Today is my Granny’s birthday. She is no longer with us and I am glad. Were she alive today she would be focus of international fascination, being 125. Asked for the secret to such a long life I would hope she’d say “ ... half a bottle of whiskey a day, loads of white bread, toasted, smothered in cheese, and no exercise”. But, she wasn’t like that at all.
She was a lovely woman of impeccable taste and judgment who, of course, adored the ground I walked on. It helped that I was both her eldest grandchild and godson. My paternal grandfather, Patsy McGarry, was my godfather and she, Tess Rogers, was my godmother – it being the then traditional Irish way that paternal and maternal grandparents stood for the eldest child. As an exceptionally agreeable child, I made it easy for them to look out for my spiritual welfare as godparents.
The depth of my affection for my grandmother was greatly assisted by the card and cash she sent me for my birthday every year. She never forgot. It helped too that she was my only grandmother. My father’s mother had died long before I was born. But I did have two grandfathers. Everyone should.
Tom Rogers, Tess’s husband, was a small red-headed man of limitless energy and big personality. Just how big became clear to me later in life when I could be told such things. He was a carpenter and from a background of limited means – a small farm, in other words. Tess (Teresa) was not. She was a Finn, a “family of substance” in the grand metropolis of Castleplunket, near Tulsk, in Co Roscommon. They imported grain.
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Tess and Tom met, fell head over heels for one another, decided to get married, did so secretly in the local church, went to a céilí together, and then returned to their respective homes. Separately. No one knew.
Well Tess’s sister, “Baby” Finn, did as she was bridesmaid at the clandestine wedding. Beset by guilt she told their mother, eventually. A tsunami of fire and brimstone followed. The VERY respectable Mrs Finn moved mountains to have the young couple `regularised.’ She got a job and accommodation locally for her unexpected son-in-law and his even lesser-expected bride. And they lived happily every after.
Happy birthday, Granny.
Clandestine, from Latin clandestinus, for `secret, hidden.’
