My Aunt Bunny (Mom’s younger sister) has told me this story more than once. Just this week, I found a poem Mom wrote about it.

Although it was usually up to them to call on their grandmother, the Cassidy sisters of Fair Haven could always count on their Gram to pay them a visit during that time of the month, armed with a bottle of the cure.

Gram’s backyard on Lombard Street connected with the Cassidys’ well-kept yard behind their Chatham Street home.

Mom wrote this poem in 2005. It was during a time when her poetry often focused on preserving memories from her youth.

She must have sensed something wasn’t right. That something was going to eventually interfere with her ability to write. Her doctors hadn’t put the name Parkinson’s on it yet.

Here’s what Mom’s wished to be remembered about Margaret Ellen Kelly Regan, her Gram:

The Visitor

She lived behind us
but visits from my grandmother were rare
we clustered in her kitchen all the time
her children their children
my aunt and uncle cared for her
and the house and all of us
but it was her house
she kept it close to her
like her ancient shawl from County Antrim

She went to church and for a country ride
but never left the house for weddings wakes
and other ceremonies
and yet when I was coiled in bed with cramps
I knew she’d walk across the yards
like a healer out of an old tale
and ply me with whiskey
which I hated but which helped

She never stayed to chat and yet I knew
my grandmother’s small journey
was a mission and an act of love
the family didn’t drink
but she knew pain and sorrow
and she never hesitated
~ joan vayo July 14, 2005

Gram was a widow for 21 years. Her first son and daughter died in childhood; in all, she outlived five of her 11 children. When she married Joseph Malachy Regan in Belfast in 1888 and soon after got on the boat to America, she knew they would never return.

If ever anyone had a right to take a sip of whiskey, it was Gram.

But she didn’t.

Aunt Bunny remembers getting a dose of Gram’s medicine more than once. “It tasted awful and made me throw up,” she recalls. “But I always felt better.”

Last night, I read some of the letters Mom and Dad wrote to each other in 1951, the year before they married. Dad was crazy about Gram and suggested they look into him adopting her as his Irish grandmother.

Gram lived until 1962, her 92nd year.

In 1970, her youngest daughter, Cecelia, wrote to her grandson (my brother) Dave: To adequately describe this lady, she was the “valiant” lady from the Scriptures.

I can say without hesitation that Grandma was also a valiant woman. Mom, too. And Bunny.

That inherited family valor did not bring with it the cure for all-that-cramps-you, I’m sorry to say. A quick check with IrishCentral.com, however, reveals not only a doctor’s nod to the continued medicinal efficacy of Irish whiskey, but a grand recipe to boot!

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“The Visitor” ©2005 Joan C. Vayo. All rights reserved.

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