In memory of my mother
Eighteen years ago this month, my mother was killed in a car crash.
She was a wonderful person, her life cut way too short. I still believe she would be alive today if only …
‘In memory of my mother’ is a great poem written by Patrick Kavanagh, but it’s two poems by Seamus Heaney that really evoke memories for me.
The first one of working side by side with her.
The second brings me back to folding sheets with her, then piling them up on the ironing board. As children, we used to try to catch her off guard and pull the sheet from her hands. Though she pretended to be annoyed, it would bring a smile to her face. Our sheets were exactly as Heaney described – sheets she’d sewn from ripped-out flour sacks. My mother was a great baker. Odlums flour was bought by the sack, each sack containing a hundredweight, 8 stone, approximately 50kg in todays language. Nothing was wasted. The sacks were collected, then ripped, washed and four sewn together on the Singer sewing machine to make each sheet.
Growing up in our house, Monday was wash day, all day. Washing for nine took all day. These were the days before automatic washing machines and dryers. Then, it was a big cream washing machine, with wringer attached, to wring out the clothes.
I can still smell the Mondays of my growing up.
Here are Seamus Heaney’s two poems remembering his mother.
In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives–
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
- – -
The cool that came off the sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we’d stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was X and she was 0
Inscribed in sheets she’d sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.
Eighteen years ago this month … and it still seems like … only yesterday.
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My Mom’s mom died 29 years ago but my Mom always says that she used to make sheets out of flour sacks too. I said that to a lot of people in the past who’ve looked at me strangely – glad to hear that I’m not the only one. I never met my grandmother on that side but she sounds quite like your Mom in her domestic skills! I’d love to have met her, now that I’m at the stage where I’m setting up my own home, I have 100’s of questions.
Both my grannies made sheets with flour bags. The fabric when washed or boiled came up very white and wore well on the beds. I too remember the pulling and stretching of sheets. I often wonder if that is why I have very long arms. Granny was the one to give an unexpected tug and guffaw with laughter at our total surprise.
Out machine was enormous with a large wringer on top. It was a Hotpoint and bore no resemblance to the models today. We have life easy nowadays, no boiling, starching and very little ironing to do each week.
Hard to believe it is that long ago. I always believe the loved one lives on in the memories made and the legacy that is left behind.
Marian, Grannymar, I didn’t realise that the sheets were as widespread (pun not intended). I remember being so surprised when I came across them in Seamus Heaney’s poem. Grannymar, I was racking my brain to try and remember the make of the washing machine, you answered it for me – Hotpoint.
Una, yes it’s eighteen years. I agree with you on how they live on.