An Irishman’s Diary on a life well lived

She was born Johanna Mary O’Dwyer on February 1st, 1915, in Drumbane, a small village in Co Tipperary a few miles outside Thurles. She was the youngest of seven children including my grandmother Mai O’Dwyer, her sibling closest to her in age and who always called her Josie. To her pupils in Cappamore national school in Co Limerick she was Sister Teresa. To the rest of us, including my own children and their cousins, who were her great-grandnephews and nieces, she was known simply as Auntie Teresa.

She slipped away on October 15th, which happened coincidentally to be the feast day of St Teresa of Ávila. Auntie Teresa died as she slept in her bedroom in the Convent of Mercy in Cappamore, aged 99, surrounded by people who had cared for her and cared about her, for she had cared for so many in her long, eventful life; a life unnoticed except by those around her. She was sprightly of mind, if not of body, right to the very end.

Unwavering

Had she hung on for only a few months, she would have received the €2,540 from Áras an Uachtaráin, given to all citizens who reach the age of 100. But she wouldn’t have particularly wanted it. She wouldn’t have welcomed “all the aul fuss” as she’d say herself, making sure not to even make a virtue of her own unwavering modesty.

She was the last of that generation in my family and her death represents the end of an era for us.

My lasting memories of her were her annual visits to our house in Julianstown for two weeks every summer, accompanied by her sister, my grandma. It’s the little things from childhood that stick in your memory. They would always go to town to buy shoes, Auntie Teresa buying a brand new pair of navy shoes, exactly the same as last year’s navy shoes, to match her Mercy Order garb. She always brought cash-and-carry style boxes of chocolate bars to dole out to me and my brothers and she and my grandma engaged in fierce competition to see who could give us the most money from their seeming endless supply of pound notes and coins. Also, she was great fun, she didn’t suffer fools gladly and she always put herself last. She loved sport and Munster rugby in particular.

Rural

She had great stories of life when she was a kid; she told us the story of a group of men coming through their house in rural Tipperary, one of whom handed the child Josie a bunch of papers which she duly threw onto the open fire. Next came a group of brutal and hated Black and Tans who burst through and searched the house for those men and what they had.

She was a member of the Pioneer movement yet, as the priest at her funeral said, was “gently tolerant” of those who decided that movement wasn’t for them and rather preached an “everything in moderation” philosophy.

Indeed she was, despite her own beliefs, also “gently tolerant” of those of us for whom religion was not important. Had she not been so devoted to her own faith and the work she carried out in her community, she would probably have been a Fianna Fáil supporter like many on that side of the family. Nobody’s perfect, right?

Although we didn’t see as much of her in the last number of years during which she was confined to her room a lot, we’ll all miss the fact that she is no longer with us.

Refreshments

We arrived for her funeral in Cappamore in torrential rain. It is a small village off the beaten track but not far from the M7 motorway that cuts through formerly remote rural Ireland. It is typical of a small Irish community; pubs, a church, the convent painted mint green, a small number of shops, some of them closed down. Quiet. We stopped for refreshments in one of the pubs in the village. “Are ye here for the funeral?” the barman inquired. “We are,” I responded. We must have stood out a mile.

Everybody in Cappamore knew one of their best-known and best-loved citizens had died and they were to turn out in force, young and old, to pay tribute to a life well lived.

Community

During the funeral service the priest reflected on Auntie Teresa’s life, her initial entrance into religious life in Doon at the age of 26 in 1941, her arrival in Cappamore in 1944, her work in the local national school and most notably her help of many struggling families in the community over many decades. He noted that Auntie Teresa’s death was “big news” in Cappamore for the nuns, the church community, past pupils and the families she helped. But, he said, people like her never make the national media unless they do something untoward.

Auntie Teresa wasn’t capable of doing anything “untoward”, but she was a good example to the rest of us and her life demands some notice – whether we live in a small village in Limerick, work in the national media huddle or indeed anywhere.