Lacy Fewer's Blog

Are you born with it or is it something that you acquire? Is it a goal that society values? Is it inherent in all females? Is it a panic decision as the clock ticks past the age for procreation? Is it one of life’s greatest gifts to give and receive the love of a child? Can it be replaced? Should there be a selection process, rules and regulations? What if you can’t? Does it pass with age, diminish over time? Is it only through carrying and birthing a child that the ‘want’ is eased? Does nature choose who becomes a mother as part of a grand scheme?

Brigid had the ‘want’ which became the excuse. Kate never had it—or did she? We will never know. Who decided it was an unfortunate role for a woman to remain childless? Who chose to call her barren? Does a male have the ‘want’ or is it a ‘gift’ of being female? Does every female have the ability to be a mother? Is nurture part and parcel of the title bestowed on those that care for a child?

What are the questions we ask ourselves as we make these decisions in our life. It can be all-consuming for some while for others not even cause for a momentary flash upon the inward eye. Can you manifest the want, or is it part of a grand plan that no amount of visualisation can change? Does the unconditional love of a mother shield from darkness? Is it the greatest gift for a child to experience this love, a love that is not earned, never challenged, forever constant?  

Is it lived, experiential, or is it conditional? Can this love in formative years set the recipient apart, solidifying love as a base for all else? Shielding, protecting, nurturing, constant. Were Brigid and Kate forever challenged with the loss of their mother? Did this loss in Kate’s life bring about the trauma in her soul, did it make Brigid resilient, navigating the role of her stepmother? Had they known the loss of their mother more keenly because it was replaced in their lives? Did they know what took their mother from them, or was it simply God’s will?  

Brigid had the ‘want’ and it came at a price, or did it? Would she have acted any differently had she known the outcome? Was it the ‘want’ that drove her to the extremes or was it inherently there, ‘want’ or not?  

Was it worth it?  

For some it is their greatest gift in life, with only sorrow for those who do not get to experience it.  

Did Ben have the ability to understand the ‘want’ in Brigid? Was he of his generation, would any husband have acted differently a century ago? Was it all in the name of love, the love of his wife and the love of his God?

I know for sure, those that have known the love of a mother, the unconditional love that is in every cell, that flows through their flesh and their blood, really does conquer all.

It is life’s greatest gift to a child.

There is nothing in this life that can take the place, of the love of a Mother, not for all the tea in China.

“I am going to meet Oprah," I whispered.

“Isn’t that great," she replied smiling at me.

Overwhelm at verbalising the words honoured the secret that it was. Conviction and clarity and all the feels that go with it, the relief was powerful.  

We all smiled—all knowing, floating above the mortals. It’s great to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth.  

What went up, did come down. The euphoria weaning to give space for the confusion. Had I told just the one or all of them? Were they delighted for me or did they begrudge me? Did they tell the whole place?  Would they understand the need for privacy or would they want to ask me questions? What would I say?  

All smiling and laughing or maybe it was just jealous they were. Who could blame them, going about their day with the sameness of the day before and the day after that.  

Knowing is a sort of a sense, you feel it in the present, see it in the distance and hear it all the time. It kills the worry and has a calmness. You never tell on it, it is always there for you when nothing else is. You have to trust, it delivers if you do.  

The outcome as clear as day, laid out in all its glory. The absolute sense of assuredness in the path, when you know you know!

The writer sat for many years in this place of knowing. Confiding in the spiritual types with no need for worry, they always understood. The knowing won’t ever go away of its own accord, knowing alone is not enough, action has to follow and then the knowing will do its work.

For a small surgical procedure, the anaesthetic was powerful. 

On the way back down it all sort of came out. Not intentional or premeditated, just with a force of nature. They didn’t bat an eyelid, said they hear all sorts in the recovery room, wild and wonderful, could write a book on it.  

So, when you see me sit on Oprah’s couch remember you heard it here first.

They don’t lock you up for knowing these days.

It is true for Tomsey Burke, he never missed a good funeral, telling all and sundry that life was only an 'aul wink, that’s what it is.  

Everyone agreed with him and sure he loved the attention. Not understanding what he was saying only that he had heard Fr. Malone saying it at mass and everyone had talked about it in Blondes afterwards.  

Blondes public house had Clarke’s over the door but nobody called it that because Ma Clarke’s offspring were all pure blonde. That was ok for the locals until they told a visitor to go to Blondes of a Thursday for the music and sure they would walk the town trying to find Blondes over the door. Missing the music that the locals told them was a must. 

It has to be one of life's greatest gifts to say that your life passed in an ‘aul wink. Would Brigid and Kate have said that their life passed them by in an ‘aul wink, a life spent counting the moments. Filled only with the stories they told themselves from the cracks in the ceilings that they stared at. Endless wakeful,

melancholic moments, tormented with no one to tell their deepest darkest fears. Who would have understood, what words would they have used, who would have listened.  

Fortunately, able to read, the tick box question on the admission ledger—Filthy or Clean. Their right to question taken from them the moment they were pushed through the doors. The sameness, the pace of their thoughts before the fear would take hold and cripple them into a ball of sweat and tears. Allowing the liquid from their eyes drip onto the plastic of the pillow which trickled to the plastic of the sheet which remained until it seeped into their being. Like clockwork, they could rely upon the fear and the frenzy that followed.  

Did the life of Ben, James or Thomas pass in an ‘aul wink. Were they embroiled in the pain as next of kin, embittered by proxy. Did they have moments of joy before they remembered, a guilt that it had passed them by. Were they riddled with the fear of being next. Did it matter that they were in different lands, as they put the key into the door of their stores of a morning. Did they take comfort in their fate or allow it to cripple them.  

Who were the lucky ones?

Life, mostly stood still for Brigid and Kate. Who could deny them wanting it to end, only those that knew no different. 

The envy of the luxury of your life passing you by in an 'aul wink.

Reading Brigid’s letters forever changed my thinking on secrets. The muttering, "leave well enough alone," holding onto their truth, nurturing it. Emotionless faces as I tried to get them to understand, it consumed me. No one wanted to help carry their cross, no one knew what to do with their pain—a pain that was familiar.

Brigid, never left my mind’s eye, a cause for constant internal debate. One night amidst my turmoil, she came to shake me out of my sleep. It was ok to tell her story. I needed that—after decades of fear. Encouraged to speak of the not obvious questions, the path paved with possibilities, information flowed.

Heartache from the research no longer held any power, only a motivation to understand their truth. Walking in their footsteps, chasing them down, those that punished. Greeted only with love, so much willingness to help, all with a bit of Irish in them.

Knowing this road needed to be travelled, their story told.

Brigid and Kate, had succumbed through no fault of their own. Brigid with her want of all that Yankeeland had to offer. Kate, never had the want—she’s just different they said, has the trauma in her soul.

I too, inherently had their sense of righteousness. Not always considered becoming, of a female, in polite society. Had it mattered that they had been born in a different century? Would the out-come of their lives have changed?

That generation long gone, yet their story had remained. Documented in the contents of their estate that found me that Bostonian September morning. Stored in a drawer, in a cupboard, a container of history. Why had it persevered? Why had those that knew held onto the darkest of correspondence—innermost thoughts laid bare, cared for, waiting for its destiny?

Lives that are lived in pain do not allow for awareness. Existing, the sole occupation of the sufferer. There must be no doubt that they wanted future generations to know, nothing by chance, entirely by design.

A giant puzzle, the pieces in the black bags. Humbled and ecstatic that it was me who was reading these letters for the first time since they had been penned. Piecing their journey together, with the excitement of an avid sentimentalist, it’s either in you or it’s not. It was always part of the fabric of who I am— collecting stories like beautiful memories, taking the place of reality. It was easier that way.

Fiercely resilient—not a chosen attribute. Aren’t you awful lucky to have it? Be grateful for childhood troubles. Without it we would not have the greats, the thinker’s, the talker’s, the singer’s, all rising to the top of their scars.

It makes you powerful. It makes you tired.
Most will say they didn’t ask for any of it, you can’t ever hand it back.

Brigid’s resilience supported her leaving the village life into which she had been born. Was it a knowing or just a want of a different way? Upstanding members of their community, good Catholic stock. Any number of marriage proposals the length and breadth of the county.

What was it that drove her to overcome the not obvious reasons that were staring others in the face. What was it that pushed her through all the naysayers and do-gooders. Was it a knowing, an inherent sense of what was laid out before her.

Had she seen it written in the stars. It could only ever have been a knowing for there would never have been any talk.

Hidden away, in a drawer, in a cupboard, a container of history.

Truth is fragile.

Youthful enthusiasm won.