THE STORY SO FAR: PART 207

DEFINITELY A ROCK-STAR—AS FAR AS HER FAMILY IS CONCERNED

I have talked about my much loved sister Lucy on various occasions, but haven’t yet shown a photo of her. Well, it is time I remedied that deficiency. I have chosen this photo because it brings out Lucy’s sense of fun. Let me stress that she is dressed up for an event; she does not normally present herself in this way.

The photo was posted by her daughter, Victoria—who is drop-dead gorgeous. I have to wonder about the genes in my family. Lucy and family seem to have been disproportionately blessed,

But there is more: Not only is Lucy the youngest member of the family—no less than 12 siblings are involved and I am the eldest—but she also has five truly gorgeous children of her own (and most are grown up). How does she do this—and still look so ridiculously young?

It’s unfair, I tell you!

I have absolutely no clear idea—though her positive attitude may give some clue—but am lost in admiration. Leaving her physical attributes aside (Lucy won’t thank me for saying this) the essence of Lucy is an extraordinary cast of mind.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 204

MY STEP-FATHER, ALFRED LYONS—A TRULY MARVELOUS MAN WHO HAD A PROFOUND AND POSITIVE INFLUENCE ON MY LIFE

I have written about Alfred before but, for some reason, couldn’t lay my hands on this photo—my favorite one of him. To be precise, I had it on the computer, but it refused to cut and paste—computers can be obstinate sometimes. Then my sister, Lucy, came up with a version—and here it is.

I was about eight when I heard my mother was getting married again. I took to Alfred immediately and, as the eldest child, made the decision to call him “Daddy” rather than by his name. This was something that I hoped he would appreciate—and I was to learn, over many years, that he did. We became very close.

I had never known my own father so rather the liked idea of having one—someone I could talk to, learn from, and love. In fact, Alfred never quite became a father. Somehow, he stepped back from the role--even where his own children were concerned. My mother was too strong-willed and dominant—and she controlled the money—so Alfred, who was ten years her junior, became more like an extraordinarily talented big brother. He was witty, intelligent, widely read, hugely entertaining—and could seemingly do just about anything. He was an accomplished artist, he had an eye for antiques, he drove superbly, he knew a great deal about the theatre, he was a delightful dinner companion—and so it went for a very long list. He was a deeply cultured man. Did his talent extend to business? Though he certainly understood business, and was tasked with looking after the family money for quite some time,  I suspect not. Fundamentally, Alfred had an artistic temperament.

Women adored him—which did not please my mother. My girlfriends also adored him which did not exactly please me. However, he was such fun that it was hard to take offense—even when he flirted outrageously.

For more than a decade he was a positive influence at home—and then the relationship broke him, as I feared it must.

He died far too young under decidedly unhappy circumstances—and I was absolutely devastated. I found it near impossible to imagine that all that humor, talent and energy was just gone. I was living in my thatched Irish cottage at the time, and recall going into into shock.

I adored and admired the man, and feel fortunate to have known him—albeit for such a relatively short time. I don’t think I have ever met anyone else who encompassed all his talents. Was he flawed? Of course—he was human—and his wit could sometimes be cruel; but the good far outweighed the bad.

One should be able to take death in one’s stride. It is both natural and certain. Nonetheless, I have never been able to become entirely reconciled to the deaths of either my grandmother or Alfred—and the sight of his photo makes my heart ache. Such a loss; such a waste; such a tragedy.

Then I remember the good times—and there were so many—and have to smile. Above all, I associate Alfred with laughter.

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 171

THIS PHOTO OF MY MOTHER IS SO LIKE MY DAUGHTER, EVIE—AT A COMPARABLE AGE—IT IS REMARKABLE

My much loved sister Lucy keeps on pulling family photos out her mysterious horde—which begs the question as to where they are coming from. I thought I had the main repository—and mine are all in store. Yet Lucy keeps on issuing such photos on Facebook. Time for me to ask, I suspect. Either way, I’m delighted. I had thought some of these were lost.

My mother—an only child—was brought up in Newtown House, Termonfeckin, Co. Loth, Ireland—a place large enough to be an institution. It now is one—and has been so for many decades. It is the headquarters of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association, and seems to be mainly used as a training center. It is now called An Grianan.

An Grianan Adult Education Center (Termonfeckin (Tearmann Feichín))

The ICA purchased what was then known as Newtown House, in trust for the benefit of the people of Ireland. In October 1954 An Grianán was officially opened by the then President of Ireland, Mr. Seán T. O'Kelly. It is now open all year for a wide range of Adult education classes. Open to pubic for visitors. Garden center open.

My mother was educated by French governesses up to her mid teens. My much loved grandmother meant well—such an upbringing was the norm in her privileged world—but the results were disastrous. My mother felt oppressed by the governesses, missed the companionship of other children, and eventually rebelled completely.

When she was old enough, and WW II broke out, she took off for London and enlisted in the WAAF as a radar operator—and otherwise had what they call “a good war.” Men and women lived as if there was no tomorrow, because all too often, there wasn’t. Civilians died in their tens of thousands in the Blitz. Soldiers, sailors and airman died wherever they were sent. It wasn’t called a World War for nothing. They died throughout the globe. Meanwhile, when on leave, they did what young and frightened people do. They threw caution to the winds and sought comfort in each other’s arms.

I was one of the results. I, too, rebelled. It seems to be something of a family tradition. Children are one of life’s greatest pleasures—and worth every second of dedication—but difficult. And they don’t remain children. Such is the nature of the human condition. I don’t expect it to change.