An Irish Story for Mother’s Day

Céad Míle Fáilte – and welcome to your special Mother’s Day Letter from Ireland. The hawthorn is blooming in the hedgerows here in County Cork, painting the countryside with delicate white flowers that mark the transition to warmer days. While Mother’s day was celebrated in March here in Ireland and the UK, it does seem fitting that Mother’s Day should arrive during this time of renewal and growth. How are the seasons changing in your part of the world?

I’m enjoying a cup of Barry’s tea as I write to you today, thinking about the generations of mothers who have shaped our families and kept our traditions alive across oceans and through time.

This Mother’s Day, I wanted to share something special with you – a chapter from my upcoming book that holds particular significance. Later this year, I’ll be publishing a collection featuring 21 timelines from my own Irish family tree, where I’ve attempted to bring dry genealogical facts to life by imagining significant moments in my ancestors’ lives.

The story I’m sharing today is especially meaningful as it features my great-grandmother, Hanoria (Nora) Loughnane, on her final day. In this moment from the past, she’s being attended to by my grandmother, Mary Anne, who happened to be pregnant with my mother at the time – three generations of my maternal line connected in one poignant scene.

As Nora reflects on letters received from her scattered children who carried pieces of Ireland to distant shores, I’m reminded of how mothers have always been the keepers of tradition and connection. Perhaps you’ll recognise echoes of your own family’s story in hers…

---

The Keeper of Traditions.

Honoria Loughnane, 1860-1930.

The setting sun cast a long shadow through the small window of Nora Loughnane’s bedroom, illuminating the wooden box of letters in her lap. The room was small but tidy, a scent of lavender lingering from the dried sprigs on the windowsill, mingling with the faint aroma of peat smoke drifting from the hearth downstairs. Her weathered hands, showing all of their seventy years of work, shook slightly as she lifted out the most recent letter from America. The paper was still crisp, having arrived just last week.

“Would you like me to read it to you again, Mammy?” Mary Anne asked from her chair beside the bed. Though only three months along with her sixth child – a secret she was keeping from most except family – she had barely left her mother’s side these past weeks. Her other children – Nora, Patrick, Michael, Thomas, and little Catherine – were being minded by their Aunt Bridie next door.

“No, love. Read the one from Josie in Australia. The one about the children in the outback.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper now, but her mind remained sharp as ever.

Mary Anne knew exactly which letter her mother meant – it was one of Nora’s favourites. She carefully extracted it from the pile, its pages softened by frequent handling.

“Dearest Mammy,

The children here at the mission school are learning their prayers in English now, but sometimes I teach them the old Irish blessings too. Yesterday, one little girl who we call Mary A. asked me why we say “go raibh maith agat” instead of thank you. It reminded me of all those winter evenings when you taught us our first words of Irish.

The heat here is fierce – nothing like the soft days of Galway – but when I’m teaching, I can almost hear your voice telling me that education is the greatest gift we can give. Remember how you taught all of us our letters using the flour scattered on the kitchen table?

The sisters here think I have a special way with the youngest children. I tell them I learned it all from you, watching how you’d settle the little ones with stories about the Children of Lir and Cú Chulainn…”

Nora closed her eyes, letting the memories wash over her. She could still see Josie as a child, curled up by the fire, soaking in every tale and tradition. Now, her daughter was passing those same stories on to children on the far side of the world.

“No grandchildren from that one,” she murmured, “but she’s mothering hundreds in her own way.” She shuffled through the stack until she found another letter, this one from Brooklyn.

“Read this one, Mary Anne.“ She handed over a letter from her daughter Christine, the paper still crisp despite its journey across the Atlantic many years ago.

Mary Anne’s voice filled the quiet room:

“Dear Mother,

The Irish dance halls here in Brooklyn are full every Saturday night. Last week, I heard a group playing “The Walls of Limerick” exactly as Da used to play it on his fiddle. For a moment, I was back in our kitchen, watching you teach us the steps. Even here, surrounded by tall buildings and endless streets, Ballydavid lives on in the music and the dancing.

The other Irish girls marvel that I can bake soda bread “just like home.” If they only knew how many times you made me practice getting the cross just right on top, or how you taught me to know the perfect consistency by the feel of the dough…”

“Read the one from Michael next,” she murmured. “The one about the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Boston.”

“Dear Mother,

You should have seen the parade here yesterday! The whole city turns Irish on March 17th. I made your soda bread for my neighbours – even the Italian family next door said it was better than their own bread! Little Martin led the local children in singing “Óró Sé do Bheatha ‘Bhaile” – just as you taught us. His American accent made a fine mess of the words, but sure wasn’t your grandson trying his best?

Kate asked me to tell you she’s teaching our girls all the old cures you showed her. When Tommy had the fever last month, she wrapped his chest just like you always did for us…”

A tear slipped down Norah’s cheek. “And young Michael’s last letter before he died,” she whispered. “The one from Manchester.”

“Dearest Aunt Nora,

The factory work is hard, but Sunday brings a taste of home. After Mass, I gather the children of the other Irish workers and teach them the old songs, just as you taught us. Their mothers try to make boxty, but none can match yours. Still, we keep the old ways alive as best we can in this city of smoke and steam…”

Nora’s voice dropped even further as she gazed out the window toward the setting sun. “They all carried a piece of home with them, didn’t they? All my scattered children.”

Mary Anne shifted in her chair, unconsciously touching her stomach where a new life was growing. “They did, Mammy. And we’re passing it on to the next generation now. Your grandchildren here in Ballydavid, and those over in America – they all know the old stories, the prayers, the songs…”

“The traditions live on,” Nora murmured, her fingers gently stroking the letters in her lap. “Different lands, different lives, but they remember who they are and where they came from. God bless them all, God bless their children and their children’s children. God bless them all.”

As the light died outside, Nora Loughnane drifted into sleep, her precious letter box still clutched close. 

She passed away peacefully the next day, leaving behind not just her letters, but a legacy of love and tradition carried in the hearts of her children. Through every song they sang, every loaf of bread they baked, and every story they passed on, Nora’s presence would endure—woven into the lives of generations to come. Her children might have left Ireland, but Ireland never left them, thanks to the stories, customs, and wisdom their mother had instilled in their hearts.

____________________________

As I reflect on Nora’s legacy – how she passed down those precious traditions that kept her children connected to their roots no matter how far they wandered – I’m reminded of the countless other mothers who have done the same across generations. I’d love to hear about the women in your family who kept traditions alive. Did your mother or grandmother have special recipes, stories, or customs that you still carry with you today? Or perhaps you’re the one now passing these treasures on to the next generation? Do share your thoughts in the comments below – it’s in sharing these stories that we keep our connections strong, just as Nora did through her treasured letters.

Slán for this week, Mike