago, about a bike ride from more than thirty years ago.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Biking It

Matty and I went out for a bike ride probably a quarter of a century ago. I can't recall very much about it. I only know that I was with her for that is my blue ladies racer lying in the hedge. It's not that good a photograph - I should have got all of Matty's bike in there and avoided those pylons. And yet - it is a good picture. Look at her happy, happy face.

It is one of those pictures taken in the olden days that were not considered good enough for a frame or an album, just one of those photographs thrown in a box and forgotten about. Then decades pass and everything changes and then they become precious. That bike ride I can barely remember but there she is. We must have enjoyed ourselves for just look at her happy, happy face.

Matty's Tales

Matty told me she was chatting the other night to this old guy Davy about wee still. Davy was telling her that when he was young he was visiting friends in the Glens of Antrim and the young fellows of the family took him to meet the local poteen maker. When they called at his house they found the poteen maker taking the first run of the still. He drew off a cup to taste it, but before he drank, he threw poteen on the ground to his left and right. Davy couldn’t understand why he’d done this and asked his friends the reason. Everybody laughed at him for his ignorance. The still-maker told him that the first cup drew off the spirit must be given to the fairies. Failing to do this would bring the worst of luck.

Then Matty told me this story from her childhood. A neighbour of hers from Creggan, a very superstitious woman, was going on a journey to Belfast. Before setting out she sprinkled oatmeal on her head. This was supposed to protect her from the fairies. Matty said that this was the stupidest thing she had ever heard in her life. “What did she think was going to happen? Did she think the fairies were going to come down from the Cave Hill and carry her off?

She asked me if I believed in fairies and I told her that I wouldn’t rule them out. The fairies I’d believe in would not be the Victorian, gossamer-winged sort though. They would be much more likely to be malicious little creatures with a look of Gollum about them.

(I wrote this blog post 15 years ago, changed a few words here and there and added the photograph of myself and Mammy sitting in her kitchen. I don't remember who took the photograph. I'd guess either Kerry Sister or Zoe.)

Martha/Matty/Mother

Today is the 10th anniversary of our mother's death. Last night I spent an hour looking through photographs to pick a few favourites. A few! There were so many that were my favourites - I just couldn't choose.

Mum was a cheeky and confident wee girl going by the few remaining snapshots, a fashion-conscious teenager and a delighted bride. There were no solo portraits during her mothering years. I expect that if there was film in the Kodak camera then it was pointed at us. That changed as Matty grew older, when her children started taking photographs. There are hundreds to choose from in the white-haired years.

Matty claimed not to like having her picture taken but I think that wasn't entirely true. I always tried to distract her, or better still, make her laugh. She had the loveliest smile and an infectious laugh. Her smile came easy.

I have been trying to think what I'd like to say about her on this day, ten years with only memories to go on. Something that was special about her and it is this. She never stopped growing as a person, she knew there was still more to find out about life. She was improving with age. I always thought we'd have her until her 90th decade. Imagine how wise Matty would have been by now. But still, weren't we lucky to have her as long as we did.

Martha/Matty/Mother, still loved and missed, on this day and every other day.

In Her Own Words

My mother at around eight years old. That would have been in the early 1930s. She looks feisty.

It is her anniversary today, and she's dead nine years now. She would have despised lockdown. No callers, no runs out in the car. I'm glad she missed it.

Matty would have been pleased to know that we were all thinking of her today. And as staying at home and baking is the new going out I am happy to be able to share (courtesy of Kerry Sister) our mother's recipe for boiled cake.

And this is Mum's recipe for wheaten bread which comes (I think) via Ganching.

I haven't got a recipe but I do have this piece of writing. I am certain that if Matty had ever got to grips with social media she would have had her own blog.

OUR DOG JESS

I was born on a farm near Cullybackey and when I was seven weeks old I was taken from my mother. A girl called Mary lifted me and put me in a cardboard box. She was taking me to her Dad as a present for his birthday now that he was retired. We arrived at Drumkeeran Road and Mary took me into the house and sat me down on the floor. The first thing I did was a piddle for I was very scared.

The big man looked at me and said,

“You are not exactly the kind of a dog that I would’ve wanted but now you are here Matty and I will look after you.”

Mary went back home knowing her Dad was pleased with his birthday present.

Matty made me a good place to sleep in the wash house and that place was called “bed”. When the big man shouted “bed” I ran and jumped into it. That was the first word I learned and next was my name “Jess”. I was happy enough with that name because before I was just called “pup”.

My favourite thing was a hand brush and I gave it some abuse and before long when I had finished chewing it you would not have known what it was. I think Matty had to buy a new one and keep it hidden from me.

A lot of things were not allowed in this house like jumping up on armchairs or sofas but I got lying on a mat in front of the fire and it was very cosy.

The big man Seamus, who is Matty's husband, thinks I am a very clever dog but then collies are well known for being clever. When I was put outside to go to the toilet I would let them know I wanted to come in. I would go round to the front window and tap it very hard with my paw and they would open the door and let me in.

My first winter I saw snow for the first time and I was scared for I lost my sense of direction. I was glad to get back into the house for my paws were frozen.

One morning the big man and Matty went off shopping and left me alone. I slept for a while but when I woke I got bored and lonely. Now if I could open that back door I could go and look for them for I missed them. I jumped and banged against the door but it did not open but what I did do was push the bar across and the door was now locked from the inside. When they came back they could not get in. Matty had to come in through a window and get the door unlocked. I made them feel so welcome they forgot to be cross with me.

Sometimes Mary would bring her dog with her when she came to visit. To me that dog was an intruder and I showed it no friendship. I was also scared the big man and Matty might like it better than me.

One morning when I went outside and looked into the field beside us it was full of woolly animals that I had never seen before so I went to investigate. They started running up and down and I ran after them. I was enjoying the fun until Matty came out and shouted at me to come in. I knew she was cross. She went on and on about me chasing sheep until my head was aching. It did not happen again and for weeks after that if someone mentioned the word “sheep” I hid behind the sofa. It was a sad affair and me supposed to be a sheepdog!

Sometimes when the big man had some work to do in the fields he would take me with him and I would lie with my head between my paws watching what he was doing or sometimes I passed the time hunting for rabbits. We would both come home tired.

There is a very noisy road near us but I am not allowed to go there. One day I took off up the road and the next thing I heard Matty shouting and she brought me back. Her friend Agnes, had rung to tell her what I was doing and that put an end to my adventure. I will maybe try again sometime.

If Mattie and the big man were going away for a few days they took me to Mary and Bert’s to stay. I would follow Mary about and she was very good to me but I avoided the other dogs as much as possible. When the big man and Matty came back to collect me I got so excited I was barking and whining at the same time and I jumped up on them. They would bring me home and everything would be back to normal.

One night I was put out for my usual turn before bedtime and I thought I would go to that noisy road where I am not allowed to go and I had an accident. I was told later I was hit by a car. When I came round I was lying in the ditch with a very sore leg and feeling very frightened. I limped back down to the house, crept in the back door and got into my bed a very sorry dog. The big man and Matty took me to the dog doctor who stitched up my leg and then put some kind of plaster onto it. The people who work in that place were very good to me and told me I was lovely. I was that pleased I was all over them!

I don’t think I will ever want to go back to that noisy road again. Matty was right when she warned me against it.

Matty would take me for walks around these roads that have a lot of traffic and I would have to wear a lead. I missed the freedom of doing my own thing and running where I pleased.

I liked when some of the family came to stay and I got so excited when I saw them for I knew they belonged to the big man and Matty, even if they had not been home for some time I still knew them.

Some of the younger people who called would be a bit rough with me treating me like a toy. They maybe pulled at my tail or my ears. Many a time I was tempted to give them a sharp nip. Children should be taught by their parents to show kindness to all animals for we are not all vicious.

I have lived eleven years with the big man and Matty and I have always been loved and cared for but of late I get tired very easily.

Matty tells the rest of the story.

Early one winter evening Jess lay down at the front door and breathed her last. We were very sorry that Jess had died and we tried not to cry about her for she had gone so peacefully. She had given us so much happiness and she had lived a very happy life with us. No other dog could replace her. She was the greatest, our dog Jess.

I wrote this poem about Jess when she was here with us.

When the children had grown and flown the nest

And we thought it was time to be having a rest

But the days were long and the callers were few

So we decided that what we would do

We would get a little pup just a few weeks old

That would keep us company so we were told

Now this wee pup is fully grown

And many's the bad thing she has done

But we do not love her any the less

For she is the greatest, our dog Jess

She gives us all her love and devotion

But for good behaviour, she hasn’t a notion

A Busy Week

It's been a busy week. Monday was a family meal day with a lot of worry leading up to it. Zoe had only heard about the Pig Invasion, she hadn't seen it and I was fretting that she'd be completely gutted about the damage done. But she took the pragmatic view and I was greatly relieved.

Tuesday was a funeral service. It was an unusual one as the person whose funeral it was had died 10 weeks previously in Australia. Her husband brought her ashes back to Ireland for funeral and burial. It was a really lovely service. Afterwards, I went on a shopping expedition and bumped into a cousin. We went for coffee (and tea) and caught up with each other. Heard a very interesting piece of gossip about our Westminster representative who is currently in the news for all the wrong reasons. I feel a bye-election coming on which he'll probably win if he has the brass neck to stand and he will.

Wednesday I was not looking forward to as we were going to do some financial planning and had someone coming round to discuss it with us. But that wasn't as awful as I'd expected. Time for a bit of gardening and then off to Portballintrae to see Swisser. We had been asked for supper but had declined and she'd made it anyway so that was two suppers. I did not take the main course (a healthy vegetable dish) but did not refuse wine.

Thursday - the girls. We had an exciting trip to Portglenone then they had an exciting jaunt on the quad with Bert then it was the exciting trampoline for the rest of the day.

Yesterday I went to Belfast with Jazzer (whose sister's funeral was Tuesday) for another jaunt. The train was packed but it was an interesting trip as I got talking with some of the musicians from The McLain Family Band, a bluegrass band from Kentucky who'd been playing two nights in Ballymena and were on their way to Dublin.

In Belfast, we shopped a lot although I just bought Birkenstocks.  Between shops, we had coffee and a snack in the Linenhall Library, a drink in Maddens, dinner in The Apartment and another drink in the Europa Hotel. The train home wasn't as busy but I ran into a Facebook friend and we chatted all the way to Antrim.

From Antrim to Ballymena I got out my book, The Way I Live Now by Meg Rosoff, and came across a passage so shockingly harsh that I gasped. Closed the book and finished it later in the privacy of my own home. that evening. Very good read though not to everyone's taste I imagine.

That evening I watched the Netflix reboot of Queer Eye For The Straight Guy and enjoyed it a great deal. Found myself grinning throughout. Hadley Freeman, my favourite columnist in the Guardian Weekend magazine, had raved about it and I get that. Not to everyone's taste, I imagine. For instance, Bert said he wouldn't like it as he doesn't like reality shows. This week he has sat through The Hateful Eight and Natural Born Killers. Not for me. I watched the tiniest bit of The Hateful Eight but the minute...

BEWARE

!!!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!!!

...Samuel L. Jackson got his bollocks shot off, I was out of there.

The pigs have been in Piggy Jail all week but we're making it up to them with extra rations. They had carrot cake today and liked it very much. It's not allowed to give them food that has been in a kitchen but we had it in the fridge in Bert's room which definitely isn't a kitchen and the only other thing that is kept in there is alcohol. Which the pigs also like.

Today it rained and it blew and I worked in the tunnel clearing weeds from where we harvested onions and garlic. Outside the bay tree blew over and the sunflowers were bent but not broken. When it all died down I put stronger stakes on all the tallest plants.

One more thing.

Today was our mother's birthday. She would have been 92 years old. I always thought she'd make it to her nineties but she didn't. And although I don't believe in an afterlife I wish I did because then I'd know she'd be looking out for a special person that she never got to meet but if she had, she'd have loved her very much.

Tomorrow is a day of rest.

Father's Day

So, Father's Day again...

But they do get easier as time goes on. This is the fourteenth one since he died. The first one was very hard as he died in early June and right from the start the shops were full of Father's Day reminders. I remember feeling ridiculously annoyed and cross about it.

It passed. Father's Day is just another day now. To do with other people, not for us. I had a lot of company this weekend, the Banjos, Dr Leitrim Sister and her husband. Six people, not one of us with a living Dad. Memories were shared.

And here are some more.

A handmade card that Daddy received from his granddaughter in 1989.

One of a series of photographs that my sister Patricia Moriarty shot. They are some of the best pictures ever taken of our father.

One of my own photographs. I think he might have been calling me an eedjit as I was trying to get him to smile.

The pair of them.

Two Joeys And A Dog Eating Nuts

Over the past few days I've been sorting out a few boxes of mementos, bits and pieces belonging to my mother, Pearlie and myself. That drawing was among Matty's keepsakes. It is, of course, the view from her kitchen window and features her beloved birds feeding on the bird table. There appears to be a squirrel there too. The artist, Matty's granddaughter, was very skilled at drawing birds as they are very recognisably a robin and a blue tit. Her squirrel might have needed a bit of extra work as, at first glance, I thought it might be a small dog. But enough of my carping criticism - the picture is charming and Matty must have thought so too, to have kept it for at least a dozen years.

The postcard from Dingle was given to Matty by Katy so must be more than 20 years old. I wonder how many of those shop fronts are still the same. The last time I visited, nearly five years ago, An Cafe Liteartha was still going strong.

And this from among Pearlie's memorabilia - a Christmas card given to Bertie by his friend Thomas. Mid-sixties I'd say. Every home had a budgie back then and I believe every budgie was called Joey. Ours certainly was. According to Matty I thought anything with feathers (and feathers) was named Joey. Which explains the title.

Back to Buts

Back to buts was a frequent Mattyism. It meant a return to the usual. Bert is back from Spain and things are beginning to get back to normal. He had a lovely time and brought the girls some souvenir flamenco dresses. I think they are the dressing up equivalent of the big straw donkeys that holiday makers used to bring back from Spanish holidays. Now that baggage space on planes is so restricted there will be little demand for that sort of article.

There was great excitement at Clint's place today. He got a big swarm of bees landed on one of his bushes. Bert was called on to gather them up. This is the third swarm Clint's had in a month and he had no use for it. Swarming bees tend to be quiet so, as usual, he braved it without his beekeeping suit. And it worked out for him. No stings. When he returned he decided to check his own hive and donned the protective gear. Our hives are Irish black bees and they always seem to be very angry. The minute he went into the hive they attacked him. One stung him on the Adam's apple and he got four on his hands. I was pulling the sting out of his  neck and asked him,

What happened there?

I hadn't my gloves on.

How did they get you get stung on the neck? 

I hadn't fastened the jacket up. I thought it would be all right if I was quick about it.

It's never all right with those bees. You're an eedgit.

Ah Bert. He's great entertainment value. It's good to have him back.

Ten Years Ago Today

1952

Today is the 10th anniversary of my father's death. 

Heading out to a wedding

Apart from their wedding photographs there appear to be very few pictures of my parents in their younger days. I wondered why that should be. Perhaps it was because they were in charge of the camera and any photographs taken would be of us. I'm sure I can remember Daddy not being keen on having his photograph taken and would only submit on special occasions such as weddings. There were lots of weddings. Between them our parents had more than fifty nieces and nephews.

Of course when we grew up we were always taking photographs of them. As you can see Daddy found it hard to take it seriously. He was probably saying something like, "What are you taking pictures for you fool idiot!" As time went on he learned to accept his children's desire to document his existence.

 I wanted to take this picture in the garden. By then Seamus wasn't that mobile but he was prepared to oblige. Times had changed.

This picture was taken on the day of my sister Deirdre's wedding. It was a year or so after Daddy's stroke. He wasn't able to walk my sister up the aisle so Matty did the honours. It is almost painful to look at these images, to see how failed he had become. But there is joy in it too because of the love that they still had for each other.

Eleven months later I went to visit Matty. We had planned a jaunt to Magherafelt and a visit to Daddy in his care home. She visited him five to six times a week. Every chance she got. We got in the car and I said,

Magherafelt first or Daddy first?

She said,

Magherafelt first.

We spent an hour in Magherafelt and then back to Randalstown to visit with Daddy.

I remember I used to fuss over him a lot when we visited. But on this occasion I just kissed him hello then sat back on a sofa while Mammy sat close to him. I spent some of my time in idle conversation with another resident. But mostly I just watched them. Daddy seemed more responsive than usual. She was talking quietly to him, he was listening intently. They were touching each other on the arms and hands. After about thirty minutes she said we would go. I went over, kissed him, said, "See you soon." She said her goodbyes too. In the car, on the way home I said,

That was a lovely visit.

She agreed.

I left her home and went home myself. Got changed into gardening clothes and then the phone rang. It was the care home.

I got to see Daddy sooner than I expected and for the last time.

There are a lot of people who believe in angels. I'm not one of them. Except for this day ten years ago. It must have been an angel who guided me to that sofa, six feet away from my mother and father as they spent a part of their very last day together loving each other.