My mother Iris was born during the first quarter of the twentieth century and she died when the new millenium was still very young. She was the second youngest of a family of nine, born to Alice and John. She had the reputation of being a bit of a tomboy and a non-conformist, yet shortly after leaving secondary school she decided to join a missionary order of nuns. The rigid life of a young religious in the early 1940s did not agree with her so she returned to her home place and took on the task of helping her mother to run a business that was beginning to ail during the years of the second world war. Over the course of the next decade she stabilised the business, met and married P.J., and started her family. She brought six children into the world, and saw one of them, Alice, go to her grave before her, the year after P.J., her husband, died in the early seventies.
Her home was a busy lively place, presided over by a generous welcoming Iris and her husband P.J. In the early days there were many nights of card games, and she was practically unbeatable at cards and draughts. There was always lively conversation in our home, and one of P.J's oft quoted orders to us children was : "Be quiet and let your mother speak!" She kept a good table, as she always preferred to pay for food than for doctors' bills, and she never skimped in feeding people. Exact measurements were not a feature of her cooking: there was always extra food in the pot in case any one called unexpectedly at mealtimes. There were often extra people for breakfast, dinner or tea in our house.
I have an enduring memory of numerous Christmas cakes being baked in pot ovens before we had electricity, and we all loved the excitement of helping her with the icing. She and P.J. wanted the best for their family, and they sacrificed a good deal to ensure we were all educated well. Books were much respected in our home, and were often a distraction from the more mundane daily tasks we all had to do. Nevertheless, we all grew up to appreciate the value of hard work, and the reward of genuine sharing. Selfishness was not tolerated by either Iris or P.J.

In her own way she kept abreast of modern developments. Before electricity came to our area Iris had tested the efficacy of Tilley lamps and irons, of Valor paraffin cookers and her much used Stanley range. When she sold her farm her first move was to install running water, and a bathroom. She started to drive early on in her married life, and kept it up until shortly before her death.

Underpinning Iris' life was the strong faith which was tested many times, but she always rose to the challenges. When one kindly nun consoled her once that God only sent troubles to those whom He loved she replied that she wished He didn't love her so much.

The last few years of her life were not easy. Her first troubles started with her loss of memory, but that was compounded by the cancer which challenged the peaceful painless demise we would all wish for our loved ones. She showed great fortitude in coping with the many demands the various treatments exacted of her and her sense of humour never faltered. She continued to spar and joke with doctors and nurses and visitors right up to the end.


All of her offspring have a huge admiration for the way she coped with life since P.J.'s untimely death at the age of 56. She had been a widow for 30 years and she was central to the lives of her family for every one of those years.

Her official name is Rose Irene, but everyone knew her as Iris. Before her death someone commented to her that her name represented two flowers : the rose and the iris. Her reply was that they were the wild Irish variety, to be found growing at the side of the road. Our memories of her will never fade as long as the wild Irish rose or the iris on the bog flourish in the fields and hedgerows in the west of Ireland.