Curiosity items falling from old books

SURPRISE AFTER surprise drop into my hands when, from time to time, I open books belonging to my mother’s well-stocked library. The unexpected delights evoke in me contrary emotions of joy and sadness. Her preserved relics hidden in the depths of the books stir feelings of closeness, allowing me to view her personality in some depth, like a continuity as if she, Kitty, was still alive.

Three years after my mother’s death I brought the collection of books back to Kildare. It was as if I had transported the sitting room from Borris-in-Ossory, Laois. The smell of the books reminded me of home. They lingered throughout the years, and every now and then I might dip into a title or two to discover what she had been reading.

Kitty was an avid reader and writer of short stories. The choice ranged from religious to a selection of practical books on gardening, beekeeping, farming, health matters, French dictionaries, general and local history.

As I turned the pages numerous curiosities dropped to my feet: for example, old lotto tickets, an Irish twenty pound note, a child’s letter to her mother, receipts, grocery lists, negatives of old photos, paper cuttings, telegrams, postal order receipts, memory cards, addresses of places where she had stayed on short holidays and prayers to multiple saints.

Almost every saint was included, especially - St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases. Like a feather falling from the sky the treasures dropped to my feet. The Infant of Prague was huge in her life, always blessing us children with the statue, not to mention the calving cows getting their annual smack on the head of the holy object.

A large coloured portrayal of the Infant of Prague was discovered inside The Girls Own Annual 18881889, Oct.6 vol x, No 458 published in London.

Prayers to St Anthony inhabited almost every book as she hated losing any item. A treasured piece of gold jewellery, gifted by grand-aunt, Anne Bergin in Detroit, was hidden behind a statue in her holy shrine! Were these idiosyncrasies a hint for me to become more devout as if my mother was guiding me from above?

TELEGRAMS POPPED out constantly. She had a sister, May McCann, a matron in Mansfield General Hospital in England and an aunt, Anne Bergin, a nurse in Detroit, USA who often posted parcels to Laois. She liked to keep the telegrams as a reminder of their communication.

Old American stamps fell from many books as I opened them. A lock of my grandmothers’ hair was another sentimental surprise.

Some book covers listed addresses of people or places in France and they proved to be a wonderful guide when I was writing my book ‘ Grandmother Catherine in France During the Great War and Family Memories of Laois'.

A French dictionary had the address in Tourcoing where my grandmother worked as a governess.

I flicked through John Mitchell’s ‘ Jail Journal', published in New York in 1854, and enclosed in its leaves was a paper cutting of my granduncle, James Joseph Cleere, born 27 November, 1882, in Clough, Ballacolla, Co. Laois, a brother of my grandmother, the subject of my book.

WHEN I read the cutting, an obituary from an American newspaper, I discovered that James had been an employee of Carnegie Steel Company in Pittsburgh for forty-four years. A photo of this man and his service medal from the company was in my mother’s papers. So now I am learning all about the success of Andrew Carnegie from Scotland and how many Irish emigrants worked long hours for this multi-billion company.

I could not count the number of dried rose petals in the pages of several books, another reminder of the annual visit to Castletown De La Salle Brothers for the annual Blessing of the Roses on the 7 October. Kitty was accompanied by her friends Margaret Scott and Margaret White. Afterwards the ladies fortified themselves with a hot whiskey in White’s snug in the village pub of Borris-in- Ossory.

On return the rose petals were placed into a book for posterity and they have now turned to a deep brown colour. I just reminisce and leave the petals in the pages where they were found.

The jolts of these fond memory nuggets live forever. They continue to enthral and surprise even to this day. ÷