Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

A Tale Of Two Cakes

It was just over a year ago that Bert took over baking the family birthday cakes, and I was only too happy to let him. Our system was simple: we agreed on what he’d bake, I went shopping for the ingredients, and then I laid everything out – the recipe, the scales, the bowls, the spoons, the tins, and their liners.

Bert would assemble and bake the cake, take it from the oven, and leave it to cool. I prepared everything for the icing and decoration, and Bert handled the finishing touches. We’d stand back to admire the cake. Compliments would be lavished upon Bert. Afterwards, I cleared away and washed up.

The very first cake Bert baked was for Martha. He chose the recipe, though neither of us remembers which one, and the photographs don’t offer many clues. What is clear from the pictures is that Martha didn’t look especially pleased to receive it. At the time, this is what I wrote, back in 2024:

‘When a young woman hits her mid-teens she may not be just as excited about birthday cake as she once was. But that's OK. When you've experienced many birthdays, you can be excused for feeling a certain ennui.’

As it turned out, I was wrong. Nearly a year later, the real reason came to light.

In 2024 Martha had been asked what cake she wanted for her birthday and she’d asked for chocolate. Didn’t matter what recipe I picked, just let it be chocolate. Then Bert decided he’d make the cake and I let him choose the recipe. It wasn’t chocolate. I was so excited for him to be baking the cake that I forgot Martha’s request.

Bless her. She never said at the time, but she could not help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t teenage angst at all. Well, maybe it was – just a teeny-tiny bit.

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I chose Zoe's photograph because it showed Miss Martha (now a sweet 16) beaming her beamiest smile.

Chocolate, mascarpone and cherry cake

Happy Birthday, Martha!

Seamus and Granddaughters

 

Unposed pictures are always the best. This one must be from the late ’80s or very early ’90s, around Christmas time. Daddy has just come in, or is about to head out, still with his cap on. It was taken on Drumkeeran Road, before his younger daughters laid the wooden floor. My three are there, together with their cousin Sadie, and Jess, Mammy and Daddy’s collie, looks as though she is still just a pup.

Today is his birthday.

Gently Does It

 

Just easing myself back into blogging after the longest break ever.

Since my last post, I spent five days in London with our newly widowed sister. What a hard loss it has been to her, and to all of us who knew and loved her Jonny. 

Then, barely home, I was straight into preparing for a four-day visit from the children’s father and his partner. That all went smoothly enough, though on the second day, we had to say goodbye to our oldest dog, darling Judy. 

Today Jonny’s funeral date was set, and Zoe, who is far more capable with these sorts of arrangements than I am, booked our travel and accommodation. I was grateful to leave it in her hands.

Meanwhile, Bert baked me a cake from a recipe in Saturday’s Guardian. The family were here for supper, and I blew out some candles - for I will be 72 years old tomorrow. Zoe had to take the photographs in portrait mode to fit in those tall girls, who tower over their little granny.

I used to think I looked like my ma, which made me feel old enough. Now I’m starting to resemble her mother, my Granny McAnespie — and that makes me feel really old. But who cares? I’m here, and so are you. We might as well make the best of it.

Stuck

 Stuck

The photograph was taken in Leitrim about ten years ago at a large gathering of family and friends, marking a special birthday and all that comes with it. It was a wonderful party, so well attended that cars had to be parked out in the fields -and the fields in Leitrim can be fairly boggy. All three of my brothers-in-law are in that picture, along with Bert. 

There’s another big occasion coming up in the autumn, one we’ve all been looking forward to - because it isn’t often that we get together as a family. And I think it may still go ahead. But this time, someone very special and dearly loved will be missing: London Sister’s husband, who died so suddenly just over a week ago.

There is so much that could be said about Jonny, for he was one of the best. But for now, just this: he brought so much, and we will miss him terribly.

Another One Of Those Days

Our last remaining kunekune pig died a few days ago, at the age of fifteen. Nellybert are no longer pigkeepers. We won’t be getting any more because, if we did, and they lived out their natural span, we’d both be over 80 by then.

Rusty had been on his own since October, when his sister and lifelong companion, Lily, died.

Back in 2010, I gave in to the fad for keeping a pet pig. Bert wasn’t as enthusiastic, but we had the space, the time, and the money, so he relented. I’d done my research and knew pigs like company, so we got two - a brother and sister we named Rusty and Lily.

They were the cutest piglets

Right from the start it was clear that eating was their prime enjoyment. 

This picture looks gory but fear not - Rusty and Lily are tucking into a big feed of boiled beetroot. That expains the red puddles.

And they got fat. 

Rusty was more prone to ill health than his sister. In his first year, he caught a virulent strain of pneumonia, and the vet doubted he would survive. She gave him antibiotics anyway, and, although he loathed injections, he pulled through.

Five years later, Rusty fell ill again, and we called a vet to the house. He was one of the old-fashioned, no-nonsense sort. After examining Rusty, he pronounced him “foundered.” I wondered aloud if it might help to give the pig a little of the poitín we happened to have in the house. The vet fixed me with a look and said,

“Drink that poitín yourself, and tie a blanket round that pig. Then get him under an infra-red lamp.

Rusty lay under his lamp, cosy in his little warm corner. We brought him grapes, as is the custom for the poorly, along with strawberries and other delicious fruits. We fed him warm liquids, and before long he was on the mend.

And so life with the pigs continued. They went to the fields, they ate sweet grass, they wallowed in mud, they got lots of fruit and vegetable treats. They had a nice life.

And after a good feed, no better way to spend the afternoon - beside the dunghill, soaking up the sun.

There was the occasional home invasion. It wasn't encouraged. 

As they grew older, they slowed down and showed the signs of age. Both had trouble with their teeth, a common issue for kunekunes. For Lily, it was a constant battle, kept at bay with antibiotics. Rusty remained unaffected until the final weeks of his life. When Lily died in October, we worried Rusty would find life lonely without his lifelong companion, even though she had always bullied him.

He coped, staying closer to home. We got to know him better, and he became great friends with Hannah. He knew the sound of her car and would come to the orchard gate to get the fruit she brought for him.

This is one of the last pictures taken of Rusty, in the overgrown orchard - a favourite spot in his final months. He and Lily had always loved the orchard when the apples began to fall. It’s sad that he missed the apples this year.

Rusty died on August 6, 2025.

Remembering Matty On Her Birthday

I used to think my mother would live to be over 90, but it was not to be. She did have what’s often described as a good innings, a cricketing term, I believe. She was almost 85 when she died, which was a decent stretch by any measure.

Today would have been her 99th birthday. We’d have been holding out for one more year and a telegram from the King, but it wasn’t to be.

Still, to mark Matty’s birthday, here’s a wee story about a jaunt we once took to Portglenone. One of the things I’ve missed most since she died are those runs out in the car. She was the best craic as a travelling companion and never, ever criticised my driving. 

This was posted in 2008. Three years before Matty died.

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey today. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't understand the etiquette of Mass cards, so I decided to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings, so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily, she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of a priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. A monk is sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice, I do not know. Probably the monk, as he was 50+.

I quickly chose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile, Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand-new shoes. No shoes were purchased - she just bought another beige skirt.

Mum with her last dog, Jess. They are sitting on a bridge at the top of the Drumkeeran Road. It's not there now as the road was widened when the 'line' became a dual carriageway. I believe Matty might be wearing a beige skirt. If it's not beige, it's dusty pink, which is practically the same thing.

 I really miss her. We all do.