With this cold weather upon us, I find myself going down memory lane when my daughter, Mozart and I are tucked up in our beds on these very chilly nights. So readers, I would like to share with you some of my childhood memories.

It was the early 60’s and we had no central heating in our home. The Saturday ritual of having a bath for Sunday mass was just the way it always was as far back as I could remember. My two gangly brothers would bound up the stairs to have their bath first and when they came down in their striped pyjamas, all pink and damp, my mother would take my hand and we would go upstairs for my turn. I would come down the stairs more carefully because, more often than not, my pink flannel pyjamas were too big for me and my mother would always chant "Don’t fall down the stairs". I was the baby of the family.

My brothers would already have taken their place sitting on the edge of the big kitchen table, dangling their legs in unison. My mother would prop me between them and I would try to shake my legs furiously to keep up with their rhythmic goings on. But more often than not, my small legs would give up the fight and I would be content just to cross them at the ankles. Mammy would say "Would anybody like something nice for supper?" And we would all enthusiastically cheer "Yes Mammy, Jacobs cream crackers".

We watched her opening up the packet and bountifully spreading the butter on each cracker and topping it with home-made raspberry jam. We each received a plate full of these crunchy delights and a big glass of creamy milk. My mother would then proceed to turn on the wireless and the noise of the open hearth and the wireless seemed to only add to the excitement. Sometimes, she would find a nice BBC play which we didn’t understand too well but we didn’t care. Mammmy’s intent gaze and sporadic bursts of laughter were enough for us. We bathed in her happy presence.

Sometimes, we would hear a wonderful classical concert and Mammy would explain all the different instruments that were to be heard. It became a competition who could hear the most instruments. But my favourite time was when a familiar piece came on the wireless and my mother would piroette the length of the kitchen and back again. We would all exclaim in delight "Mammy, do the twirley thing again". And sometimes, breathless, with her now ample boezem, she would give us an extra twirl with an exclamation of being too old for this carry on.

It was time to go to bed and my brothers bounded back up the stairs and I placed my sleepy head on Mammy’s shoulder and more often than not I would have to be carried up the old wooden stairs. She would sing a lilting melody and I went into blissful slumberland…

Back to the present. My daughter inquires: "Mom, did you get the cream crackers today?" I am glad some little traditions can still be passed on. It is never about the big things in life but the small treasured moments. Believe me…

Niamh
 

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