Did Ye Hear Mammy Died?
A Memoir
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- $229.00
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- $229.00
Descripción editorial
A heart-warming and hilarious family memoir of growing up as one of eleven siblings raised by a single dad in Northern Ireland at the end of the Troubles.
Séamas O’Reilly’s mother died when he was five, leaving him, his ten (!) brothers and sisters, and their beloved father in their sprawling bungalow in rural Derry. It was the 1990s; the Troubles were a background rumble, but Séamas was more preoccupied with dinosaurs, Star Wars, and the actual location of heaven than the political climate.
An instant bestseller in Ireland, Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? is a book about a family of loud, argumentative, musical, sarcastic, grief-stricken siblings, shepherded into adulthood by a man whose foibles and reticence were matched only by his love for his children and his determination that they would flourish.
“In this joyous, wildly unconventional memoir, Séamas O'Reilly tells the story of losing his mother as a child and growing up with ten siblings in Northern Ireland during the final years of the Troubles as a raucous comedy, a grand caper that is absolutely bursting with life.”―Patrick Radden Keefe, NYT bestselling author of Say Nothing and Empire of Pain One of NPR’s Best Books of the Year
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
In this rollicking debut, O'Reilly, a columnist for the London Observer, weaves a hilarious look at his Irish Catholic childhood with a touching tribute to his mother. When his "Mammy," Sheila, died of breast cancer in 1991, O'Reilly writes, "my father drove back to Derry as the sole parent of eleven children." At five years old, O'Reilly was a "newly minted half-orphan" struggling to hold onto memories of his mother. To keep them from fading as he grew older, he sought out stories of Sheila, wringing a "scant few negative" tales out of drunken family members as a kid, and scouring her old correspondences and visiting her birthplace in his adulthood—and renders them in deeply affectionate prose: "she was the sing-song cadence of the grace we said before meals... the daffodils in the garden." He also paints an archly loving portrait of his kindhearted single father, who steadfastly believed that one sheet of toilet paper "judiciously used, was sufficient for most movements"; and dispenses mordantly funny takes on his adolescence growing up in the waning years of the Troubles ("banal" fare compared to what his grandparents saw) with his 10 siblings—"to be one of eleven was singularly, fizzily demented. At best, you were the child of sex maniacs." Chock-full of wit and compassion, this amusingly dispels "perception of as either humourless... or violent psychopaths."
