Bobby, the much loved Labrador

Jean's Journal with Jean Farrell

I wrote about our ancestors last week and about the fact that their genes will go and on for ever, within us. I noticed a perfect example of this here lately.

My granddaughter, Muireann (aged 11) and her mother (my daughter) were in Athlone, for the Saint Patrick’s weekend.

I had the honour of being invited to adjudicate the parade (more anon.) Because of this, I left our house, that day, earlier than my husband, daughter and granddaughter. As I was going out the door, I ‘suggested’ that they should not bring the dog, Bobby, to the parade. The streets would be much too busy for him, I pointed out.

However, Bobby had other ideas. With his green ‘decoration’ already around his neck, he took his lead into his mouth. Then he gazed up at them all, as only a Labrador can. His tail was waving too fast for the camera, while my daughter took this photograph of him!

Bobby knew that they were putty in his hands (or paws!)! And they are, pure putty. This is because they all have the genes of my mother-in-law. She was Kitty Kenny, born in 1916, in Coosan. This kind, gentle woman adored dogs. Her great granddaughter, Muireann, is the exact same. So are all the Farrells, her descendants. (My relations definitely have not got the ‘dog’ gene!)

Of course they brought Bobby to the parade. Of course they did. There was no question of leaving him behind. Bobby is a much loved dog indeed!

I’ve quoted the following here before, but it’s worth writing again. "Our ancestors sleep in our blood and brains, their packets of DNA neatly packed, pretending not to matter, but oh how they do."

The Saint Patrick’s Day parade was wonderful. Many many children took part, walking with their sports clubs. Many nationalities marched too, in their colourful attire. Bands galore helped raise our spirits. Being a garrison town (is the expression gone out of fashion?) we have our army band, which is top class.

I agreed whole heartily with the editorial in last week’s paper. Tadhg Carey wrote: “What thousands don’t see is the amount of effort that goes into organising events.” How true. I noted the adults, all volunteers, who accompanied the children marching with their sport’s clubs. Well done to everyone involved. I was proud of our town, as I sat on the stand observing all.

I’ve been writing about mother, grandmothers and great grandmothers lately. Before I leave the subject I must tell you about ‘Auntie Mummy.’

We grew up on a street full of children, in the 1950s. All of us were in and out of each other houses every day. We knew the grannies and nannies who came to visit our neighbours’ homes. We considered them to be very old women, dressed mainly in dark clothes.

One of my friends had a granny ‘with notions,’ as they say nowadays. This grandmother was very stylish, fashionable and youngish looking. She told us that on no condition were we to call her granny. We were to call her ‘Auntie Mummy.’ The only ‘Mummys’ we knew existed in English comics and story books.

I was fascinated by this Auntie Mummy. In the 1950s, she was everything a traditional granny wasn’t. What a brave woman she was to have the courage to be different, in 1950s Ireland!

Isn’t it amazing how young Grannys have become since we became one ourselves?

My brothers and sisters were speculating, recently, on the life my own mother would have liked to have lived, when her family grew up.

She would have loved if all eight of us owned posh hotels, in posh places. She’d have happily sat in the foyer of each one, talking to interesting people, as she ate and drank the best of food and drink. Spending six weeks in each hotel with us would have been her ideal life. Alas and alack, this was not to be.

Maybe heaven is like a posh hotel! Maybe herself and Auntie Mummy are having a great time, up there!

A cartoon I saw comes to mind. In it one person is telling a long story. The other person is thinking, ‘Hurry up and finish your story so as I can tell you about the same thing happening to me. However, mine is much more interesting - because I am in it.’

Have you finished all the Easter eggs yet!? Have you ‘expanded’ a little as a result? I have and am, yet again, on a big diet! In fact, I’ve been on a diet now for sixty years! This is ever since I went as a boarder to Moate. We ate so much of Lynam’s white sliced pan that my waist vanished completely. And it has never re-appeared, sadly!

During this Easter week I will end with a lovely poem. It was written by a poet who died recently. He was Michael Coady, from my mother’s home town of Carrick-on-Suir. In it he points out that there is good as well as evil in this world.

"Though there are torturers in the world, there are also musicians. Though, at this moment, men are screaming in prisons, there are jazzmen raising storms of sensuous celebration and orchestras releasing glories of the spirit.

"Though the image of God is everywhere defiled, a man in West Clare is playing the concertina. The Sistine Choir is levitating under the dome of St Peter’s. And a drunk man on the road is singing, for no reason."

jeanfarrell@live.ie