Lovely Lily: A tribute to family, faith, and fierce Irish love

In every Irish family, there is one figure who quietly holds the center — the storyteller, the rock, the one whose strength and spirit ripple across generations.

For our family, that person was Aunt Lily.

Raised in rural Mohill, County Leitrim, and later a fixture of suburban Long Island life, Lily embodied warmth, wit, and unwavering devotion.

Whether she was fearlessly confronting a tow truck operator or reminiscing about joyful Thanksgivings and summers at the beach, Lily’s legacy lives on in the memories we treasure most — and in the laughter we still hear, echoing from the kitchen.

It is Friday, late afternoon, and I have just gotten off the school bus. Walking up the front path of my Long Island home, I hear laughter from inside, amid the whirr of a blender. Following the sound of merriment to the kitchen, I spot my mother and my Aunt Lily sitting together at our white Formica table. Before them are two crystal glasses filled generously with their favorite cocktail, a Whiskey Sour, served on special occasions or simply to celebrate the onset of the weekend. Lily welcomes me graciously, then the two chat on, never quite running out of things to say.

My mother and Lily are first cousins and best friends, having grown up on neighboring farms in County Leitrim, Ireland. They have had the good fortune once again of living in close proximity to each other, though this time, on suburban Long Island.

As evening draws near, my father arrives home, entering the kitchen through the garage, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Seeing Lily, his face lights up, “ELIZABETH!” he croons with a smile. Lily is always delighted to see him and returns the smile. She always loved my father.

A few words that come to mind when I think of my aunt are strength, devotion, and elegance. Her loyalty knew no bounds.

A story remembered…

My newly licensed mother, at last passing her road test after the ninth attempt, asked Lily if she would drive with her to visit my homesick sister, a Freshman at Villanova University, in Pennsylvania. The drive is four hours.

Even with the knowledge that my mother had never driven on a major highway before, Lily’s answer is swift and without question. “Yes, dear, of course I will go!” And like Lucy and Ethel, I watched them drive off that morning, my mother at the wheel and Lily riding shotgun.

Later that evening, seven hours after departure, no word. My father whom I had never seen nervous, paces the floor. Then a phone call. From mom and Lily.

“We made it! With just a small delay. We somehow missed Pennsylvania and ended up in Ohio. Going to dinner now, goodbye!”

I have no doubt Lily aged a few years on that car ride, but never once mentioned the incident.

Devotion

Her devotion to family was steadfast and could paint a far different side of Lily than she ever revealed and most ever glimpsed. There was nothing she would not do for her family. One summer weekend in my youth, I accompanied my cousins to Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Arriving back at the parking lot that evening after a day at the casino, we discovered that our car had been towed. Arriving at the towing lot, a burly, no-nonsense man stood at the desk, his T-shirt boldly displaying the words, “No excuses.”

“That will be $200 cash, no credit cards,” he growled.

My uncle Jimmy, after a day of gambling,g was short on cash and pleaded for another solution. British born and always the gentleman, it was not in his nature to argue. We all stood distraught, not sure what to do next.

The tow man then glanced at my uncle, his gaze lowering to the beautiful gold watch he wore on his wrist. “That might do,” he said slowly with a smile.

Lily, who until that moment stood in the background, quietly approached the counter. Her face revealed a look I had never seen before. Staring at the man, she spoke slowly, fearlessly, her lilting Irish accent laced in fierceness.

“I am a Christian woman. But, God forgive me, if I had a gun right now, I’d put a bullet through your head…”

We got the car back.

"Elegance, grace and faith"

Lily endured three major heartaches in her lifetime but as was her nature, handled each with elegance, grace and faith.

“If you’re not laughing, you are crying,” she often told me.

She lived her life true to these words following the untimely death of her beloved husband, Jimmy, the loss of her second partner, the wonderful and kindly, Al, and maybe the hardest and perhaps least talked about blow, the death of her beautiful and charismatic son, John, in an auto accident.

As always, her faith got her through. “I pray to the lord every day, honey.”

But it was the phone conversations Lily and I enjoyed in later years after the death of my mother that I will remember most.

During each call, which generally took place twice a month, we would touch briefly on recent goings on but then always circle back to those joyous moments of yesterday.

Returning to those days, most close to the heart; Thanksgivings in Lynbrook while the movie, “March of the Wooden Soldiers” played on the television, Uncle Jimmy meticulously setting the china tea mugs on the table for breakfast, the night before. Summer days spent at the iconic Malibu Beach Club and family cabana, Lily’s second love in life after her family, meeting in Garden City for lunch at Bloomingdale's.

I learned of her childhood days living in Mohill, Leitrim, and how her grandmother, once a year, would board a horse and carriage heading for a spa weekend in Galway. She loved how her grandmother, hell or high water, took that trip each year. She spoke of how she lent my mother the money needed to attend nursing school and told me how much she missed her. “She was my best friend.”

And in those phone calls, that often exceeded two hours, we spoke only of the best of times.

Closing my eyes, I think about Lily. I feel saddened that our phone conversations will now only take place in memory. But my melancholy slowly eases as I envision the following scene, taking place at this very moment…

The whirr of a blender competes with the sound of laughter. Always that laughter. Lily and my mother sit at that same Manhasset kitchen table. But this time, Uncle Jimmy is there. He hums in that endearing little way he had, of mimicking a trumpet, as he busies himself making that perfect cup of English tea. My father sits at the table between them, his jet black hair and wide grin, so vivid it takes my breath away.

I glance out the kitchen window. A stream of people are slowly making their way up the walk. Lily’s parents, her brother Thomas and other long-gone relations, childhood friends, and the ever amiable Al. Lastly, I see my handsome cousin, John. Lily’s cherished son.

He looks so happy.

The procession continues up the path following the sounds of merriment to our kitchen. All are eager to join in the reunion.

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