Did ye hear Mammy died? A memoir

Northern Ireland in the time of the Troubles is often cast into a narrative that doesn't allow room for joy or delight. O'Reilly, a seasoned writer and columnist for the Observer and Irish Times, turns the era into a touchstone of his youth and, so doing, brings it out of the shadows. This is O'Reilly's debut book, and it is filled with intention. Much of this collection exposes the realities of losing his mother at age five, paralleled by growing up in Derry during the tail end of the Northern Irish conflict. Although the first few chapters are enough to leave readers teary-eyed as O'Reilly's family grieves his mother, one can't help but feel happiness as O'Reilly describes his affection for his ten siblings and father. He confronts his family history with sharp, witty, and honest humor. His personal experiences highlight the realities, fear, and hardship the Troubles imposed upon his family and the community he grew up in while also providing a unique lens on the explosions, murder, and abduction that occurred during generations past and present. O'Reilly's recollection is a splendid paradox, both cheery and heartbreaking.

In this rollicking debut, O'Reilly, a columnist for the London Observer, weaves a hilarious look at his Irish Catholic childhood with a touching tribute to his mother. When his "Mammy," Sheila, died of breast cancer in 1991, O'Reilly writes, "my father drove back to Derry as the sole parent of eleven children." At five years old, O'Reilly was a "newly minted half-orphan" struggling to hold onto memories of his mother. To keep them from fading as he grew older, he sought out stories of Sheila, wringing a "scant few negative" tales out of drunken family members as a kid, and scouring her old correspondences and visiting her birthplace in his adulthood--and renders them in deeply affectionate prose: "she was the sing-song cadence of the grace we said before meals... the daffodils in the garden." He also paints an archly loving portrait of his kindhearted single father, who steadfastly believed that one sheet of toilet paper "judiciously used, was sufficient for most movements"; and dispenses mordantly funny takes on his adolescence growing up in the waning years of the Troubles ("banal" fare compared to what his grandparents saw) with his 10 siblings--"to be one of eleven was singularly, fizzily demented. At best, you were the child of sex maniacs." Chock-full of wit and compassion, this amusingly dispels "perception of as either humourless... or violent psychopaths." (Feb.)