Dear Mary,
Were you still with us, you would have received a letter (and cheque) from The President today! Alas, no letter or cheque and sadly you are not still with us. You have been gone nearly fourteen years now but you have never been forgotten. As long as there is breath in me, you will never be forgotten.
So instead of a letter from Áras an Uachtaráin, maybe you’ll accept a few lines from the youngest lad!
Who was with you this day one hundred years ago? Your mother for sure, your father too and maybe neighbours who came to help. We never talked much about those days. You would mention “Mother” and “Father” to me but sadly I knew neither. Only when you died, did I fully grasp how young you were when your father died – scarcely seven years old, the oldest of three. That cannot have been easy. We never spoke much about that either but I know you never forgot them as we haven’t forgotten you and Bill. You knew they gave you life and a sense of home. Cloonloo was always so important to you.
Just over seventy years ago, you and Bill were married – December 29th 1952. I think you once told me you were one of the first to get married in Cloonloo Church. I never recall seeing a photo of you on your wedding day but there is one of you and daddy taken, the next day I think, in Dublin. Daddy with an open neck shirt and jacket and you in a dress suit. Did you wear a wedding dress? If there was a daughter in our house, we might know the answer to that!! Clothes and fashion were by the way for you – at least that’s the way I remember it. The jersey was your go to garment and you wore it well!
I really cannot recall my first memory of you. Isn’t that strange? You, my mother, and I cannot recall when I first saw you but I know for certain you saw me and loved me. “Nobdoy will ever love you”, you used the say “the way I do.” I would love to think I did not take those words for granted but chances are I did. Nonetheless I came to value them, trust them and know there is a truth there that has given more than a little comfort along the way. Sometimes when I speak with chidlren preparing for their First Holy Communion, I tell them about you and the memory I have of my own First Holy Communion Day. Oddly enough, I don’t recall the church, the priest or the first time I received Eucharist. I don’t remember what we did, where we went or who was around. I remember you though. I remember you getting me ready for Mass. You washed my hair – “Don’t duck me”, I used to say when you’d put my head under the water to rinse off the shampoo. I never liked that. Not a problem now – shampoo not required – but, strangely enough, I still don’t like water in my face!! I remember putting on the clothes that you had bought for me. Brown shoes, cream ankle socks, a check short trousers, cream shirt and I forget the colour of the tie, and a mustard coloured cardigan. I must have a photo somewhere and I hope it matches what I have just written. There was a little badge with a medal pinned to the cardigan and, knowing me as you did and realising that damage could be done around the garage between dressing and Altar, you put a blue kitchen coat on me to keep the boy and the clothes, grease free until departure!!
You worked hard. I know that for sure. You and Bill were a great pair and you did your best for all of us. Most of my memories are of us on the road. Collecting and delivering cars, often late at night or early in the morning. There were no strict bedtime rules in Moygara – at least, if there were, I don’t remember them. I don’t ever remember being tired or hungry though so the mother in you kept the balance for us that was needed.
When I started to serve Mass, you brought me to Mullaney’s in Sligo and John Mullaney helped you as you got a soutane and surplice for me. I know you were proud of that and happy that I was serving Mass in Cloonloo Church. I am not sure when I thought about becoming a priest but that soutane and surplice were important to me, and to you. I wore them for longer than might have been intended and my aunt sewed an extenstion into it to add a year or two to the serving. No regrets Mary.
My first suit was for my Confirmation Day, blue and double-breasted. The next one was black when in 1981 we went to John Mullaney again to buy a black suit as I prepared to go to Maynooth. It’s stange, you had a lot to do with clothing me, preparing me for moments in life – steps on the road. Thanks.
We were always in touch, thank God. I went from being the passenger in the car to being the driver and we covered a lot of road. I often remember and mention, those times I would be at home and settled, only to hear you say “We will go up to Dwyers for an hour” or some other named relation and it would have been the last thing I wanted to do. We would go though and not once did I regret it. You valued relations and friends, kept links alive and I am glad you did. Most nights, in the age of the mobile phone, your name would pop up on my screen and no matter where I was or who I was with, I answered – sometimes reluctantly but I missed those calls when you went.
So, one hundred years on from that January day in 1923, I am so thankful you were born. I am blessed that you met Bill and gave the gift of life to us all. I am happy that I made you happy most of the time. I remember your laugh, your smile and how much you enjoyed me telling a story that would make people laugh. You knew the story, word for word but listened for the ending as if you had never heard it before. You encouraged me and shaped me.
The day you died, I was called to the Nursing Home and wondered was it you they were calling me to. I remember pulling in and seeing two of the staff at the door, waiting for me and somehow I knew then that it was you. I remember you in the bed, the candles beside you and, no more than not being fully clear on my first seeing of you, I am not clear on this one either because I don’t know if you heard me pray for and love you but I do know you would be happy I was there. I am happy I was there and always, always glad that you were here for all of us.
Remembered, and loved.
Vincent
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