Snapshot: Aunt Kate had a survivor’s spirit
Our aunt, Kathleen Hanna, died in January from pneumonia, aged 88. We took it in turns to carry her coffin from her home, through Newcastle, County Down, to the Catholic church. It was not the first time she had stopped the traffic. She had replaced her specially adapted car with a mobility scooter some years ago. Her peripheral vision allowed her to drive it around the town to shop and “get the air”. Her control of it was sometimes erratic, though.
Kate, as she was known, was resilient and had a great sense of humour. Until December last year, she was living independently at home, although registered blind and requiring a walking aid. Carers went in daily.
She was the third of seven children, born to our grandparents, Joe and Maggie McGrath. Kate caught polio as a child but survived. Her sister Molly died in 1937 from diphtheria when there was an outbreak in the town. Kate then became ill with tuberculosis. Her teenage years and early 20s were spent in sanatoria, the only treatment being bed rest and fresh air. However, with the arrival of the NHS and the discovery of penicillin, Kate slowly got better. She was embarrassed that she never walked well. She cycled instead.
She went to night school and passed a secretarial course. Her first job was as a hotel receptionist in the late 50s, and I can remember her stylishly dressed in black, smiling over the desk.
By the early 60s, her brothers were all in England and her sisters had married. It looked as if Kate would be the spinster aunt, but she found love. She met Jim Hanna at work. He would always arrive last to shyly collect his wages on a Friday, she said. They courted for six years (a lot of it in her green Morris Minor) as Jim was gradually accepted, albeit reluctantly, by our grandparents. They married in 1974 and had 10 happy years together until Jim died.
Kate was heartbroken. What saved her, she would later say, were her nephews and nieces and her lodgers, her “wee Chinese girls” – A-level students from Malaysia, who were studying in the town. Kate loved all the craic. She played bridge and golf, too.
In her final year, Kate began to fail. She said she wanted to go. She wanted to be with Jim, her parents, brothers and sisters. Despite excellent hospital care, she succumbed to pneumonia, telling us: “The last mile is the longest.” We all miss Kate and remember her with love, gratitude and smiles.
Sean McGrath
Playlist: Good times in Boston, but too darn hot
Too Darn Hot by Ella Fitzgerald
“It’s too darn hot / It’s too darn hot / I’d like to sup with my baby tonight”
In the summer of 1989, my boyfriend and I went to America on student working visas. We arrived in Boston and began to hunt for summer work. Ideally, we wanted a live-in job but a number of employers rejected us because we were not married. This came as quite a shock given the liberal thinking of university life at that time.
Eventually we found work and were offered accommodation by Kent and Mike, who ran a market stall selling plastic products – possibly potato peelers – and talked big. They bragged that they earned up to $10,000 a week and they drove a big flashy car like Knight Rider. Kent and Mike took our month’s rent and moved on to bigger and better things.
We located the student-owner, Gabriel, who allowed us to stay on at a very low rent. We began to relax, assisted by two Ella Fitzgerald CDs that I bought with my first week’s wages: The Cole Porter Songbooks, volumes 1 and 2. This was the beginning of my love affair with 1940s blues. How apt the words to Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love): “People say in Boston even beans do it / Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”
That summer in Boston was the hottest and most humid experience of my life. I played Too Darn Hot over and over – when I wasn’t taking another cold shower, that is. When the heat became intolerable, I would bolt for the shopping mall where the air conditioning offered respite.
Our landlord, Gabriel, shared the apartment with us for a couple of weeks at the end of our American stay, and the following summer he hopped over the water for a holiday with us. By the time he visited, things had turned frosty between my boyfriend and me and we split up a short time later. I am still a huge fan of Ella Fitzgerald and when I hear her music, I am reminded of my romantic working holiday in Boston.
Faye Boland
We love to eat: Bonne-Maman’s potatoes
Ingredients
Potatoes
Salt
Cooking oil
Herbes de Provence
Cut the potatoes into small cubes and sprinkle with salt. The cubes will shrink as they cook and what appears to be a generous supply at the start could end up looking a bit frugal by the time they are ready to dish up. So start with what looks like more than necessary.
Heat the oil in a large frying pan and drop in the cubes, ensuring there is room for them all on the base. Turn at intervals until all sides are golden brown. Don’t rush this; keep the temperature moderate so they cook inside as well as out. Towards the end, sprinkle over the herbs. Serve with exacting fairness.
When I was camping in my grandmother’s one-bedroom house in Paris, evenings were always the same. We would sip Cinzano as we watched The TV gameshow Des Chiffres et des Lettres. Then, fag in mouth, Bonne-Maman (Granny) would shuffle off to the kitchen to fry the potatoes to go with whatever meat or fish we were having. I was always starving, but the procedure could not be rushed. She would stand over the dice, head tilted to avoid the smoke from her Gauloises. Every now and then, I would appear in the doorway to ask if dinner was ready and she would shoo me away, exasperated.
While our daughters were growing up, they both learned the value of patience by taking turns to toss the dice, one at a time, again and again. However many we fried, it was never enough. Merci, Bonne-Maman.
Colette Hill
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