Did Ye Hear Mammy Died?

Pick it up: If you'd like to read a hilarious memoir about bereavement - after all, how many of those could there be? If you need a sense of perspective on loss, this family's story will help. If you need a reminder that a sense of humour is always a potent tool to weather life's inevitable storms.

In this poignant and hilarious memoir, the author recalls his childhood in Northern Ireland after the death of his mother when he was just five years old. Raised by his beloved but often overwhelmed father alongside his ten siblings (divided into three classes - the Big Ones, the Middle Ones, and the Wee Ones ), O'Reilly, one of the Wee Ones, paints a vivid picture of growing up in a large, grief-stricken, eccentric, and fiercely loving family during the tail end of the Troubles.

O’Reilly has an unerring ability to find humour in loss and the often chaotic reality of their large family, a family that needs a bus and not a car, and where headcount matters. While deeply moving, the memoir avoids sentimentality. The central theme is the loss of their beloved mother and the impact on the family, some of whom (including Seamas) were too young to fully understand where exactly Mammy had gone. But the book is also a tender homage to their father, the poor soul who was suddenly saddled with eleven children aged all the way from 2-17. Despite the overwhelming new reality for him, he never once made any of them feel a dearth of love and doggedly went on with his parenting duties. 

The dynamics within this unconventional family, with their shared sense of loss and relentless mockery, make for a highly engaging read. You end up falling in love with this boisterous family and gaining a deep sense of admiration for their attitude and resilience.

"I was simply too young to grasp that the only thing sadder than a five-year-old crying because his mammy has died is a five-year-old wandering around with a smile on his face because he hasn't yet understood what that means. We laugh about it now, but it really is hard for me to imagine the effect I must have had, skipping sunnily through the throng, appalling each person upon their entry to the room by thrusting my beaming, three-foot frame in front of them like a chipper maitre d', with a cheerful enquiry: "Did ye hear Mammy Died?""