Who could have imagined back then that our cheaply processed and terribly disappointing photographs could, more than half a century later, be brought back to their full digital glory? There may have been plenty of photographs of the young brother, but hardly any of the beloved red dog. And while the photographer delights in her restored memories, her pleasure is tempered by prophecies of doom and the coming end of the world. How fleeting is happiness.
I’m aware that it’s been a while since I last posted to Nelly’s Garden. My excuse? I’ve said hello to the Norfolk branch of my family, then, six days later, goodbye. That goodbye was followed, a couple of hours later, by a hello to Vancouver Brother, who stayed for four nights before I had to say goodbye to him this morning. Then it was hello to my Ballymena family for half a day, followed by goodbye some six hours later.
Which leaves Nellybert all alone with the cats and dogs…
Oh! I forgot about the hens. I said hello to two new hens - the first fowl I’ve had for several years.
So, it’s been a rather busy few weeks of family hellos and goodbyes.
The brother and Zoe on Waterfoot Beach. I was sad to say goodbye to him this morning. He’s in London this evening with London Sister and Ganching, together to mark the first anniversary of Jonny’s death.
And as Vancouver Brother lost his partner at the beginning of July, there will be a lot of love and some sadness as they gather together tonight.
So many hellos and goodbyes in such a short space of time. Cherish your darlings.
One from June 2016. I was right about Brexit and wrong about Trump. He has turned out even more of a disaster than I feared.
It's my father's 21st anniversary today and it occurred to me that when he died I was almost exactly the same age as my oldest daughter is now. I thought I was a right old age when Daddy died but these days when I look at my first born I think she's just a slip of a girl.
Also, it was today that I learned that I have completely run out of uncles as my father's brother Dessie has just died in Australia at the age of 95. He was the last of his generation. I never knew him as he emigrated to New South Wales when he was very young. A family story has it that when he left his family home on the now Lisnevenagh Road the only one of his family who waved him off was his older sister Mary. His mother did not even come out to the bus stop to see him on his way. I don't believe he ever returned to Ireland again. His mother was a hard woman.
Anyway, Dessie made a good life for himself in Australia. Married, had two sons. He is the only one of my father's siblings to have made it to his nineties.
My mother knew him. She said he was a bit of a teddy boy. I think when they talked about teddy boys they meant any young man who didn't dress just like his da and his granda before him. There is one photo I have of Dessie, probably taken by Daddy and he's along with Mammy. It would have been taken in the early 1950s.
Photograph taken just up from the Wayside Halt, Dessie's home place. I think he looks more like James Dean than a teddy boy.
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Myself and the da when he was in his prime and I just a slip of a girl.
I went to a wake last night for a family friend, the last of her generation. It was well attended, as she was a much loved woman from a well respected family.
As is often the case, I met people I hadn’t seen since the last time I’d been at something like this. Among those around my own age or a bit younger, the refrain was familiar, we only ever seem to meet these days at wakes and funerals.
Many of the conversations circled the same ground, bereavements - parents, partners, siblings, and in the hardest cases of all, children.
At one point I found myself sitting beside a younger man. We got talking. He said he was from Creggan. I told him my mother had lived not far from there.
“What was her name?” he asked.
“McAnespie.”
He didn’t recognise it. Didn’t know anyone of the name. I explained that there’s no one left of the McAnespies in that area now.
My mother and her sisters, so I’ve always been told, were fine-looking girls, much sought after at the ceilidhs and fairs. All of them gone now and not a one left to carry the McAnespie name on as their one and only brother never married.
Later, speaking with another old friend, we talked about our deceased parents, about all the people who lived on the road where we were, about those who had died recently and those long gone. And it struck me then how these gatherings have become less about a single person and more about a kind of reckoning. A quiet taking stock. Who’s still here. Who isn’t.
There’s an idea that no one has really gone from this world until their name is spoken for the last time and that one day that will happen to most of us. So I won’t say every name that was spoken of on Saturday evening in the house beside the moss, in the townland of Drumkeeran, in the Grange of Shilvodan, but here are some of them in no particular order,
Pearlie Orr, Pat McKeown, Joe Byrne, Joe O’Neill, Martha Byrne, Seamus Byrne, Paddy Heffron, Susan Heffron, Sadie McAuley, Brian Heffron, Martha McKeown, Malachy Robb, Shaun Byrne, Brendan Byrne, Jonny Steingold, Bridie Lavery, Clare McAtamney, Father Felix McGuckin, Sammy Heffron, Sheena Heffron, and Sarah Fox nee McCrossan.
The person listed last was born in rural Tyrone in the 19th century and is still being named. She was my great-grandmother.
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I wish my beautiful silk scarf didn't look as if it was strangling me.
I couldn’t remember whether Ash Wednesday is a Holy Day of Obligation or not. That’s how lapsed a Catholic I’ve become. I only realised it was today because when Bert came back from an appointment he mentioned that one of the women at the surgery had the greasy, ashy smear on her forehead and started quizzing me about it.
I was surprised for I’d always thought she was a Protestant. Ash Wednesday is certainly the sort of day when a devout Catholic stands up to be counted.
Of course, I’d also completely forgotten that yesterday was Shrove Tuesday. Not a single pancake did I make.
I’ve spent today getting ready for a short trip to Norfolk to see Katy and her family, and I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll be back late Monday with new photographs and stories to share. I’m going to miss my knitting terribly. If the pangs become too much, I may have to buy needles and yarn in Fakenham.
To get myself all excited about seeing my Norfolk family, I've been looking at lots of old photos of them and set the file up as a screensaver. It has really brought back some lovely memories. But the nicest family picture I've come across is not my memory.That memory belongs to Katy's aunts, my sisters Ganching and London Sister. I'm going to use it as it deserves another outing. I think it might have been taken by Ganching.
I wonder this - are knitting needles allowed on planes?
Earlier this evening, I knew exactly what all four of my sisters were doing, because I was doing the same thing. We were all listening to one of Jonny’s Christmas shows on Mad Wasp Radio. Maybe we were all doing other things as we listened. I was doing a bit of tidying, since Leitrim Sister is calling with us tomorrow.
That show was one he recorded some time ago. It must have been from quite a while back, because at one point he talked about Hogmanay, for he was Scottish, and how London Sister and he would take the Parkland Walk on the way to Alexandra Palace, where they could enjoy a fine view of the London skyline and watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. That walk would have been far too difficult for him in recent years.
It’s poignant listening to his show, knowing that he’s no longer with us. It must be even more poignant for London Sister. Yet I know, because she has told me, that it comforts her to hear his voice again and to listen to the music they both loved.
Jonny had excellent taste in music and a deep knowledge of it. His preferred genre was Americana, that broad church that includes rock, folk, bluegrass, country and the blues, all of which he loved for their shared roots and storytelling traditions. Even when it became hard for him he would still go to as many gigs as he could fit in and for many years he made an annual trip to the United States to go on the renowned Cayamo music cruise.
Cayamo is a week-long music festival at sea, bringing together artists and listeners who share a love of Americana and its many branches — folk, rock, bluegrass, country and the blues. It’s less a conventional cruise than a floating community, with intimate performances in small venues, spontaneous collaborations, late-night jams and the rare pleasure of musicians and fans mingling freely throughout the ship.
The Cayamo meant a lot to Jonny. He heard new music, found new friends and listeners and got to chat with many of the musicians he admired. Despite many setbacks and trials, he never missed a Cayamo - right up until March of last year. He knew that would have to be his last one for the Parkinsons was making everything too difficult. And that was going to be a hard thing to bear.
His sudden death in Norway meant that he didn’t have to face the prospect of a Cayamo he couldn’t make. But it is so sad to think that there will be new artists coming along that he’ll never hear, and new music that he won’t know about. We’ll just have to be glad that he did love the music, that he shared it with so many people and that he left a world of it behind for us to listen to.
These shows, years and years of them, will continue on Mad Wasp Radio for the foreseeable future. One of the legacies that Jonny has left us. Mad Wasp Radio hails him as The Legend, Jonny Steingold. We were lucky to have him as part of our family.
Last night London Sister sent us a picture of her seven-foot tree. She’s early this year. It’s not even mid-December, yet there it was, beautifully decorated, tastefully lit, standing proud in her high-ceilinged living room. This will be a poignant Christmas for her, her first without Jonny.
It reminded me of last year when Elle put her big tree up in November. Robin was in the last days of his life then, although I’m not sure she fully realised it. Maybe, somewhere in her mind, she sensed that if she waited until December, he’d never see it. Or perhaps she felt that if she didn’t put it up right then, she’d never have the heart to do it at all.
I’ve been watching the weather forecast all day. Storm Bram is in full swing, and if it doesn’t blow the polytunnel away, I’ll bring our own tree in tomorrow. We used to wait until Christmas Eve, but storms and years and losses have made me a little more positive about celebrating the season. After all, who knows how many more there will be, or how long we’ll have with each other?
And truth be told, the tree helps, a lovely corner of brightness when the days are short and the nights too long. So I’ll wrestle ours indoors tomorrow, if Bram allows. I feel the need of its cheer.
At least until January, when it’s back to the polytunnel with it.
A picture from the olden days, maybe around 40 years ago. It was the first one I turned up when I searched for 'Christmas Tree' on my EHD. Just as well it did as it's Katy's birthday today. My best Christmas present back in 1978. Happy Birthday Katkin!
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.
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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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.
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.
My plan to use this blog as an aide-mémoire hasn’t progressed as well as I’d hoped. It’s been twelve days since my last post, and although nothing particularly exciting has happened - no riots, no house fires - it’s still been a longer gap than I intended.
So what did happen?
Still snail-watching.
Went to Portrush on a day out with Bert, Hannah and the big girls. They did not use all their Currie's tokens. Either I bought too many or they are tired of scary rides. Come to think of it, there's a definite air of ennui about them lately.
Watching a lot of teevee. Dept Q was a big favourite.
Became aware of a band called Bob Vylan.
Wondered why an old man dying of old age is such a big deal for the BBC.
Today was good, except for one thing.
I met an old work friend for coffee. That was good.
In the afternoon, Bert and I worked together in the garden. That was nice. We achieved a lot, dug up half of the papaver orientale and created a new area for planting. Displaced a lot of snails. Bert is very keen to replant but I want to wait a while. Snails are territorial, and when they return to their feeding grounds, which they will, they'll demolish anything new and tender. The big rough poppies could stand that, but my seed-grown agastaches might not. We'll wait a while until the snails move on. Fingers crossed that they do.
The not-so-good thing that happened?
I was just leaving the small polytunnel after watering the tomatoes when my foot caught in a clump of ox-eye daisies and down I went. My first thought being,
Here we bloody well go again!
Hand out to save myself. Didn't work. It wasn't too bad. The ground around that polytunnel is soft and spongy, even more so since I left a hose running there for about 16 hours on Sunday evening. As I lay there, a bit winded, a brown butterfly flew past. I identified it as a Meadow Brown. And I knew that I was OK.
My left hand is a bit achey but it didn't prevent me from picking several pounds of strawberries and raspberries.
Tomorrow - more gardening, drive Hannah to the airport and on Friday I might go to Belfast.
Bert's birthday today. All the sixes!
After the family left I said to Bert,
The girls don't get nearly as excited about birthday cake and candles as they used to.
And it's true. They are teenagers now and are way too cool for candles and cake. But we still have the memories,
...and the photographs!
Happy birthday, Bert!
Last week, Katy and her family came over from Norfolk for a short Easter break. was lovely to see them, even though the weather wasn’t great—wet and cold for the most part.
Still, we all managed to enjoy ourselves.
Unlike in previous years, I didn’t stock the freezer in advance. Instead, I kept things simple and cooked meals from scratch—which, in the end, turned out to be less of a faff.
This time they didn’t bother with a car so I drove them where they needed to go. The young ones were just as happy knocking around here as they would have been getting out and about.
Thursday was the only day with halfway decent weather, so they took the train to Belfast for a visit to the Ulster Museum in Botanic Gardens. James, however, couldn’t quite settle at either the gardens or the museum, so the outing ended up being a brief half-day trip. Still, he thoroughly enjoyed the train journey and even managed to inform his parents about the type of rolling stock they were travelling on. They were surprised to learn that, unlike the rest of the UK—England, Scotland, and Wales - Northern Ireland does not use standard gauge railway tracks. Instead, it operates on the wider Irish gauge, in line with the rest of the island. James does know a lot about trains.
Evie, James, Emily, and I managed to squeeze in a quick jaunt to Portglenone Forest. Unfortunately, we were without Martha’s company, as she was at home revising for her upcoming GCSEs. James, in a moment of curiosity, decided to test the depth of a puddle by stepping straight into it—and promptly got a very wet foot. I suggested that next time, he might consider using a stick.
Friday was the best day of all. I had the pleasure of spending most of it with all my daughters and all four grandchildren. The younger ones threw themselves into an art project, their main focus being the design and painting of a stone for Ziggy’s grave. When that was completed, the house erupted into a raucous game of hide and seek, with Zoe and Hannah joining in as well. It was loud, chaotic, and full of laughter. The best hiding spots were claimed by Evie, who disappeared into a cluttered corner of the attic, and Emily, who managed to curl up inside a storage box. Being small certainly offers advantages in a game like that - but Evie, despite her height, managed to baffle everyone for quite some time.
And that was our last night. Everyone (except Bert of course) was up really early the next day and off to the airport for eight o’clock. I was sad to see them all leave but glad that we’d had the time together. The house was so quiet when I got home but that was good too.
Until the next time!
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.
Zoe said,
Surely after that storm there will be something in the wood that you could bring in for a Christmas tree.
Storm Darragh did bring down scores of trees in our wood. The Scots pines were hit hard and a young oak grove also sucuumbed to the wind. But most of the casualties were firs.
Zoe and her dog Posie headed out to scout for a suitable evergreen. I imagined she'd find the tippy-top of some brute of a fir tree that Bert would have to take the chainsaw to. But no. She returned with the news that they'd found a perfect tree, a little fir that she'd planted that was ripped right out of the ground by the winds. She'd marked it with a silky scarf and after she left Bert went out to bring it in. It was potted up and brought in to the house. After what it had been through (Zoe grew it from a seed) I didn't want to put it in any of the living rooms. Far too warm for it with the wood-burners. So I settled it in a cool corner of the kitchen. I hope the tree enjoys a few days there and in the meantime will be cheering me up no end. I don't even mind that it looks a little lopsided. Bert potted it that way.
I expect this little tree will be at Zoe's house next year. After all, she did grow it from a seed.
