Family Fortunes: My mother made more than 40 St Brigid’s crosses each year

She was a cheerful but steely character

Kitty Rushe
Kitty Rushe

This photograph of my mother, Kitty Rushe, making St Brigid’s crosses captures the bright, generous, cheerful spirit that characterised her life as a wife, mother, grandmother, friend and confidant. But underlying this outward demeanour was a steely determination and resilience.

She left her home in east Limerick as a teenager to work in catering at Hayes Hotel in Thurles, and later with the railway company at Rosslare and Claremorris, where she met and married my father, who worked in a brush factory.

When the factory closed in the early 1950s my father had to go to London temporarily to find work. My mother coped alone with four children under the age of five, one of whom had an intellectual disability, in a small rural Mayo house without electricity or running water. Years later, when I asked her how she managed, she was casually dismissive: “Sure your father was on great money and sent home every penny. We were never better off than we were at that time.”

A year later the offer of a temporary job on the railway enabled my father to come home, with the intention of moving the family to London later. He remained with CIÉ until retirement age.

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In an era when people with intellectual disabilities were routinely hidden from public view, my mother insisted that my sister Mary should be included in all family activities. She was disdainful of the occasional adverse comments that resulted.

Double tragedy struck in 1961 when her day-old baby died in hospital and, three days later, 12-year-old Mary died at home. My mother hid her grief and immersed herself in tending to her husband and six children.

Around this time, she began to make St Brigid’s crosses for a few friends. Demand grew and, until her death in 1997, she was producing more than 40 crosses each year, which she brought to church for blessing on February 1st. All were eagerly taken away by neighbours to be hung in their homes. I like to think that a St Brigid’s cross still rekindles their memories of a good friend.

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