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.’

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.

Birthday Memories

It's our mother's birthday today. Were she alive she'd be ninety-six . 

I have a folder on my hard drive named 'Martha' and I looked at it today to see if I could find anything new to put up for her birthday. And found this poem. It's not a literary gem by any means but when I re-read it I remembered how much she enjoyed writing about her childhood and how much pleasure she took in sharing her stories and poems.

She never did get round to the internet. I'm sure if she had, she'd have been a prolific blogger and much better at encouraging the comments section than this particular daughter. 

When I Was Eight Years Old

by Martha Byrne

One day when walking home from school,

A farmer came our way.

He was driving sheep with little lambs,

That was only born that day.

The little lambs were weary and walking very slow,

He asked us would we carry them as far as we would go.

How pleased we were to do it,

And when we reached our door,

We were sad to leave them down, for we’d never held a lamb before.

There’s a song that brings back memories,

Of that day along the road.

Called “On April Evening” when April airs are abroad,

When we carried the little lambs that we were so pleased to hold.

This happened many years ago,

When I was eight years old.

Ten Things I Did on Mother's Day

 I woke up worrying about the Antarctic Ice Shelf, then decided that my fretting about it would not help.

Listened to the dawn chorus and estimated that there must be at least a thousand birds living nearby. Sounded like it anyway.

I thought about my own mother.

I sowed lots of vegetable seeds.

And entertained two adopted sons and a girlfriend. Received a Mother’s Day gift from Locky.

Participated in the naming of the most recent calf born on this farm. He is to be called Sparrow.

Spoke to my Katkin from Norfolk. She has had a bout of Covid. That’s all of my children have had it now.

Pondered my tendency to feel guilty about everything.

Did lots of knitting.

Did lots of weeding.

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.

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

Seven Years

 It's been an ordinary day. I woke up far too early, got up, went back to bed with coffee, then fell asleep again and had a crazy dream about being in a crowded, confusing house with far too many disparate people. This is becoming a recurring dream and it all seems so strange. Actually, that used to be my life and sometimes, even in waking hours, it still is.

I forgot that it was Mammy's anniversary.

Instead of remembering I had one of those pleasant, mooching about days. Bert and I went out for breakfast and when we came back we both pottered. I've been admiring the primroses that are naturalising at the edge of the old laneway that backs our yard. Sometimes it is good to just let nature take its course. Matty would have approved.

Bert was wondering what he should do next. It's good when that happens on a pottering day. A day when you don't have to do anything. The birds had other ideas. They started to scold because their feeders were empty. He knew what to do next. Matty would have approved of that too. She always took notice of the birds.

It was London Sister who reminded me of the day that was in it. And I remembered that last year I met the occasion with a great deal of melancholy. Not this year. She'd have approved of that.

Tomorrow we are going to her house to remove the last bits and pieces of furniture before we put it up for sale. I'm not sure what she'd have thought of that. I'm not sure what I think of that either.

Seven years. Where did it go? I think I might have spent it pottering.

Incey Wincey...Aaargh!

My mother was a bit of a hypochondriac, overly concerned with her health and I have always tried not to be but, as a body grows older it gets harder and harder. My hypochondria, such as it is, manifests itself in the middle of the night if, for some reason, I find myself unable to sleep. Or, even worse, I am wakened by some inexplicable discomfort. Like this morning, when I started from sleep because of a sore and itchy left hand. At first I thought I'd slept on my paw, it was stiff and slightly swollen and worst of all itchy beyond belief. I scratched and scratched which only brought a moment's relief. Anxiety kicked in. It must be an allergic reaction. What did I do? What did I eat? I scratched some more then remembered I had some antihistamines left over. Anything to relieve this damnable itching.

Within half an hour the itching had eased but my hand was still stiff and sore. Still, I managed to fall asleep and did not wake again until nearly ten o'clock. My hand was still swollen but the itch was gone. I felt down, firstly because I had slept too late and secondly because my body was a wreck and I was going to end up allergic to everything. What had I ate? There was the blackcurrant wine but I'd had it a few nights ago and no reaction.  Oh yes, pine nuts. I'd added pine nuts to a rather bland salad and as the packet was still sitting out I'd had a few more spoonfuls after supper. I'm trying to ease off on sugar (afraid of diabetes) and when I do that I always turn to nuts. No more pine nuts, no more pesto. God, this was getting depressing. I might even be allergic to dairy or wine and where was it going to end? Living out the rest of my days eating a dreary diet of milkless porridge, green vegetables and whatever first class protein my stupid immune system permitted me.

I plodded on with my day. Sowed some seeds to cheer myself up. Peter called in. I was recounting the story of being woken up, hand on fire, batting of my husband's puerile jokes about the duvet in flames when Bert said,

Probably something just bit you.

And then I remembered, the last time my hand felt like that was about ten years ago when a spider I was rescuing from a sink bit me on the finger. Knowing what it probably was made me feel a lot better because I can still eat pesto and drink blackberry wine. Unfortunately for the spider clan I might be less careful when cleaning and vacuuming for I'm always watching out that I don't hurt my eight-legged friends. But from now on I'm going to look the other way and hoover the fuck out of them. Imagine it, a decent wee woman sleeping away and Incey-Wincey lowering himself on to her pillow and the good wee person accidentally brushes him with the back of her hand and next thing allergic reaction. And if that doesn't deserve a good run of Hettying  I don't know what would.

Actually, I probably will still be nice to spiders. Getting bit once every ten years isn't too awful. And I can still drink blackberry wine.

Every Picture Tells A Story

Zoe's sketch of her grandmother.

663 views, taken 2005

That is a month and a bit of Flickr's mostest views and interestingness all redd up and I can't say I'm sorry. That picture of Jazzer and her oldest girl (married with a baby now) has the 30th most views. We were visiting Swisser on that August day. Seen in the background Bert with Swisser's dog Tracey (I know! A dog called Tracey) and our dog Paddy. Both of them gone now.

Matty, 448 views, taken during the Second World War.

My mother aged about thirteen. This photograph was taken by the Belfast Telegraph to illustrate a feature on war time food production, the Digging for Victory campaign. Matty's school teacher, Master Duffy, had turned over part of the school yard in Creggan to vegetables. That picture was only a fragment. Matty said that the entire image showed her standing framed in a trellis of runner beans.

This is what Matty wrote herself about the school garden.

We had a big garden at the back of our school and when the weather was good we spent a lot of time working in it, digging and planting and then weeding. We had a lot of different vegetables growing and a few flowers. We were allowed to take vegetables home when they were ready for harvesting and they were much appreciated by Mammy even though we had a vegetable garden at home. At the beginning of the war our school garden got a write up in the Belfast Telegraph for the way in which every inch of ground had been used for growing extra vegetables. We were all very pleased at getting a picture in the paper of us working in the garden.

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 with a view to recycling 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 taken nine years ago when they were both fit and well. 

Gardening Leave

 A work in progress

I've been busy.

I've been busy with the business of marking Matty's first anniversary and busy in the garden.

If a garden is not maintained, if it is not cared for and looked after it will return to wilderness. Here at Nelly's Garden we, and Bert's bees, like a certain amount of abandonment but if there is too much of it there will be few delicate flowers survive and there will be hardly any fruit and vegetables. During the early spring of last year the flower garden was not cared for or looked after. I tried to keep it going during the summer months and it looked well enough. But pernicious weeds, particularly couch grass, gained hold and only the strongest flowering plants survived.

In the past past few weeks, in the run up to her anniversary, I had been in the doldrums. It was as if I was waiting for the twelve month mark to pass before I could concentrate on the future. There were some things to do, the most pressing being the arrangement of her memoriam cards. Other members of the family helped with this and between us we chose the photograph and prayers that would feature. I  used the printing press at the Cistercian Abbey in Portglenone and they were great.

On the day of her anniversary Leitrim Sister came up and we spent a lovely day together, first meeting with cousin Joe and his family, then visiting Mum's grave. We couldn't go into the chapel to light a candle as a wedding was taking place there but we did meet Father F. who had been so good to her during her illness and who had been with her when she died. LS and I spent the rest of the day together and I finally got a hold on that Puerto Rican chicken and rice dish I'd been trying out. It was my third go at it. Getting the recipe helped.

Several people said to me when I mentioned that the first anniversary was coming up, “It doesn't seem like a year.” Well it did to me - exactly. I counted it week by week, month by month, season by season. I can stop counting now and next year I will be surprised. Two years already!

So I've spent most of the time since in the garden pulling it back from the wilderness. I have lost a lot of plants but I do not mind. They might flourish elsewhere in wilder parts of the garden and the space that they leave will give me room for new flowers and plants including some that came from Matty's Garden.

Hypochondria

Matty informed me that she had what she believed was a mini-stroke on Thursday. "I've had one before," she informed me. I'd taken Matty on her weekly outing to Tescos on Thursday evening and she never mentioned the mini-stroke. She did say that her wrists were very sore. I resolved to give her plenty of help whilst shopping. We started off at magazines, My Weekly and The People's Friend. I glanced quickly at the books then caught myself on, remembering the height of my 'to read' pile. Matty was wandering up the household goods aisle. I tried to keep her in sight. She darted off, then I lost her. I searched up and down the aisles and found that she'd backtracked. I waited for her then became distracted by the office supplies. It was only for a few moments but when I turned round she'd disappeared. Up and down the aisles I went before bumping into her in fruit and veg. I swear she was trying to shake me off. "Wait here," says I, "I'm going to get some onions." I was quick as I could be but of course she hadn't waited. She never, never does. I had another searching match for her with no success and after throwing a few bits in my trolley I decided to call it an evening and tried to catch her before she got to checkout. She'd got there before me and smiled triumphantly as she took the last item out of her trolley. At least I was able to pack for her while she went off for a scratch card. I'd exhausted myself looking for her and didn't get a quarter of the things I needed but, thanks be, I did get the gin. In the car she winced at the soreness of her wrists but never mentioned the mini-stroke. We talked about an appointment with her GP to discuss pain relief. On Friday I phoned her from work and she said she wasn't feeling that well so I went to visit her during my lunch break and made up a bed for her and put together a rhubarb crumble. She was expecting Ganching for the weekend. She seemed perky enough. No mention of the mini-stroke. On Saturday I went to the car boot sale at Dunsilly and was sitting in Matty's at eight o'clock. Ganching had to pick up a hire car so I said I'd take Matty to Randalstown for a coffee. She'd already had her usual toast and tea breakfast. She was keen as mustard and we went to the Forge and had Ulster Frys. Matty ate everything except a tiny bit of bacon and pronounced it very enjoyable. I wanted to go to the charity shop to see if they'd sold any of their high-priced books. They all seemed to be there, the book on the 19th century religious revival (big chapter on Kells & Connor, 55 pounds) and the book on Winston Churchill (12.50) , and the Arthur Grimble (17.50) and one at 75 quid, damme if I can remember what that was, but it was in very middling condition. Matty complained of not feeling great while she was there so we didn't stay long. When we got home I made a cuppa and she told me about the mini-stroke. When I got home I looked up mini-strokes on the internet and I really don't think she has had one. There are no obvious symptoms and apart from her complaining, which is usual, she seemed well enough, with a good appetite, talking normally, no real difference in her movements or appearance. If a doctor in a hospital once told her that she had suffered a mini-stroke I would think that he/she may have been (a) talking shite, (b) she didn't hear them properly, (c) she imagined it, (d) he/she was thinking of the woman in the next bed or (e) she really had one. But Matty is a panicker when it comes to her health. Her GP once told her, maybe 25 years ago, after she presented him with a host of vague symptoms, that he was going to test her for Multiple Sclerosis. She told me that she fully expected she'd end up in a wheelchair. I have other stories like that but I'm not going to tell them right now. I'll never forget how upset I felt when I heard that. Then I felt angry that she upset me because she didn't have MS, no wheelchair was necessary. Matty, when she's in good enough form, is a great woman. She has many wonderful qualities and I'm glad she is my mother. I love her. I do not love her preoccupation with illness and I feel that it has blighted her life. But now that she is over 80 and she does have angina and she does have painful arthritis and thyroid problems and I don't know how I should deal with her. I try to be supportive and I worry about her lots. But if I'm honest, I have to say that I find her never-ending preoccupation with illness hard to handle. I used to try all kinds of strategies when we were both younger such as ignoring her, jollying her along (I still use that one), reasoning with her, getting cross with her but now she is very old I have to find new strategies. What do you do with a mum who has had hypochondriac tendencies all her life and then she gets really old and she does have health issues? Maybe there's a simple answer. I've got a feeling somebody out there might have it. We are going to the doctor tomorrow and I'm going in with her. That's a start.

Staying Focused

It is said that men and women have very different approaches to work. Women are adept at multitasking while men focus on the task in hand to the exclusion of all others. Far be it from me to suggest that this rule applies to all women and men but it certainly applies to Nellybert.

I’ve been really busy this week as I have the first of three teaching practice sessions this coming Tuesday. I’ve been working on it for over a week now and even took two days off my paid work to get stuck into it. Of course I ended up spending one of those days sailing Matty round the country visiting poorly sisters and so on. When the pressure is on my patience with Matty wears thin. Everything takes forever when she’s involved. If she sees a queue she gets in it – the longer the better. It must be a consequence of having lived through The War. And she keeps wandering off and when I do find her she’s usually squandering our inheritance doing a scratch card. By the time I got her home it was far too dark for a nice brisk sanity-restoring walk and I was just about ready to kill somebody. Bert?

Meanwhile Bert is totally focused on a manly task. Time hangs heavy on his hands during winter and this month he’d already restored his childhood rocking horse and learnt three new things on the clarinet when Bap called round. And Bap saw the staircase. And Bap was very cross indeed.

Bap is in his mid-fifties and I’ve known him forever. Like many of us he was one cool dude in his younger days but now he’s turned into ‘Yer Da’. It must be a consequence of having two 20 something sons who, despite being real cool dudes themselves, need a lot of fatherly advice about keeping their motors in order and so on. Anyway Bap starts on Bert.

Have you never sorted out those banister rails yet? I don’t know how you can live with yourself! I’d not rest until I’d three coats of varnish on those!

Bert laughed it off to Bap’s face. But it was only a day or two later he got stuck in. And he’s been doing it for ever now. And he’s so smug about it. Thinks he’s a helluva fella. But it is all he does. Cares he not a bit for filthy floors, empty grates, starving kittens, menopausal women or Christmas. He just leaps joyously out of bed every morning at around 10 and sands and varnishes and sands and varnishes. Then he plays the clarinet all evening.

And there’s me trying to learn the lesson content, prepare a lesson plan, do laundry, shop, clean, cook, blog, walk the dogs, go to work, mind my Mammy and all the rest of it. Sometimes I really do wish I was a man. Life would be so much simpler.