Dear Father,

IBET you’re surprised to get this letter from me. It has taken me 50 years to write — and unbelievably, I’m not six years older than you were when you died aged 68.

I’ve lost count of the number of times over the years that I’ve said, if only you were alive you’d be able to tell me what you thought of that situation or advise me on what’s the best action to take. But, mainly, I bemoan the fact that I never had a ‘grown-up’ conversation with you — but I’ll confine myself in this letter, to just two.

Last year we celebrated the 100th anniversary of the Easter Rising. You were just 17 and a college student when the Rising took place. From reading your obituary notices after your death it was then I saw how deeply you were involved in the political scenario of the day and the subsequent historical events.

You lived through and experienced the birth of our fledgling state. I regret — oh! how I regret — that I never had an interest or the sense to talk and ask you for your personal experiences during this formative time in Irish history. What stories you could have told me.

I often wonder did this conversation not take place because we children were otherwise occupied with our busy lives, frivolous, social lives, or was it a case of you thinking the past is only for old men.

For the 50th anniversary of the Rising I was in Dublin and because I still had much growing up to do I only have memoires of solemn faced men, all wearing some form of headgear, as they saluted the dignitaries on the reviewing stand at the GPO.

Interestingly, I found the 100th year’s celebration hugely nostalgic and I participated, in my own small way, with the differing local events and strangely, through a form of cultural osmosis, I experienced a strong, invisible link connecting me back to you and also forward to my grandchildren, three generations living the history. So strong was this connection that at times, and especially during the wonderful event that took place in Dublin on Easter Sunday, I felt the years between us melting away and I knew that, if you could, you would smile in approval.

The second item of interest that I also have to share with you is your encyclopaedic dictionary — you remember it? — well, it is now in my possession and I value it dearly.

You used the back page of this book to record the births and deaths of our family including details of close and extended family members and their demise. Times and dates of comings and goings are penned in your beautiful script with the ink changing colour over the years. My birth entry is marked in a lovely shade of mauve. Oh, how special that makes me feel!

I have both fond and sad memories of you. I see you now, with pen poised as you pored over this page. On some occasion, the stillness of your body, the downturn of your mouth and your furrowed brow told me, even as a child, that the latest entry you were adding brought you no joy.

After Mother’s death the house was sold and all the contents disposed of but this book was overlooked. Some years later when I returned on a nostalgic visit, the new house owners passed it on to me. It is now one of my treasured possessions and I frequently take it down to clarify a date that is in question.

As custodian of this book, it is now my turn to continue your work by adding relevant dates of happy and sad family events. And so, dear father, the wheel turns a full circle.

I have lots of other topics I would love to discuss with you but for now, until we meet again. I remain, Your loving daughter, Lizbeth,

Lily Tangney, Tralee, Co Kerry