For Granny, A Poem

Perched in the sanctuary of a Strackleran abode, rhyme after riddle after poem or song; English and Irish, both she could do, so it goes and so it was, so it is to be true... Mother of Strackleran, Mother of Ireland's tongue! 

Sprinkling the room with her magical words, I grew up with the fairies, amongst other mysteries; the Banshee and that Boogyman, the bane of my life, but none would compare to the notorious, Dabharchú. The cats and the dogs and the birds would take stock, and I am certain they enjoyed the merriment too, for Granny was my portal to the natural world, to a spiritual realm, she helped me unlock. 

And perhaps for the daffodils that convened in the breeze, and the whispers of butterflies beneath hymns from the bees - the suspicions we shared were all one in itself - was this Mother of Strackleran, Mother Nature herself?

'Poor Little Kitty' was the name of a song, Granny taught me to croon to the cats. A unique little tonic for despaired feline friends, but only now do I find it ironic. For excluding the slugs that dared darken her door, there was not a thing poor, I can declare, about a creature in Granny's tender loving care.

Together we fed lambs and sipped tea by the stove, sharing a bickey or 6. And though sometimes today we get lost on the way to that social life we think we should have; I am blessed to have learned the best moments I've earned, have emerged from the most effortless of places. She kept the Madeira cake company in business for sure, and no doubt, we were delighted to help;
But as it transpires, the sweetness of life we acquire, does not come from the slice of a cake. The hand that shares it, or the ear that listens, lessons from Granny, perhaps we all could take.

No grandchild was spared the step by the door, upon which we were goaded and obliged to perform. Through all the years, all our tears, all our self-perceived flaws, a granny that still clapped sincerely for us, deserves her own sincere applause. [Insert applause here!!] How a few simple words in song or in prose could ignite both our minds and tickle our souls. Never asking for much beyond a song on the stair, cup of tea, and a prayer - so self-less my Granny, so gracious her goals.

Curiosity and wit, the fabrics of choice, entwined in the tales and the values she knit; 

lacing my being and all that I know, is a love for language and learning and of course the outdoors. I cherish the scarves and her intricate crafts, but where would I be with out that intricate mind and the mischievous laughs?

In child estimated years, my Granny was ancient, and I but a small youthful girl. With all my own teeth, not a wrinkle in sight, the similarities, I argued, were slight.
Yet despite my objection, after years of reflection, I like to think there was perhaps something there. My special connection to an exceptional woman that sprouts from the roots of affection. So catch a glimpse of my Granny in the gleam of my eye, and please tell her that I said hello. Though I never could see it, albeit fadó, the resemblance I am now proud to show. I type this out with long slender fingers; it was apparently from her that they grew. She could turn her hand to anything, our Granny, and if I'm lucky, I'll inherit that too.

I couldn't make it home so the least I could do was to knit a few words of my own. Upon the alter step I would love to have stood, to recite one final poem. So to the woman who nurtured and inspired me so, showed me birds, shared her words, shared the beauties of life; consider this my gift, to you.

In memory of my grandmother, Kathleen Rooney.

KEY: 

Strackleran:

Granny's specific area of residence. Some countries prefer post codes, some prefer unique and funky townland names. Ireland tends to be of the funky name mindset. A post man should present expert local knowledge, and an immunity to the lazy contemporary methods of referring to house numbers, zip codes, etc.

Dabharchú: 

Pronounced 'Dowra koo'. Glenade version of Lough Ness Monster. Fun fact: Allegedly killed a woman out washing her clothes/minding her own business in the lake in 1722. Her headstone can still be visited at Conwall cemetery #Lovely #Leitrim.

Banshee (Bean Sí): 

Female spirit-like-creature. Shrill cries understood to be an omen of death. Seems to share an uncanny resemblance to the wailing of foxes at night but how and ever. Who am I to question her authenticity.

Boogyman: 

The ghost/ruination of childhood craic. 'Will get ya' if you get out of your bed at night when you're supposed to be fast asleep, or if you're snooping in cupboards where the biscuits are kept. Generally lurks in places you're not supposed to be, when doing things you're not supposed to be doing. Tends to collaborate with adults in enforcing good behaviour and, admittedly, keeping you safe. Would get ya if you went out on the road for example, just for good measure, because sometimes the threat of getting killed by a car just isn't enough for children.

Poor Little Kitty, the song (All Rights Reserved):

Lyrics: Poor Little Kitty, Poor Little Kitty (Repeat 32 times,  or until cat runs away). Choreography: stroke the cat, one stroke per line. Ensure fur is being stroked the right direction.

Madeira cake: 

Delicious sponge cake. Essential with tea.

Fadó: 

Irish for 'long ago'.