Her song is in my soul

JEAN'S JOURNAL WITH JEAN FARRELL

On the week-end that we celebrate Mother’s Day I’m remembering my own mother, Angela Coyle. I’m sure, dear readers, that you are remembering yours also. To those readers, whose mothers are still alive, I say treasure her.

Nine years ago Mammy was dying. I wrote the following article here. I hope you won’t mind me repeating some of that piece again today. A lot of it will apply to your mothers too – the many Irish women who reared big families, in very hard times.

“The leader of the band is tired and her eyes are growing old but her blood runs through my body and her song is in my soul.” These lovely lines are from a song written by Dan Fogelberg

Most of our wonderful strong mothers were ‘the leader of the band’ in our houses. They were pregnant often and reared many children, without the aid of the magical appliances we have today. Some husbands were a great help. Other were a hindrance. These strong women soldiered on, making sure that their children received a good education. This, they knew, would make all the difference to their future lives. Education was the ‘escape’ from poverty. They were correct and we all owe them a huge debt of gratitude.

My mother was an extremely positive person. She had very high self-esteem. I never heard her say a single negative word about anybody. Her involvement in Athlone ICA, the Vintners Association and Fine Gael kept her sane, amidst a sea of nappies and babies. We were so proud of her, and so proud to be her children.

There were many drawbacks, as a child, to being one of a very big family. You wore second-hand (or tenth-hand) clothes. You never ever had a bed to yourself. Your emotional needs weren’t noticed and you were always helping younger children.

However, as you get older it is wonderful to have lots of sisters and brothers. There is much to share – especially memories. We know exactly what each other is talking about. Many conversations begin with, “Do you remember…?” And we all do. She taught us, by example, to respect ourselves and each other. We are all good friends because of this. Some of us regularly go on holidays together.

As my mother lay close to death, the eight of us were there with her. We talked and consoled each other. We took turns by her bedside. We discussed funeral plans. I don’t know how an only child could cope with all this.

I sat with my mother on Easter Sunday, days before her death. My daughter sat on the other side of her. My daughter’s little daughter danced around us. Four generations of females together. Something felt right within me – at a very basic gut level. My mother, myself, my daughter and my granddaughter were all there – the full circle of life.

The two-year old held her great granny’s hand. My mother gave her a weak frail smile – with effort. I looked at the fresh young plump skin of my granddaughter’s hand being held in the old withered hand.

I won’t remember old withered hands. I’ll remember instead my mother’s lovely young hands plaiting my little sister’s hair as she got us ready for school, long ago. As she plaited away she’d ask one child a spelling, ask another to recite his two-time tables and ask me to name the counties of Connaught. She knew that each of us had had difficulty with that particular lesson the previous evening. She was strong, encouraging, supportive and loving. While all this was going on, the smallest baby lay in the pram. Another baby watched from her high chair. The toddler in the play-pen shouted for his breakfast. And she was always pregnant—except we didn’t know it. How did she keep going?

When we came in from school, for our midday dinner, she’d have a delicious stew ready for us. We ate this whilst listening to ‘The Kennedys of Castleross’ and ‘Dear Frankie’. Dinner was followed by a dish of milk pudding – rice, farola, saga or semolina.

My mother, Angela Coyle, was a tall good-looking woman who could have taken on the world. She was intelligent, well-educated and most articulate. She treated us with great love and respect. She never ever put us down nor allowed any of us to speak disrespectfully to each other. She welcomed all our friends into our house – which was far from fancy!

With such a big family and a business there were serious difficulties to overcome at times. She overcame them. She partook in life at many levels, being very involved in various organisations. Before ‘women’s lib’ was ever heard of she was a liberated woman. She never considered herself inferior to men. She taught all her children that they were the equal of anyone. As an avid reader, she passed on her love of words to us. She also passed on her positivity and confidence. For all this I am very grateful.

In later years she suffered brain damage as a result of a car accident. Her personality changed – sadly. She became full of anxiety and worry.

I’ll remember the wonderful woman and mother she was in my youth.

I hope our ‘leaders of the band” are in Heaven and are having a wonderful time up there – with neither a saucepan nor a baby’s bottle in sight! God knows they deserve it and have more than earned it.

Their song will be forever in our souls.

jeanfarrell@live.ie