LIBBY RUSH
Libby Rush
For Laurence, his darlin' Libby was his wife, his love, his soul mate, his bestest friend. Each of her children, Siobhan, Anthony and Andrew, was her favourite. She adored her grandchildren. With her God-given talent she could turn her hand to anything. She was a first-class dressmaker and could make wedding finery for the greatest.
Libby was a people's person; she loved company and a quiet chat. Her shop where she died was a place of friendship for even the casual caller. Here she let people talk and gave them a listening ear; here she could lead someone into doing someone else a favour without their realising it. She had great understanding and felt that there was always another side to every story. At 4.30 p.m. on that fateful Saturday she was due to go with Laurence to Mullaghmore as they did most summer weekends. She loved its people. For her, Mullaghmore and her shop were little bits of Heaven. 7 o'clock on a Sunday morning would find her sitting on the beach below Lissadell House, looking at the sea in contemplation, then gathering a dozen mussels for them both and letting the other little creatures be; it was her secret place, and had its own place within her love of Irish culture. Life's simple pleasures were all she wanted, and she would walk happily among the world's poorest. Her death could never be told to her mother Ellen who for some years had suffered a happy sort of dementia. Yet within 3 weeks of that August day the dementia was one that sobbed and lamented. Ellen said to Laurence then: "My wee kitten's dead. I've got that clay for you, that nice, fine, beautiful clay. There's enough there. Take it with you". She did what she had never done for a long time: she mentioned Libby's name. 4 days later she was with her.
From a conversation with her family at Michael Street.
For Laurence, his darlin' Libby was his wife, his love, his soul mate, his bestest friend. Each of her children, Siobhan, Anthony and Andrew, was her favourite. She adored her grandchildren. With her God-given talent she could turn her hand to anything. She was a first-class dressmaker and could make wedding finery for the greatest.
Libby was a people's person; she loved company and a quiet chat. Her shop where she died was a place of friendship for even the casual caller. Here she let people talk and gave them a listening ear; here she could lead someone into doing someone else a favour without their realising it. She had great understanding and felt that there was always another side to every story. At 4.30 p.m. on that fateful Saturday she was due to go with Laurence to Mullaghmore as they did most summer weekends. She loved its people. For her, Mullaghmore and her shop were little bits of Heaven. 7 o'clock on a Sunday morning would find her sitting on the beach below Lissadell House, looking at the sea in contemplation, then gathering a dozen mussels for them both and letting the other little creatures be; it was her secret place, and had its own place within her love of Irish culture. Life's simple pleasures were all she wanted, and she would walk happily among the world's poorest. Her death could never be told to her mother Ellen who for some years had suffered a happy sort of dementia. Yet within 3 weeks of that August day the dementia was one that sobbed and lamented. Ellen said to Laurence then: "My wee kitten's dead. I've got that clay for you, that nice, fine, beautiful clay. There's enough there. Take it with you". She did what she had never done for a long time: she mentioned Libby's name. 4 days later she was with her.
From a conversation with her family at Michael Street.
Further Information
Publisher: CAPPAGH
Ref: MAG/024
Published Date: 1998
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