This time of year is a very special time of year to me and mine. Not only is it in these days that my auntie and my own mother celebrate the day of their birth but on a more sombre note it is also the time of year that they lost a mother and I a grandmother, and never did anyone ever have such a grand mother. Kindness that was first nature and patience of a heaven full of saints. I always wondered if her patience was a born gift or something grown and honed with love and care of her seven daughters and two sons over the years. Or did it come with the countless grand children that were born of those daughters and sons, worrying about us being raised in a city so different from the one she knew as a child, family owned corner shops and friendly conversation with the customers, ball room dances and gossip in the hair dressers, carriages carried by horses bringing the milk and the future right along with it. I used to sit and talk for hours with her, Listening to her stories and quick wit, our smile's and laughter a fourth companion right. The third being Tammy, Her dog always tucked in as close as she good get against her feet.
Her early morning companion, My grandmother or as I called her, my Nan was one for the early mornings and Tammy always right along with her. Nan would make a cup of tea and a slice of toast and a half, half always going to Tammy if and only if it was covered with real Irish butter, it was of course and always that bit thicker for the dog.
Her early morning companion, My grandmother or as I called her, my Nan was one for the early mornings and Tammy always right along with her. Nan would make a cup of tea and a slice of toast and a half, half always going to Tammy if and only if it was covered with real Irish butter, it was of course and always that bit thicker for the dog.
At night time as I would tip toe up the stairs and into the front room of our family home to jump into a bed that had hot water bottles already warming the bed at my feet and back, making it a dream long before there is any sleep to be had. Sometimes as I would pass my grandmothers room at night I would ask her to say a prayer for me, which the very first time I ever asked came the reply "I always do Conor, sure don't I always pray for sinners" even know years later in a different country and miles away from my true home it warms my very being to hear her say those words to me in memory. It became the standard reply to my question every time, and every time it was fantastic to hear. The very first time though it hit me dead centre, because I knew she meant it, no judgement in her voice only love and worry. Her way of letting me know she knew me, the spoken things and unspoken. I drifted off into the most sound and comfortably safe slumber of my life, safe in the knowledge that her prayers kept me safe, from demons both real and imagined.
As morning light would break and a new day arrived, I would often awake to the aroma of a real Irish breakfast cooked by a genuine Irish woman wafting up the stairs beckoning me to rise and follow the sweat smell to a morning meal fit for a king. As I would stumble down the stairs often in my boxer shorts and tee-shirt the sounds of the little radio in the kitchen would reach my ears. With her humming away as she went around the kitchen with the skill and confidence of someone who had cooked and served many a weary soul a fine meal. "Coffee or Tea Conor?" "Coffee, Please and good morning Nan" Her good morning was better then any words I could mutter, beans in red sauce; three sausages and a two rashers sided with fried tomato's and a fried egg or omelette to be followed seconds later by a big cup of Nan's coffee. Could a boy ever dream of anything more. All the energy one could ever need to lug over to H&B Ice cream factory and work a day and over time. Just in case though I would always with my uncle at lunch time to her home to arrive to any number of dishes prepared with love and skill. I left those particular months I lived there with the well rounded face and arse of a boy looked after too well by his grandmother, and no lie it was it either.
Not that that treatment was reserved for family and loved ones. The front door was never crossed by anyone welcome who did not get treated well and warmed by the fire place in the winter months or cooled by a cold drink during the summer, her kindness did not stop there, for she cared genuine for all the souls of the world. I could often see the pain in her face when the news would speak of unimaginable tragedies from around the world. She could offer them no help, no support, but only her prayers and you can be sure they were said and with a heavy heart filled with compassion for the family and friends of loved ones lost. As a child it struck me to see her like that, confused because I did not feel the same feeling no matter how hard I would try I just did not understand, they were strangers in strange places with strange names. How could I feel for someone I did not know, did not love a mystery that has gotten clearer over the years but still baffles me at times.
As she got older and less able bodied due to the fact her legs had been getting slowly worse over the years that never slowed her spirit, nor dampened her good humour. Nan would be able to make it to Sunday mass less and less, so it became replaced with mass on the TV or Radio, One day before it was really bad I offered to go with her and two of my cousins who were still small children at the time to her local mass, As we walked and talked I remember a excited mood and fondness that followed me when ever I was in her company. I'll never forgot how the moment I walked through the door of the church a muscle slid or pulled, dropping one shoulder down and making one arm agony to move, I bit my lip to stop from breaking the silence of the church with my screams of agony. To this day I still do not know what it was or why it happened, as the saying goes, Only god knows.
This I do know however, I stayed each minute and each prayer, seeing my Nan's worried smile and happy to be there with her family. Even if one of us looked like he had been born a cripple with a bad temper. For no one would I of stayed, but for her. For her alone, for the memory, for the conversation, for the laugh and most of all for her company.
As morning light would break and a new day arrived, I would often awake to the aroma of a real Irish breakfast cooked by a genuine Irish woman wafting up the stairs beckoning me to rise and follow the sweat smell to a morning meal fit for a king. As I would stumble down the stairs often in my boxer shorts and tee-shirt the sounds of the little radio in the kitchen would reach my ears. With her humming away as she went around the kitchen with the skill and confidence of someone who had cooked and served many a weary soul a fine meal. "Coffee or Tea Conor?" "Coffee, Please and good morning Nan" Her good morning was better then any words I could mutter, beans in red sauce; three sausages and a two rashers sided with fried tomato's and a fried egg or omelette to be followed seconds later by a big cup of Nan's coffee. Could a boy ever dream of anything more. All the energy one could ever need to lug over to H&B Ice cream factory and work a day and over time. Just in case though I would always with my uncle at lunch time to her home to arrive to any number of dishes prepared with love and skill. I left those particular months I lived there with the well rounded face and arse of a boy looked after too well by his grandmother, and no lie it was it either.
Not that that treatment was reserved for family and loved ones. The front door was never crossed by anyone welcome who did not get treated well and warmed by the fire place in the winter months or cooled by a cold drink during the summer, her kindness did not stop there, for she cared genuine for all the souls of the world. I could often see the pain in her face when the news would speak of unimaginable tragedies from around the world. She could offer them no help, no support, but only her prayers and you can be sure they were said and with a heavy heart filled with compassion for the family and friends of loved ones lost. As a child it struck me to see her like that, confused because I did not feel the same feeling no matter how hard I would try I just did not understand, they were strangers in strange places with strange names. How could I feel for someone I did not know, did not love a mystery that has gotten clearer over the years but still baffles me at times.
As she got older and less able bodied due to the fact her legs had been getting slowly worse over the years that never slowed her spirit, nor dampened her good humour. Nan would be able to make it to Sunday mass less and less, so it became replaced with mass on the TV or Radio, One day before it was really bad I offered to go with her and two of my cousins who were still small children at the time to her local mass, As we walked and talked I remember a excited mood and fondness that followed me when ever I was in her company. I'll never forgot how the moment I walked through the door of the church a muscle slid or pulled, dropping one shoulder down and making one arm agony to move, I bit my lip to stop from breaking the silence of the church with my screams of agony. To this day I still do not know what it was or why it happened, as the saying goes, Only god knows.
This I do know however, I stayed each minute and each prayer, seeing my Nan's worried smile and happy to be there with her family. Even if one of us looked like he had been born a cripple with a bad temper. For no one would I of stayed, but for her. For her alone, for the memory, for the conversation, for the laugh and most of all for her company.
