Rory Fitzgerald
My mother turned 70 last weekend. The coming months are brimful of celebratory events with her vast coterie of friends and family. Yet she was slightly ambivalent about the day itself, perhaps because she has sadly lost some close friends in recent months.
In the end, she decided to book a nice hotel in Dublin, and to spend her birthday quietly with dad. My brothers and I decided she was being far too philosophical and so we immediately hatched a plan to surprise her, to liven up the occasion.
I booked flights from England for a mad overnight dash to Dublin. In an act of wild optimism, I set the alarm for five o’clock. In the event, of course, my biological alarm clock, in the shape of our toddler, had me awake by four, so my ‘lie in’ until five never quite materialised.
As I left, all was forgiven as she said, “I will miss you, Dad” and gave a sad, theatrical pout as I stepped out into the darkness to begin the journey to Dublin, by car, ferry, bus, train and plane.
On that gloriously child-free journey, I had time to think back on all those happy years with my mother. She remains endlessly kind, joyful, friendly and quietly wise. Wherever she goes, she somehow instantly connects with people. Whether she meets a Somalian taxi driver, or a lad from Kerry, or an elderly lady from Mayo, within two minutes my mother will have a glow in their heart, a smile on their face – and she will have their life story.
Popular
She was an absurdly popular teacher in our local girls’ primary school, where she touched many young lives with her kind words, warmth and sensitivity. I got great kudos as a young lad around the village: “Are you Mrs Fitzgerald’s son?” girls would squeal, “Oh my God, she’s so nice, she’s the nicest teacher in the school!”
Even now, as she goes shopping, her former pupils, many now mothers themselves, smile brightly and exclaim, “Hello Mrs Fitzgerald!” Many will recount some small thing she said or did that gave them confidence and belief in themselves. She did the same for us, her sons.
Last weekend, we lured her to a lovely restaurant on Dawson Street, and it was there we pounced, to much delight! We spent a happy, talkative evening together, just the five of us again. We even brought her to a posh nightclub for a drink, “No break dancing,” the bouncer said to her, with a wink towards her walking stick.
Amid the fun, and the reminiscences, my mother was reminded of a small poem, written by her old professor, the poet Séamus Ó Néill: “Bhí subh milis ar bháscrann an doras, ach mhúch mé an corraí ionaim a d’éirigh, mar smaoinigh mé ar an lá a bheadh an bháscrann glan, agus an lámh beag – ar iarraidh.”
A rough translation is: “There was jam on the door handle, but I quenched the anger that arose in me, for I thought of the day, when the door handle would be clean, and the little hand, missing.”
Such thoughts bring a tear to the eye of any parent, and put in proper perspective such minor childish transgressions. My mother remains always a teacher, always able to awaken fresh reserves of compassion in the heart. And so after meeting her you go home, warmer and wiser.
