FRANK PHILLIPS - 3 rd ANNIVERSARY

Frank on the 'London Eye'

RICH MEMORIES

Three years ago today my uncle, Frank Phillips died at age 86 , though his memory is still vivid for those of us who knew and loved him. We shall not forget his forensic memory for tales and places of long ago, his love of English and the repository of poetry he kept in his head from his schooldays. He is also remembered for his sense of mischief and how he delighted in ‘rising’ people to the limit and sometimes beyond ! He was trenchant in his views from immigrants to people with an intellectual disability (a term he never used !) and he seldom gave any ground in an argument.

With sister, Bridie

What I miss most about Frank on this his third Anniversary is his huge sense of nostalgia for the past and his detailed accounts of growing up in rural Ireland in the lean years of the 1930’s. The fields he ploughed, the potatoes he planted, the horse and cart he drove, all recalled by him with an intensity of emotion that brought them back to life in the telling. He came from a generation where life was hard and everything was earned by laborious toil and many became so caught up in the tough business of ‘living’ that not much thought was given to anything else.

Always on the ball !

Frank though was always one to reflect on the bigger issues of life and informed by his wide selection of reading reached conclusions that didn’t always square up with the prevailing norms in the society around him. He maintained this ‘maverick’ streak right up to the end of his life and inspired me, especially as a younger man to plough my own furrow and think for myself. Thank you Frank for the richness of your legacy and those precious memories of your life which are very present with us today as we commemorate your passing.

Gerard O'Shea

Taking the sun in Villiers Square

KATHLEEN O'SHEA 14th Anniversary

Today is the 14 th Anniversary of my Mams death.

Here she is pictured in the front porch of Ardhu with

her loyal companion 'Judy'.

LAST DAYS

Towards the end
I was like a guide-dog
Leading my mother
Through the hazards of shopping centres
And crossing roads
As her eyes dimmed with age.

She bore it all bravely
And kept the tears
Till we were gone,
Then - in a flash of time
A light dawned
That spirited her away
From all our care and ken.

She had simply had enough,
And at the end
Sat back in her chair
And didn’t even wave goodbye.

Now her eyes are wide open
And she is seeing things
We can only dream of.

Gerard O'Shea

KATHLEEN O'SHEA ANNIVERSARY

Mam in her beloved garden, unusually at rest.

A DAY TO REMEMBER

The thirteenth anniversary of my mother's (Kathleen O'Shea) death takes place in a few days time (August 29th.), in some ways it seems like only yesterday and yet it could be a lifetime away ! One of the books she kept by her bedside was a slim volume of poetry by Patience Strong, and i have chosen this poem by her to remember the light and life of my very special mam.~GOSh.~

THE AWAKENING

Death is not a sleep, but an awakening
to Life. Casting off the dreams of
darkness, sorrow, sin and strife-the soul
arising greets the glory of the morning ray
-faring forth into the promise of the golden
day.
At the gate that swings between this world
and worlds above-stands the Angel of God’s
mercy with the lamp of love…. Fear not for
the spirit that has passed into the night.
Death is not sleep, but an awakening to
Light.

Patience Strong

This picture has a story. I had been on one of my frequent

jaunts to Ballyvaughaun deep in the heart of the Burren and

locked the keys into my car. A phone call home and a

couple of hours later Mother came to the rescue,

accompanied by her sister Bridie. As can be seen from the

photo they made the most of the inconvenience and

stayed to imbibe the bracing Atlantic air. ~GOSh.~

FRANK PHILLIPS ANNIVERSARY

Today is the first anniversary of the death of my uncle,
Frank Phillips. To mark the occasion we set up this
garden ornament 'bike' outside his old apartment
at Villiers Square to celebrate his cycling prowess.
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PRECIOUS DAYS AGO
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A year of days has free-wheeled by
Since your sharp and sudden departure,
Twelve months of afternoon jaunts
Through your beloved Ballycannon
And weeks of peddling to Ardnacrusha
Past Considenes and Bertie Boyles and Barrys ,
And past the golden cottage,
Where years ago you spent paraffin-lit nights
Poring over ancient tales of romance and adventure.
An entire year since you rode out of our fractured lives
That last great expedition
When, despite every impulse of your being
You were ushered away to some other realm.
.
We met today to remember
A great life lived long and well ,
Our heads and hearts clanging with memories
Of precious days listening to your soft voice,
Regaling us with stories of our past
And keeping us abreast of every present moment.
Your wit and sharp tongue
Kept us on our toes
As you filled our lives with soul and wonder,
And filled our prosaic days
With poems rich and waving.
.
We salute you uncle Frank
As you still spin about us,
Roaring over mountain moors
Spreading your net far and wide
To catch the semblance of a dream.
We were all caught in your net
Mesmerised by your hold on life
Until at last it loosened,
And in the silence of that hospital night
You left us with the harvest grain
Of rich warm memories.
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Gerard O'Shea

A RUBY SUNDAY

The way they were !

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A HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

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The world remembers July 1969 as the historic date when the first man walked on the moon , Neil Armstrong , uttering these words "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." Five days later at Our Lady Queen of Peace church in Limerick my brother, Tony and his Bride Kathleen uttered these equally momentous words “ I do ” as they exchanged their wedding vows on July 26 th. Tomorrow they celebrate 40 years of sharing their lives together in a ‘ruby’ wedding anniversary. Rubies are said to be rarer than diamonds and symbolise health wealth and wisdom and, of course, passion! Tony and Kathleen enjoy a good relationship together and the span of four decades seems to have ,if anything , strengthened the bonds between them. So congratulations to my brother and his wife on this significant day in their life ‘voyage’ together. Below are the lyrics of Limerick man Johnny Duhan’s song ‘The Voyage’, and as Tony has a fine singing voice perhaps over the next 24 hours he might serenade Kathleen with these powerful words “navigating to the shores of the heart ”

Gerard O'Shea

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'

Lovestruck in 1968

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I am a sailor, you're my first mate
We signed on together, we coupled our fate
Hauled up our anchor, determined not to fail
For the hearts treasure, together we set sail

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With no maps to guide us we steered our own course
Rode out the storms when the winds were gale force
Sat out the doldrums in patience and hope
Working together we learned how to cope

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With daughter Deirdre

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chorus
Life is an ocean, love is a boat
In troubled waters, it keeps us afloat
When we started the voyage, there was just me and you
Now gathered round us, we have our own crew

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Together we're in this relationship
We built it with care to last the whole trip
Our true destination's not marked on any charts
We're navigating to the shores of the heart

Chorus 2x

FRANK PHILLIPS - AN APPRECIATION

Frank Phillips ~ R.I.P. ~

1923 - 2009

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" MAWERVELLOUS "

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At Frank’s removal from Griffin’s funeral home yesterday

I shared these words as my tribute to a remarkable uncle.

He was an extraordinary man for many reasons and had several strings to his bow. The list of his interests included books, horses, darts, cats ,bikes (motor, pedal and electric !),working on the land, and reminiscing about days gone by. His precise memory of people, places and events stretching back into the distant past meant that he became the mainstay of our small family circle, being the repository of our family history. When questions arose over some half-remembered event Frank was our archive whose word on these matters was reliable and final.

One of his passions

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On the evening of his death his power of recall seemed intact, even though he was having difficulty communicating . Tony and I sat by his hospital bed talking to Frank and doing our best to make sense of what he was saying, his speech having been impaired by the stroke. Earlier in the week I had heard on the radio that the last big snow to hit Ireland was in 1982 and before that in 1947, so as I shared this with Frank I was pretty sure that for once I'd have the last word ! I should have known better, he went back further than any of us and he said with great effort " 1936 ". So once again and for the last time I bowed to his superior memory.

Soldiering

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I have a memory as a child listening to my mother reading aloud Frank's letters from England in which he recalled every stick and stone and twist and turn of his beloved Ballycannon. He went to England in 1960 and for almost 40 years worked there on the building sites. In his letters he would go up and down that country road ,enquiring about neighbours and reminiscing about the 'old days' Later as the letters got scarcer and the telephone was used, my mother would settle on a stool for a long session when he rang. My mother had a soft spot for 'Francie' (as we called him then), and always worried about him growing old in London. In fact just before she died she set the train in motion that allowed Frank to return to his native soil. Sadly she never lived to see him settled here but it gave here immense satisfaction to know that his return was imminent. And for the last eleven years he has lived within sight of the house where he was born, in the historic heart of Limerick, shadowed by King Johns Castle beside the Treaty Stone and near dear old Thomondgate.

With Tony and Ed Sweeney, fellow members

of the Dalcassian Motor Cycle Club at their
Christmas reunion in the Locke Bar.

Frank's prodigious memory allowed him to recite pieces of poetry appropriate to any occasion, and at the drop of a hat he would break into verse and at the end say rather sheepishly "I'm a mine of useless information!" We didn’t consider his contributions useless at all, in fact , we thought of it then, and especially now as a goldmine. In the hurly-burly of life he always seemed to take the time to stop and consider...whether as a young man engrossed in his precious books in the cottage at Ballycannon, or later working on the building sites of London, or more recently as he retraced the scenes of his early life walking or more often cycling out the Long Pavement over the Captains Bridge, turning left at the Sweeps Cross and up through Ballycannon, Ballycar and beyond...as a young man, in middle age ,as he grew older he never lost that sense of wonderment at the ordinary commonplace things of life. One of Frank's expressions when something impressed him was "Mawervellous isn't it" And that's the way he said it "Mawervellous" And this is probably as fitting a description of his life as any, he was a mawervellous, remarkable man whose passing has left such a huge void in all of our lives.

On his bike !

He wasn't a religious man and the arrangements for today reflect what we believe would have been his wishes. On occasion the subject of faith and belief came up in our discussions and we always ended by agreeing to differ. Today I trust that on Franks final excursion he may yet be pleasantly surprised !

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Gerard O'Shea

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Frank's burial at Kilquane Cemetery, Parteen.

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The Death Notice from the Irish Independent, Tuesday 10 th. February...

PHILLIPS (late of Ballycannon, Ardnacrusha, Co. Clare and London), at the Regional Hospital, Frank; sadly missed by his loving sister Bridie, brother Joe, nephews, nieces, relatives and friends. R.I.P. Memorial Service in Griffin's Funeral Home, John's Gate tomorrow (Wednesday) at 1 o'c. followed by Burial in Kilquane Cemetery, Parteen.


For previous blogs about Frank click on the links below…

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Christmas at Doonass
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2007/12/good-night-out.html

The Bard at Villiers
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2007/11/bard-at-villiers.html

Wanderings With Frank
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2007/06/frank-phillips-2.html

My Remarkable Uncle
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2007/03/my-remarkable-uncle-my-uncle-frank.html

A Life of Wonder
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2009/02/frank-departing-from-shannon-airport-in.html

Our Dear Uncle
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2009/01/our-dear-uncle.html

A Conqueror of Time
http://dewofhermon.blogspot.com/2009/01/conqueror-of-time.html

FRANK PHILLIPS 1923 - 2009

Frank at Shannon Airport

in 1988 with myself,

Kathleen and mother

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A LIFE OF WONDER

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My uncle, Frank Phillips passed away at 1 a.m. this morning after a valiant battle against a debilitating stroke. All of his life a tenacious and resilient man, even in his last weeks this strength of character was evident as he tried to cope with all the restraints of his illness. Frank was the mainstay of our small family circle, and because of his incredible memory we came to look on him as the keeper of our family history. For his sister Bridie, for Tony my brother and for myself, Frank’s passing is such a huge loss, he has left a void in our lives that will never be filled.
I have often referred here to Frank’s love of poetry and his ability to recite poems learned at school from memory. One of his favourites was a piece written by W.H.Davies called ‘Leisure’ . Like the poet, Frank enthused about simple everyday things as he saw them through his own unique perspective and though his eyesight failed towards the end, his capacity for wide-eyed wonder remained.
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Gerard O'Shea

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LEISURE

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What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

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No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

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No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

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A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

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W.H.Davies

OUR DEAR UNCLE

Frank as a young man

in the Armed Forces.
A PRAYER FOR FRANK
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You were always one for talking Frank,
But I have never heard you speaking
With such urgency and detail
As now, lying in a hospital bed,
Your chest wheezing and your left arm lifeless.
Beneath a ‘fasting’ sign you are talking
In a low, tired voice
Flitting from one thing to another
At the speed of light -
We are relieved dear uncle
That despite all that’s happened
You are making sense…
It will take us a little longer
To make sense of all the happenings of this,
Your Passion week -

Over just eight days
Your life has changed utterly,
Lost its ringing certainty,
Robbed of its jaunty swagger
By a contrivance of events
That have sapped the soul and heart from you,
And left you with little more than that ‘voice’
To let us know, you are still here,
And still the man who has dwarfed our lives
With your towering presence,
And kept the fire of family history burning
With your forensic remembering
And conjuring of lives lived long ago.

Tonight you are in the hospital ward
Alone with your fears and dreams,
In the closing of an eye Frank
You enter worlds more real than terra-firma…
I pray that this night
Large vistas of welcome are opening for you
As you pluck from your store of dreams
Those that will now sustain you…
As your ‘body’ who up to now has never let you down
Restarts and revitalises
Responding to your mental commands
To renew and re-invigorate,
And cause the surge of swelling life
To course again, Atlantically
Through your trembling veins…

And may God, who still believes in you

Bring comfort through these darkest hours,
And turn His face towards you,
And make His voice be heard
Above the sound of yours,
And please God, Frank.
May you know the blessed difference.
.
Gerard O'Shea
Wednesday, January 7 th.

A CONQUEROR OF TIME

Frank

A TOWERING PILLAR

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The pillar towers of Ireland,

how wondrously they stand

By the lakes and rushing rivers

through the valleys of our land

In mystic file, through the isle,

they lift their heads sublime,

These grey old pillar temples,

These conquerors of time !

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Denis McCarthy

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I well remember that Sunday afternoon standing midst the remains of Askeaton Castle when my uncle Frank recited from memory these lines. Ever the man with the apt quote from verse or story to suit the occasion, he never ceases to amaze with his repository of verse, learned long ago, from which he draws with apparent effortless ease. At this moment Frank is laid low with illness and even though weakened by his condition, he is still holding forth in speech with his hallmark wry humour and keen observations. I trust that like the monuments of stone remembered in these lines my 'pillar' uncle will too come through this ordeal and continue to count himself among ' these conquerors of time.'
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Gerard O'Shea

KATHLEEN O'SHEA REMEMBERED

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REMEMBERING MOTHER

On Friday next (August 29) my mother Kathleen O'Shea will be dead 11 years. She was a wonderful woman who worked hard to keep her two children and yet never lost her great joyful appreciation for the gift of life. She was sustained with a hearty sense of humour and a keen love of nature, especially her garden flowers and pets. I forever remember Mam smiling and bathed in sunshine,a re-assuring presence that kept our home a warm and happy place - here are a few snapshots taken from her rich and colourful life...

With her beloved 'Darkie' c 1940

With my brother Tony and myself c 1960

Her grandchild Deirdre is tucked away
there behind the paper c 1985


With yours truly c 1978

Admiring her garden c 1990

Feeding the swans at Westfields c 1993

Gardening

Peace at last

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We always remember you
As we near this fateful day
On that Friday when He called you
And you had to fly away…
Life goes on without you
But never Life the same,
You’ve left a space among us
That nothing can replace.

Our memories still sustain us
Though they seem mere shadows now
All ,poor consolations
As our hearts are heavy bowed,
But there’s that hope inside
That eases sorrow’s pain,
For that Day of Days to come
When we all will meet again.

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Gerard O'Shea

KATHLEEN O'SHEA 1924-1997

My mother washing clothes

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MEMORIES OF A SUNNY DAY

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When I remember you it is always summer
And flowers are perpetually in bloom,
Like here on a glorious afternoon
Rinsing clothes in rainwater…

You were always working, at home or away
Racing from one chore to another
But with the grace and care of the artiste,
Never too busy to stop and smell the flowers
Or lean over the back wall for a chat with a neighbour,
Or listen to my childish tales and poems
Which even then, I pompously recited.

If you were living now you would kill me for this picture
As you nearly did on the day
Not realising that you bent over ,washing clothes
Had more poise and charm than all those starchy family portraits
Where, scrubbed and posed
The life is exorcised by the squinting aperture.

Here in a country garden, inside the city wall
Spotlighted by the sun and cheered by waving leaves
You perform the daily task of living
With all the dignity and grace of a mother
Who cared for and warmed us ,in every routine deed.

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Gerard O'Shea

EASY RIDING

That's my brother...

on the Harley...

Cool or what !

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Soar Like An Eagle

Something about the warm summer air

Riding my bike .. feeling so free
I wish you could understand

What it does for me

Friends we all gather

Set for the road
Sharing and caring

Sharing the load

The breeze in our faces

The sound of the roar
Life is so good

Who could want for more

Comrades on bikes

A long distance run
Anxious for summer

We all have such fun

Everyone has something

They love and enjoy
The Harley for me

Is my ultimate toy

I soar like an eagle

The world I do see
It is my way

Of being me

Angel Kat

A GOOD NIGHT OUT

THE CHRISTMAS

GATHERING AT DOONASS

Bridie and Kathleen in fine form !

Last night we had our seasonal family get-together at the Anglers Rest in Doonass adjacent to the famous Falls. The small circle comprised of brother Tony and his wife Kathleen, uncle Frank and Aunt Bridie. Tony and Kathleens daughter Deirdre was otherwise engaged as was my own Margaret and our remaining uncle Joe lives in England. Across from the pub/hotel is the graveyard where mother is buried and also Kathleen’s parents. Doonass was a favourite Sunday-drive destination when we first got a car and on many an afternoon we picnicked by the rushing Falls or strolled along the banks of the river.It was one of my mothers favourite places and she loved to drink in the tranquil atmosphere and marvel at the natural scenery which induced its own charm and balm. To this day Doonass retains its sweetness and spectacle and is still a green oasis set beside the rushing streams of the Falls. So, a suitable venue for our Christmas-drink and an evening of talk and reverie.

The Three Wise Men..Frank,Tony and me !

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Our family gatherings usually revolve around nuggets of the family history retold and recalled by Frank out of his prodigious memory and corroborated and sometimes corrected by Bridie.The rest of us contribute, careful of committing any faux-pas en route for which the verbal chastisement from Frank would be swift and severe. His keen ability to recall events and people from long ago does not allow for any margin of error from other contributions, so while the atmosphere is relaxed ,there is also an element of concentration required lest one makes a complete idiot of oneself ( as I frequently do !).
One such story recalled last night bears re-telling. As a young woman mother flitted from job to job usually housekeeping, and after leaving the employment of a Mrs. Monsel she was owed wages for work done. Despite several requests from her the money was not forthcoming so mother asked Frank to help. At that time he was a member of the Defence Forces and he called to see Mrs Monsel in the North Circular Road area of Limerick. Frank arrived at her door in full military uniform and few words were required before she paid up in full. The sight of the uniform wonderfully concentrated Mrs Monsels memory. In fact this was probably one of the more successful manoeuvres performed by one of our troops in the 1940’s !

Making A Pint !

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We nearly had the Anglers Rest to ourselves as there were less than half a dozen other patrons in the pub. It’s hard to know how Declan the landlord ,can run a successful business in these circumstances ,although he told us he was having music on the following night and a large crowd was assured. Rural pubs are facing a bleak future as more people opt to stay at home because of the stringent drink-driving laws that are now being strictly enforced. In the cities there isn’t a problem as taxis are easily and cheaply accessed but in the country it is a different matter. We were quoted a price of 150 Euro for the round trip to Doonass by one taxi company, as it turned out I drove to the venue and Tony arranged with a neighbour who drives a cab to collect us for a fraction of the cost.

It was especially gratifying to see Bridie looking so well last night after her surgical procedure in Cork only a short time ago. I recall only four weeks ago sitting with her in Doctor Faheys office as he explained the 1 in 100 risk of stroke during the procedure which he advised her to undergo.I must admit I would have baulked at that point, but Bridie is made of stronger stuff and forged ahead. And if her healthy demeanour of last evening is anything to go by then she definitely made the right decision. Maybe with both my parents dead and only a few relatives remaining each seat occupied last night was a real gift from God.

A Hale and Hearty Bridie.

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This is a good time as the year turns to count our many blessings and appreciate the family ties that bind us together. As Tony observed, the traces of so many families who lived in The Yard are now razed and all over the relatively short period of twenty or thirty years. It reminds me of the Psalmist long ago who left us this timely piece of advice “Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)

Gerard O'Shea

THE BARD AT VILLIERS

Frank and I share a warm Seasonal drink

on Christmas morning 2005 at Doonass

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ENTER...STAGE RIGHT !

As regular Hermonites will recall I am often enthralled by my Uncle Franks prodigious memory for long ago learned pieces of poetry that he pulls from his hat like a literary conjurer,sometimes when you least expect it(see Mar21,June13,'o7 blogs). This morning I bumped into Frank as I was leaving a message at Bridie's (my aunt) place,and he was standing at his doorway on an overcast grey Monday chatting to one of his neighbours. Bridie and Frank live in individual apartments in the beautiful 19th century setting of Villiers Square which overlooks the Curraghour Falls and that famous landmark of Limerick, the Treaty Stone. Ironically enough Frank first saw the light of day just across the river at Castleview terrace, almost in view from his present abode. Stopping to exchange a few words with Frank we stepped inside and I spotted a newspaper supplement on Shakespeare lying on the table and of course our talk wandered down a literary path.I vainly tried to impress with a few remembered lines from sonnets I had learned at school, Frank listened patiently but I could see a more substantial rendition of the great Bards work was hatching in his head. He did not disappoint and in the pause you'd take for a breath he commenced...

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labour both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks and true obedience;

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

The Taming of the Shrew Act 5 Scene 2

What a speech on a gloomy Monday in the shadow of King Johns Castle, a suitable setting for one of Shakespeare's dramas. Fortunately there wasn't a single female within earshot of this recitation and to all our fair-sexed readers I offer poetic license as my disclaimer! After his performance Frank reminisced about his sojournings in the area of The Globe theatre in London, visiting the birthplace of Dick Whittington (London's first mayor) and working beside the towering Saint Paul's Cathedral.Once again I am sent scurrying through the Internet playing catch-up to this mans phenomenal memory and grasp of our rich literary heritage!

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Gerard O'Shea

KATHLEEN O'SHEA 1921-1997

Mother in reflective mood

in front porch with her splendid Begonia !

A LIFE REMEMBERED

My mother, Kathleen (Kitty) O’Shea died on this day in 1997, just ten years ago.Of course that Friday is forever etched in my memory. I was working on the day and had been out most of the morning on a social outing with one of the men,when I returned to Bawnmore I was given the message to ring home urgently.Bridie told me over the phone that mother was very sick. I drove home at break neck speed to find mam stretched out on the living room floor. By this time a doctor had arrived and was trying to revive her but to no avail.She had taken a heart attack. It was a surreal moment when one feels that the awful reality unfolding is part of a play or a film, I felt numbed and detached. The reality of what happened only hit me as I sat beside mothers lifeless body on the ambulance run to the Regional hospital.
Looking back, mam's sudden departure was for her a merciful release. At 76 my mother had serious problems with her eyes, being virtually blind at the end ,through the ravages of macular degeneration and glaucoma. She spent many dark days trying to cope with this worsening condition,as she noted in her brief diary entries for 1994...

Feb 19 - Eyes very sore…Feb 24 - Eyes very sore still…Feb 26 - No improvement,eyes still sore…Feb 27 - Eyes very sore,I am very depressed.

Throughout her life she had learned to cope with many debilitating ailments,and always came out smiling, her wonderful sunny disposition intact. I remember as a child listening to her coughing through the night and gasping for breath in an ashtmatic attack. She had several surgeries for suspicious lumps and also suffered with arthritis but it was the gradual deterioration of her sight that finally got her down.
Mam was widowed in her 30’s and left with two small children,Tony aged 10 and me ,the baby only a few months old. She had to cope with the heartbreak of losing Patrick her soul mate, and the task of providing for two children at a time when money was hard to come by in pre Celtic- tiger Ireland. She shed her tears and then stoically got on with the business of living,taking work wherever it was available to keep the food on the table. My mother cleaned other peoples houses,cleaned offices and looked after other peoples children often racing from one job to another,all the time keeping the home fires burning for her young family.She moved at the speed of light in a frantic bid to keep it all together,and mostly she succeeded.Donnovans, Kennedys, Roches, Cuddihys and others all felt the expert touch of her hand in cooking,polishing,child-minding and all aspects of housekeeping.
Despite this hectic schedule mam always found time for her own domestic responsibilities as this entry indicates…

Feb 15 - Made some pancake mix,did not cook them - nobody interested. However by the following day we had succumbed…
Feb 16 - Ash Wednesday - Ate the pancakes today,may God forgive us !

Mother loved her garden and in later years spent a lot of time out there either working or lounging in the sun. Everything she touched seemed to blossom having the proverbial green finger. We have some lovely photos of her in the front porch surrounded by her beloved plants. Like the rest of us her enthusiasm sometimes faltered between the garden centre and the flower bed…

Bought flowers at nursery,wish they were planted now! - Jan 16,1993

The other love of her life was animals and in particular dogs and in particular the dogs who were her companions right up to the end of her life,both called Judy. She was never happier than when with her ‘pet’ Judy,and daren't anyone say a cross word to her in mothers hearing! There's a photo of mam in her seventies lying on the hearth rug playing with Judy,and scores of other pictures with her and various other pets over the years going back to when she was a young girl in Ballycannon with her lovely black’pom’ Darkie…Her excursion with Judy was the highlight of her day,as she notes in 1994...

Judy and self went for long walk down bank. Lovely summer day.
In another place she marks Judys arrival,1985...
Puppy arrived,Judy - 8 lbs. Weight

Of course the great loss of mothers life was the premature departure of Patrick,and while she seldom talked about him to us , I believe he was an ever-present memory,perhaps too painful to articulate. In her diary his anniversary is noted thus for 1994...

Patricks Anniversary 28 - 5 - ‘57. 37 years.

In a poignant entry for 1994 she muses…
Feb 14 - St. Valentines Day. Means nothing to me. I will say a little prayer to him to-night.

Amongst mams diaries I found this poem carefully transcribed in her beautiful handwriting,obviously a piece that she felt described her own feelings about Patricks death. Below the poem she wrote - Dedicated to a dear one. On this the tenth anniversary of mothers own passing I would like to make this verse my own and dedicate it to my departed parents both dear to me and Tony…

Gerard O'Shea

The Traveler

He has put on invisibility.
Dear Lord, I cannot see---
But this I know, although the road ascends
And passes from my sight,
That there will be no night;
That you have taken him by the hand
And led him on along the road of life that never ends,
And he will find it is not death but dawn.
I do not doubt that you are there as here,
And You will hold him dear.
Our life did not begin with birth,
It is not of the earth;
And this that we call death,
It is no more than the opening and closing of a door –
And in Your house how many rooms must be
Beyond the one where we rest momently.
Dear Lord, I thank you for the faith that frees,
The love that knows it cannot lose its own;
The love that, looking through the shadows, sees
That You and he and I are ever one!

James Dillet Freeman
___________

FRANK PHILLIPS 2

Frank near the summit of

the Grotto at Cratloe

after the Stations of the Cross !

WANDERINGS WITH FRANK

I have referred to my uncle Frank Phillips in a previous blog (see March 21,2007) ,and he is, I’m glad to say still very sound of limb and mind at 84 years of age. One of his many talents is a prodigious memory for events and places stretching back to his childhood days growing up in his beloved Ballycannon. Returning to live in Limerick after a virtual lifetime in London, Frank had so many memory-leads to follow as he re-traced routes that had been mapped in his psyche through all those years in a foreign land. Unable to drive a car due to failing eyesight he got a bicycle to translate those remembered places into reality. Later he bought a battery-powered bike that extended his circuit and allowed him to negotiate those hills of childhood with relative ease. To this day Frank heads off most afternoons , sometimes along the Island bank, or out to Corbally,or the Long Pavement and of course to the Holy Grail of his destinations, dear old Ballycannon.
Over the years I have joined Frank on his excursions,with the car widening the scope of his travels. Shortly after his arrival home, using only his recall as our guide we set off to find Castlecrine,a demolished manor house just outside Sixmilebridge.It was over 60 years since Frank had last seen the place, and he remembered details of the demesne with awe and wonder. The big house had been burned down during the Troubles but the rolling lawns, the large pond and the surrounding woodland were all indelibly etched in Franks memory. Although it must be mentioned that Franks youthful interest in Castlecrine had little to do with the pleasant aesthetic of the landscape and a lot to do with the Orchard whose boughs bent low with succulent fruit, a lure too sweet to resist!
I will never forget rounding the bend and seeing for the first time beautiful Castlecrine exactly as Frank had described it, without the house or the teasing orchard. The site has now been developed and there are three houses built there, but the rolling lawns and the lilied pond remain, resplendently awesome. Both Frank and I stood at the gates ,he lost in thought for days that are no more and I yet again amazed at this mans grasp of his past. I later learned that Castlecrine was home to the Butler family, great land-owners of their day. I hope to do a bit more research into Castlecrine and share it in a future blog.
Just about two weeks ago Frank and I set off on another mission, to visit the Grotto at Cratloe and the nearby graveyard of Craughaun. Although not a religious man Frank has a fascination with the Grotto,built by local voluntary labour in 1932,replicating the famous shrine at Lourdes. This impressive place of pilgrimage has a depiction of the Crucifixion of Christ atop a man-made cave, approached by a steep 100 foot series of steps following the fourteen stations of the cross. The ascending pathway is sentried by huge gnarled trees that seem as if they have stood there for an age. We climbed the Calvary path at a leisurely pace stopping often to marvel at the great trees and also at the local endeavour that fashioned this place all those years ago. As we drew near the summit the darkening afternoon rolled peals of thunder in the distance,but thankfully only a thin rain drizzled gently down.
I remember as a child being brought to the Grotto for nigh time prayer vigils, when large numbers of the Faithful would parade around the Shrine droning various aspirations for divine assistance. I see from a notice pinned to the wall of the cave that the tradition continues ,although on a much smaller scale I’d imagine. My abiding memory of those nocturnal outings was the candle-lit processions cutting, like a snake of fire through the black night.
For Frank and I the next stop was the graveyard at Craughaun where an aunt of his is buried. This woman had died in 1947 and was a sister of Franks mother. The Cemetery like the C of E hymnal is divided into two sections,ancient and modern. We traipsed through both in the drizzling rain vainly seeking out the headstone. As we turned to go we decided on one last look, and just inside the gate of the old section, over on the left we discovered the faint inscription that we had come to find :

IN MEMORY OF
MARY ELLEN QUINN
WHO DIED 1947
A.D.

This lady had died two years after Franks own mother and he recalled how none of the family had a way of getting from Ballycannon to Cratloe for the funeral. No bicycle, no horse and car,no transport whatsoever was available to them. They even tried hitch-hiking a lift on the sparsely trafficked Ennis Road of the 1940’s.
Many memories had been stirred for Frank on our afternoon wanderings and he had once more fleshed out for me aspects of the family history. Sadly I am not blessed with his recollection skills and so I need to hear these snippets of the family story over and over again. It’s such a gift to have Franks knowledge of things past from which to draw. Long may he reign !

Gerard O'Shea