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. 

Saturday Again

This time last week I was preparing for my all night vigil with Pearlie.

Since then we have had a three day wake and a funeral and three days adjusting to life without her. We both find ourselves thinking at odd times that we'd need to look in on her, see if she wants a cup of tea, her hot water bottle refilled, some coal on the fire. These thoughts might last a split second then we remember, no old girl looking for drinks, medicine, fire, anything.

Bert is doing OK.

Miss Martha thinks we should get another old woman and call her Pearlie. I'm pleased about that because I believe it means that she enjoyed having an old girl about the place. Or maybe it was just the toffees.

I miss the toffees too.

Night Vigil

I plan to stay up all night.

Pearlie has taken another slump. She is vomiting blood every three or four hours. It started 24 hours ago. We decided not to phone an ambulance. Early this morning we had Doctor On Call and Pearlie informed him that, despite the risk, she did not wish to go to hospital. He agreed with her wishes and only administered an injection to stop the vomiting. It did not work.

Bert stayed with her last night but even though I got to go to bed I only slept for about an hour. I had two hours this afternoon which helped.

Pearlie sleeps a lot but insists on having a pen in her hand and a puzzle book in front of her. She is unable to concentrate on the puzzles.

What I Ate When Bert Was Away

Monday was a bank holiday in the occupied six counties. Bert sat sighing with this gloomy great cloud of despondency hanging above his noggin.

Tracey wants to know if you're going to Fanad.

I don't know.

Rod would love you to come.

I don't know if I can be bothered.

What else would you be doing?

Don't know. Nothing I suppose.

I think you should go. It would be good for you. I can hold the fort here. Go there today, come back tomorrow if you want to, stay an extra night if you're having a good time.

Then there was a great deal more of prevaricating nonsense from Bert to which I replied...

You know how I always know what's best for you and you're always telling me so? Well, this is what is best for you now. A break, a few hours away from all the grimness that is going on here. You'll come back far abler to cope. Just grab your clarinet,  a sleeping bag and a toothbrush and go! The dogs want you to go. They need a break too.

Long story short, he came to his senses, took the advice of a wise woman, got his ass into gear and packed his clarinet,  a sleeping bag and a toothbrush (the dogs packed themselves), got in his van and went.

Alone at last. Except for the cats, the pigs and Pearlie.

A person eats differently when they have only themselves to think of. For dinner I had a Cheese Dream. I first discovered Cheese Dreams in Bristol in 1971. It was the first time I had Been Somewhere Different. My friend Natalie and I hitch-hiked to Bristol, where we stayed with Miss Fiona Cornish of Montpelier. Miss Cornish, Bunty to her friends, ran a boarding school  for children with special needs. I do hope it is OK to say 'special needs' these days for it is hard to keep up with the correct terminology. In return for helping out with general everyday chores we got free board and lodging. Some of these days Miss Fiona Cornish deserves a post all to herself so, for today, will just concentrate on the Cheese Dreams.

Fiona Cornish's Cheese Dreams

Ingredients

• 2 slices of buttered white bread
• cheddar cheese for filling
• lard

Equipment

• frying pan
• stove

Sophisticates might like to adapt the basic recipe. I like to add tomato, sliced onion and seasoning. I also prefer to use hemp or rapeseed oil instead of lard. But basically it is a fried cheese sandwich. Bert dislikes Cheese Dreams very much so I tend to eat them when I am on my own.

The next day I had muesli for breakfast and another Cheese Dream for lunch. Bert phoned to say he was having a fantastic time and he'd like to stay an extra night. I said, no problem, so happy you're having a lovely relaxing break. I was feeling guilty about eating Cheese Dreams all the time so for dinner I boiled a free range egg and steamed some chard and broad beans and had that. It was grim beyond belief. For a late night snack I had muesli and ice-cream. I wouldn't recommend it.

Shiny Stones and Vintage Dresses

Hannah and I took Evie and Martha to Belfast on Thursday. We visited lots of charity and vintage shops and Martha got this...

I think it was probably a dress worn by a flower girl at a wedding. It cost £4 which I thought very reasonable and we purchased it at the Rusty Zip on Botanic Avenue. Obviously Martha wore it home on the train and the next day she wore it with her tiara to Springhill. She wanted to wear it all day but I chatted her out of it with stories about how she might like to pass all her dressing up clothes to her own daughter some day and that the new (to her) dress was far too old to be washed in the machine.

Imagine if you were picking blackcurrants and got purple juice on it. That would never come out.

It would be alright if I was eating baked beans and spilled some because the dress is the same colour as the beans and it wouldn't be noticeable.

I expect you're right. Baked beans would be fine but blackcurrant juice would be a disaster.

The blackcurrants have been wonderful this year. I have picked pounds and pounds of them and if it isn't raining a deluge like today I'll pick pounds more tomorrow. The other currants, red and white have been average. it is a race to get to them before the birds. Gooseberries were OK too. Need more bushes! There will be enough goosegogs for a few crumbles and pies. Les, who gave us the bushes, came out to pick berries we helped him. The next day we got a jar of delicious jam!

Back to Belfast. While Martha got a vintage dress and some flowery jim-jam trousers (£1 from Oxfam) all Evie wanted was a shiny polished pebble from the shop at the Ulster Museum. And a Pear Picking Porky.

For me the very best bit of our day in Belfast was having a picnic in Botanic Gardens and watching nearly tame robins and blackbirds squabble over our leftover crusts. There was a lot of resting (for Hannah and Nelly) and a lot of crazy running about (for Evie and Martha). Perfect!

Update

So there was Nelly, wondering if she could get away with not cleaning the curtains before the wake, and there was Pearlie, off her meds and existing on a few sips of water a day. Then on Saturday night she asks for a cup of water. This is a woman who hasn't willingly touched water since the last day she worked in the moss, probably about a quarter of a century ago. It was a tradition among the Orrs to quaff large quantities of sweet spring water on the return from a day working with turf. T'was handy that they had their own spring. You'd be thinking about that first drink of water the whole way home from Craig's Moss.

So, she asks for a cup of water,

....and a cup of warm tea. And apple juice and Lucozade. Have you any orange squash? And if there's anything else you have about you.

Since then she has been drinking well. And do you know what? I think she might be on the mend.

Decline

I hardly know what to write any more. On the surface things go on as normal. We had a weekend away. The first time we went anywhere together for more than a year and it was lovely. The music sessions continue, there are visitors, family and friends. We garden, the grandchildren come and life goes on.

But there in the background Pearlie is growing weaker. I suppose we are waiting for her to die but that will be in her own time. And this strange thing is happening for as she declines she becomes sweeter and more contented. All her crankiness has gone. She doesn't do puzzles any more, nor does she read or watch television. I think she spends a lot of time having interesting dreams.

And she barely eats and hardly drinks and cannot swallow her medication. The doctor is coming to visit her today.

Working Clothes

Now Ben isn't the only one who does a bit of work about this place. Miss Martha gets home from a hard morning at nursery school, eats a bit of lunch, shucks off the school uniform, changes into her work gear and strides out to pick up litter, burn rubbish and feed pigs.

Work Experience Report

Ben shovelling manure

Our Godson has been doing work experience with us this past week and has carried out a wide range of tasks willingly and enthusiastically.

This is my report.

TIMEKEEPING: Student has risen promptly each morning before 10:30am.

DEMEANOUR: Pleasant and respectful at all times. To me. Rather less respectful to Bert but this is down to the natural 'banter' and 'horseplay' among men in the workplace. The student has been advised that owing to advancements in political correctness and Health & Safety that this behaviour might not be as acceptable in the 'real' world. Bert has been advised to 'catch himself on.'

TASKS ACCOMPLISHED:

TREE SURGERY: The student assisted Bert in the task of removing a large branch from a tree. He demonstrated an awareness of basic Health & Safety guidelines, advising Bert that Crocs and a straw hat were not the best choice of clothing when up a 20 foot ladder brandishing a chainsaw.

CARING: The student had the opportunity of helping look after both pre-school children and the elderly. He showed patience and kindness to each group. The elderly pronounced his tea-making and pillow arranging skills exemplary and the preschoolers high-fived him.

ANIMAL HUSBANDRY: Helping out with feeding dogs, cats, pigs and hens. Throwing balls for dogs, stroking cats and assisting in the castration of calves.

FARMING: Bringing in the hay. We had a lot of visitors that day and Bert made them all go to the hayfield with them. The baler couldn't keep up with them.

GENERAL MAINTENANCE: Cleaned, sanded and varnished my shoe shelf. Removed the stairs and landing carpet using his bare hands. These were the same hands that Bert had said were 'all soft and girly.' Folded carpet and removed it for disposal then hoovered stairs and landing without being asked.

HORTICULTURE: Wheeled barrow loads of well rotted manure 'til the cows came home. Literally.

COFFEE: All the time. Whenever we wanted it.

CONCLUSION: An excellent student and  a wonderful Godson who blesses our life.  

Gardening With Cardboard

I planted an area of the polytunnel with spring onions and the weeds, mainly chickweed, took over so I decided to transplant the spring onions, what remained of them, to a raised bed. Rather than dig over the chickweedy bed I covered it with a couple of sheets of cardboard and left it for a couple of weeks. Today I removed the cardboard and underneath all traces of chickweed and spring onions were gone. all the area needed was a light hoeing to loosen the soil and a good watering. Not a weed in sight! It should be ready for planting tomorrow.

I cleared another area which was dry and full of small stones. I gave it a very thorough watering and added a thick layer of well rotted compost. Then I covered it with a good layer of cardboard and plonked four grow bags on it. I expect that in four weeks or so it will be in perfect condition for planting.

So - winning the war on weeds one battle at a time. In the polytunnel anyway. The War Against Convolvulous in the perennial beds may prove a much tougher match.

Bad Books

It's been a bad week for books at Nellybert's. The first casualty was White Teeth by Zadie Smith. This book has been languishing in my Must Read pile for ten years or more until I decided it might be a good idea to keep a few books in the polytunnel and the tree house (my outdoor rooms) just in case I happened to be in either place and fancied a relaxing read. I've yet to bring books to the tree house but I did gather up White Teeth and took it to the tunnel. It wasn't the slightest bit what I expected and although it is a slow process I'm rather enjoying it. But the tunnel isn't the best place for books. It gets hot in there and pages curl up. No matter. I've decided to compost it when I've finished it. It has been a week now and I'm only half way through it. The book has been thoroughly watered several times and it looks a state but still readable. Note to self. Don't bring books I want to keep to that dirty, hot and humid place.

Keep Well Watered

The kitchen table isn't a safe place for books either. Especially if Bert is around. The other day I found him using one of Martha and Evie's favourite books as a plate to spread plum jam on toast. I snatched it from him before any harm was done.

Avoid Plum Jam

And only today I left How To Grow Food In Your Polytunnel All Year Round on the table after checking the correct spacing for planting sweetcorn plugs. When I returned from my planting task I noticed that the book was covered in breadcrumbs and bits of cheese. I dusted it off and went to put it away. It was then I saw the two cuts in the cover. Someone (Bert) had sliced a fresh crusty loaf on it. We do have cutting boards but I expect the book was handy. He (Bert) is in my Bad Books for that volume is my gardening bible and it cost me £10.95! Bert is every bit as bad as Joffrey Baratheon that time Joffrey used his Valyrian steel sword Widow's Wail to slice to shreds the rare and precious volume that his Uncle Tyrion had just presented as a wedding gift. Well maybe not quite as bad as that.

Not A Bread Board

Not A Book Lover

Woodcutters

Whilst Evie napped, Martha and I decided to cut down all the self-seeded saplings that were growing in silly places. When Martha realised that this would involve tree-felling and sharp, dangerous tools she decided we needed protective head gear. This is what she came up with.

And see Ziggy there. He is definitely becoming the sort of dog that is always lurking about the edges of photographs. Just like dear old Bonnie.

What's Going On

Two weekends ago Pearlie got sick. On the Saturday night she was in a lot of pain. I thought it might be the crampy, colicky pains she suffers from occasionally and managed to settle her down. The following night I awoke at around 2am and was unable to get back to sleep. I was listening all the time to hear if she was crying out. Then at 4am I was just about to drop off when I heard her wailing. I raced downstairs. Her bedside lights were off and the overhead light was dim and I wasn't wearing my glasses so at first I did not see what ailed her. As I moved closer to the bed I saw that she had been vomiting blood. A lot of blood. I got Bert up and she continued to vomit. I called an emergency ambulance and they arrived about 30 minutes later.

She was kept in hospital for four days and several tests were carried out but they could not identify the point of the bleed. Gastritis was mentioned, as was a burst ulcer. She received a few blood transfusions. On the fourth day she was discharged. Five days later her tummy started to swell and her navel turned from an innie to an outie. Her skin was tinged a yellowy shade. I called the GP who was concerned enough to refer her back to hospital. They kept her for a few hours, did an X-ray and some blood tests and sent her home again none the wiser. Apparently it is 'normal' for an elderly person to have a tummy so hard and swollen that their navel pops out.

This is what I think. The hospital (Antrim Area) does not give one damn about patients in their late eighties. They are seen as nuisances and bed-blockers. And this is what I want. I want her to be at home but I want to know what is wrong with her so she can receive the appropriate care and support. As it is we live from day to day never knowing when there is going to be another incident. Bert and I are both so stressed.

And Pearlie? At the moment she is OK. Happy to be home. She is still bloated but does not seem to be in pain. So - until the next time.

Our Ould Fellas

My father, Seamus Byrne - gone from us nine years today. 

Bert's father, Johnny Orr - gone from us seventeen years yesterday.

Matty died in late April. Our parents, so far,  have all died late Spring/ early Summer when the evenings are lengthening and the flowers are in bloom. I associate this time of the year with sadness and loss.

Strange Picture

I have no memory of this picture being taken. It features myself, (curly hair, snub nose) my sister, (bonnet) and my older cousins Eilish and Roisin. I haven't a clue who the half-faced boy is. I guess it was taken in 1957/58. Bert wasn't even born! I am four, sister two, cousins 11 and 8.

I like the picture because no-one (except the unknown boy) is looking at the photographer.

A Shooting At The Pub

On Friday 24^th May 1974, Day 10 of the UWC strike we went, as usual, to evening Mass in Tannaghmore chapel. As always we were in good time and there was the regular group of men standing chatting at the chapel door. This had recently become an ordeal for me, passing those men, neighbours and family members, for I was 20 years old, six months pregnant and unmarried. Forty years ago this was no light matter. John Heffron and Uncle Sean smiled and nodded at me but Uncle Brendan was not on speaking terms with me and made no acknowledgement. This was hurtful but understandable. I'm sure, that if given the chance, once my daughter was born, he would have come round. Brendan had a great fondness for children and was a very well-loved uncle.

After Mass my parents went to visit Mum's family in Randalstown. The first hint of something wrong was a series of strange phone calls. My younger sister took the first call that alerted us to something badly wrong. A shooting at the pub. A neighbour called to the door and took my brother down to Randalstown to inform my parents. I took a call from a woman who did not identify herself.

“Is that Byrne's?”
“It is.”
“Tell Sean we'll be over for a carry-out.”

There was laughter in the background. It sounded like they were having a party. I took it to be a malicious call.

The younger children were hysterical with fear. They thought that maybe the gunmen were coming to our house too. I tried to reassure them. By the time the tragic news came to us the gang had left the Wayside Halt and were already in police custody.

The thing is, the RUC were well aware of the gangs' activity. They were a ramshackle band of UVF, UDA and other loyalists who had come down to our area to reinforce the strike. Around thirty in number, they were armed with cudgels and sticks and at least one carried a loaded firearm. A neighbour of ours saw them at their work in the Harryville area of Ballymena where they smashed up pubs that were open in defiance of the strike. Their way back to Belfast took them past the Wayside Halt public house and it was there that a gun was used to shoot my uncles. That is when the police went in pursuit. That neighbour reported their activities in Harryville at the time. Had the RUC moved in Ballymena my uncles would not have died that night.

So there it was. Two devastated widows, eight fatherless children, a community torn apart, a loss felt as keenly today as on that terrible evening 40 years ago.

That link above is well worth reading as it is my sister's account of the events of that night and there are details that I have not included here.

Forty Years Ago

In my last post I wrote a little about the Dublin-Monaghan bombings that occurred 40 years ago during the Ulster Worker's Council (UWC) strike. I did not add that I was pregnant with my first child at this time. Perhaps it was being pregnant that made me feel so thin-skinned about everything that had happened. I remember walking at dusk feeling as if a cloud of dread was enveloping me. I felt terribly apprehensive to be bringing new life into the world at such a dangerous and precarious time.

Daddy brought the terrible news to us. A young man, Michael Mallon, from Cargin, near Toome, had been found beaten and shot on the outskirts of Belfast. He was twenty years old, a student at Queen's University in Belfast. I did not know Mickey but my sister did and our family knew his family. My father and my sister went to his funeral. So did my Uncle Sean, who is supposed to have remarked that the funeral was a big one and he hoped not to be at such a one for a very long time. His own funeral would be held less than a week later.

Mickey Mallon was the closest that the Troubles had come to us but it would be closer again within days. I will write about it on the anniversary.

Michael Joseph Mallon was found murdered, at the age of 20, forty years ago today.

Looking Back In Anger

In February 1973, during the first Loyalist Workers Strike, I was working in the Ballymena branch of Crazy Prices. There was a prolonged power cut and all the freezers powered down. Urged by our managers we worked on. Until the cry went up, 'the Tartan Gangs are coming!' And sure enough, gangs of youths, wearing denim, big boots and tartan scarves were rampaging along Broughshane Street, smashing windows as they went. Managers hastily locked the doors and told us to get ourselves off home but not before allowing us to help ourselves from the freezers. So it was I phoned Daddy to come and rescue me and my big cardboard box full of frozen food. Seamus was not afraid of any Tartan Gang.

That is my abiding memory of the 1973 Loyalist strike. Tartan Gangs and a surfeit of frozen food to which we were certainly not accustomed. Of course the power cuts meant that we couldn't refrigerate the food and a good deal of it had to be thrown out anyway.

This month is the 40^th anniversary of the second, and even more sinister, Loyalist strike, the one that brought down the power sharing executive, and the one that Ian Paisley and his ilk supported to the hilt.  

Today is also the 40^th anniversary of the co-ordinated bombings in Dublin and Monaghan. On the third day of the UWC strike thirty-three people died, the greatest number of people killed on any one day. A full-term unborn infant is not included in the list of dead but tiny sisters Jacqueline and Anne Marie O'Brien are. They were 17 and 5 months respectively and their parents died with them.

No-one has ever been charged in relation to the murders in Dublin and Monaghan.

It was thirty-three years later, again in the month of May, that Ian Paisley, who had been so vehemently opposed to the idea of power-sharing, accepted the post of First Minister of Northern Ireland, in an assembly that included Martin McGuinness of Sinn Fein as Deputy First Minister. It is rumoured that the two of them got on so well they were dubbed the Chuckle Brothers.

Boring Post About Being Happy

Apparently accounts of happiness are rather tedious, whereas tales of misery are tremendously interesting. This makes sense. If happiness were interesting there would be no country music, no soap operas, no Game of Thrones, no murder mysteries, no Celeb Culture. Imagine a world where Kerry Katona had a trouble-free birth or Katie Price had a happy marriage. How horrific would it be that a soap opera wedding should pass without incident, or a Game of Thrones wedding pass without mass carnage and regicide? Unhappiness and misery are very newsworthy.

This is why today's post will be boring.

I started my day with an early morning dream.

Other people's dreams are so very tedious, are they not? But this is my blog and I'll be boring if I want to.

My dream was tremendously entertaining and quite surreal - as dreams often are. My younger brother and I were driving slowly down the length of the road we lived on for most of my young life. And where he still lives. It was the gloaming. Things had changed. There were new houses on the road and  many of them had the same interesting flower growing in the gardens. It was tree height, but not a tree. It was a sky-blue campanula, gigantic, with flowers bigger than a human head. And there were birds roosting in plum trees at the side of the road. At first I thought they were magpies but then saw they were jays, hundreds of them. Just as campanulas do not grow higher than houses, neither do jays flock in hundreds. We decided to visit our neighbour. She was just as she always was, always has been for more than fifty years. And this too was surreal for, in real life, our neighbour is not as she was.

I was wakened by someone calling - Mary. For this is my real name, not Nelly. I pretend to Nelly. It was part of the dream and it called me to wakefulness.

An enjoyable dream can just set up the day. There was good weather. I did necessary chores then I spent the rest of the day gardening. Nothing makes me happier. I did not have to go out, visitors were scarce. At six I started dinner, at seven we ate it, at eight I poured us a gin, at nine I had a bath. Happy all day. What an achievement. What a delight.

Dinner Plans

I have had a busy few days. On Friday I went to Garden Show Ireland at the Castle Grounds in Antrim where I heard a very interesting talk by the delightful Alys Fowler. The talk was a tiny bit shambolic as is, apparently, her own garden, but no less charming and interesting for all that. I know it has changed my mind about a few things and I am determined to make great improvements to my soil and adopt the no-dig approach to growing. I will also be more tolerant of slugs. Apparently they are doing us a favour by eating seedlings that we'd never get around to planting anyway. Still feeding any I find to the hens.

Alys Fowler - my heroine

Plants people in search of treasure

On Saturday I went to cheer on the participants in the Giro d'Italia as they raced through Ballymena. Very exciting even though they were out of town again in a matter of moments.

Photograph taken by ZMB on Flickr 

Tonight Nellybert went for drinks with the First Husband and His Beloved. The carers were late in coming to Pearlie and the most curious one commented on me being 'dressed up.' I told her I was going into town to meet the First Husband. She said,

I don't like the sound of that.

I said,

Don't worry. Bert is coming too.

That seems very strange to me.

It's not. Far better that people get along. 

What does Bert think?

Oh Bert gets on well with FH.

Does he?

Oh yes. I only hope he gets on as well with my next husband.

You! You're not near wise!

So, FH and Beloved are taking the girls out for the day tomorrow so that First Daughter can get a wriggle on with her sowing and planting. I'll make dinner. We are having vegetable lasagne and rhubarb crumble as FH doesn't eat meat. Another busy day ahead.