Saying goodbye to a generation

My Uncle Eamon’s kitchen, Broomall, PA, Fall 1989

The first time I met my Aunt Rosita was at a family wedding. This event marked the second time in my life that I shared space with a relative other than my mother and brother. I had been collected from the airport by Uncle Eamon and Uncle John, two of my late father’s 8 brothers and on this day I would meet the first of my father’s sisters.

Aunt Rosita was in the kitchen with a cup of tea. She was lovely, with hair artfully fastened up in a fashion that was controlled, yet casual. She had a warm smile for me and, as I learned later in the evening, a laugh that could prompt tears of mirth.

Sitting at that table in the company of three of my father’s siblings was one of the best nights of my life.

Ireland, April, 1990

The next spring I made my first trip to Ireland. My trip had been partially funded by two of my Aunts who had become the default beneficiaries of a small inheritance left to my father due to his premature death. They passed the money on to me unhesitatingly, an action I interpreted as a sincere attempt to give something to me, their deceased brother’s previously unknown daughter.

Their generousity and acceptance deeply impacted me.

I hopped from household to household, staying with family who seemed to want me in their lives as much as I wanted them to be in mine. It was more than I had ever hoped to experience.

My time with Aunt Rosita was filled with meeting cousins, watching her complete the weekly baking of brown bread and learning that her humble Donegal beginnings would forever influence her actions. A prime example was her habit of only turning the water tank on when there was an imminent need for hot water. I was smitten.

I’ve lost count of how many other occasions there were when I got to see Aunt Rosita. In 1992, I spent three weeks in Dublin, much of it at Pine Lodge, Rosita’s beautiful brick home complete with palm trees in the front garden and a broad of expanse of green lawn in the rear. While on my honeymoon in 1995, I made the time to visit her and introduce her to my husband. She had sent us the most gorgeous Irish cut crystal bowl as a wedding gift – an item I continue to cherish.

In 1997, I brought my baby, Liam, along with one of my oldest girlfriends, to meet her. As I recall, she was delighted. Typing that word (delighted) prompted the realization that it is so completely the defining word about the time we shared.

My Aunt Rosita was a true delight.

There were more occasions, of course, when I was fortunate enough to spend time with my aunt. She, and my Aunt Celine, were always a priority for me when I made it to Ireland, whether I was traveling solo, with a friend or one of my sons, I was always welcomed and made to feel at home.

A couple of years ago, my Aunt moved from her beloved home to a nursing home and since that time, my cousins felt it best that visitors be limited. While I respect their decision and wishes that their mother be remembered at her best, I missed seeing her and hearing her voice. And her baked goods.

Earlier this week I got the inevitable news of her passing, surrounded by those who loved her, at the age of 97. Aunt Rosita, child of Connell and Mary (née McGlynn), was the final Stranorlar McMenamin to leave this life. Aunt Rosita was the last of her generation.

For me, however, she’ll always be the first when it comes to sisters of my father’s. I miss her already. xoxo