Memories of my Mum

My Mum – The veritable genius!

Introduction

I have started this blog to help me to cope with the loss of my Mum 10 years ago this month (July 2001).  It's only for me but I thought that a blog was an appropriate platform for me and I hope anyone who reads this will agree.

My mother passed away this month 10 years ago so, more than usual, my mind keeps drifting back to various memories of our time together.  If I had to choose just one word to describe her it would have to be the word ‘genius’.  She was born in the 1930’s into a working class family and was raised in Oliver Bond in Dublin’s inner city in a 2 bedroom flat.  I think she used to use a letter to describe which block she lived in and as a consequence I developed the opinion, when I was a young teenager that she was referring to the Maze prison in NI.  This misunderstanding came about because a guy whom I met at my local roller disco had tried to recruit me to the Fianna hÉireann (the movement for young and potential IRA members I believe).  He groomed me over a number of weeks on the plight of the poor people in ‘H’ Block and I felt great empathy for them as I knew my mum had had a tough upbringing.  He asked me if I would be prepared to march in protest of these adverse conditions (which I now know as being issues like strip searches and prisoner status).  I informed this young man that I would love to march but that unfortunately I was unavailable to do so as I had to work on Saturdays (the day the march was to take place).  That was the end of my experience as an almost member of the Fianna hÉireann.  It was not until a number of years later that the penny dropped and I realised the difference between Oliver Bond flats and the Maze Prison.  I think I saw an aerial picture of the prison on TV and realised it looked like a H.  I felt like such a fool and shivers went down my spine thinking of possible alternative outcomes to my life had I been available that Saturday and had I indeed marched in protest.  This is a prime example of how terrorist organisations recruit their young members’ i.e. through their naivety.

Anyway, I digress.  Some of my youngest memories of my Mum are musical memories.  She loved, I mean absolutely loved, to sing and was determined that all her children would sing whether they wanted to or not.  We had a kitchen table made from, as far as I know, bacolite or was it melamine?  It was a strong hard surface, red in colour and had the typical sixties style metal frame or rim and metal legs.  I remembered being informed that my father had acquired it via the canteen where he used to work.  This red table would be placed under the window and the window curtains would be pulled around in front of it to make it look like a stage.  I often had an audience in the form of the neighbours and I especially remember Mrs Ryan who lived a number of doors up and was extremely fond of reading Mills & Boon books and was a romantic through and through.  She was a lovely woman indeed.  The actual songs I remember my Mum asking me to sing were 'Paper Roses' by Anita Bryant and later by Marie Osmond and I also remember 'Close Every Door' from Joseph.  The latter was such a morbid song I can’t, even now, think why any mother would like to hear their young child sing such a depressing tune.

I would like to be able to say that I was really good singer but I don’t remember receiving much praise.  My memory tells me that it was just simply expected of me and I think I enjoyed it.  Singing was a huge part of my family life.  My parents used to go to my dad’s work related social club (he worked for Semperit in Ballyfermot) and I remember quite frequently that a group of their friends would come back to our house afterwards and sit around and continue to drink and to sing song after song.  These were real Irish urban hoolies.  My mother would crack open huge jars of pickled mackerel that she would make when my dad caught too many fish to fit in our tiny freezer.  I used to love the shock to the taste buds when I had my first mouthful of tart vinegar.  She would also have to hand copious amounts of pig’s feet and tails.  The sight of grown adults sucking and chewing on animal body parts (even as a child I knew it was a foot and a tail) was to me disgusting.  The melting fat would drip down their mouths and not a paper towel or baby wipe in sight.  To this day I cannot see the pleasure in eating such pickled fat (I feel I must point out though that as a young teenager and up to the age of 21 I worked in a butchers shop which makes me feel like a hypocrite saying these words).

Speaking of Mackerel, my Dad used to sea fish regularly and what he caught often kept us from going hungry.  My Mum, to use her words, had 17 children.  Ten survived and she lost 7 which included 2 sets of twins.  She never forgot the children she lost.  As an adult I remember I once commented that she must feel lucky to have 10 healthy children who were doing okay for themselves in the world and she immediately answered ‘not really,  I lost seven children and that’s not very lucky’.  She then recalled her experience of losing her children at various stages of pregnancy and how painful it was for her.  I mentioned the number of children by way of explaining how difficult it was at times for my Mum to put food on the table for all of us so the Mackerel was always gratefully received.  There was no room for fussy eaters in our house (save for the tails and feet of course).

Mum told me a story of how my Dad seemed never to be there to help out with raising the kids (in practical terms).  She told me that she had given birth at home one Saturday when my Dad was off fishing with his mates.  He arrived home very late that night with his friends and came in to my Mum’s room where she was sleeping (in the parlour) and asked her to get up out of bed and make some food for him and his friends who had all been drinking heavily.  In an act of defiance she picked up her alarm clock, not that she would have needed one with all those kids in the house to wake her up, and she threw it at him and struck him on the head.  I laughed as I visualised this event and wished I could have been a fly on the wall when it happened.  It always made me feel good to hear stories about my Mum asserting herself in her world which didn’t really value her (a woman) as she should have been valued.