I’m here in Branch to visit the home of the late Mrs. Mary Power, at the invitation of her son Tony, whose brothers Henry and Eugene still occupy the house. Walking through the kitchen door is like stepping into my childhood. A wave of long-forgotten sensations hits me as my eyes adjust to the light: comfort, recognition, warmth. A boiled dinner is bubbling on the stove and its aroma adds to the welcome. This is a room that has echoed with laughter and song, and where stories have been told and re-told over countless cups of strong tea.

I’m greeted with the same instruction that Mrs. Mary would have given: “What odds about your boots – come in for a cup of tea!” Here in the kitchen, the walls are covered with family photographs, framed clippings from newspapers and magazines, religious prints, framed pictures from calendars, plates on hangers; a St. Brigid’s Cross woven of straw hangs above the door. The settle in the corner is draped with an afghan crocheted in bright, multi-coloured stripes. Its cousins cover couches in the living room.

Eugene takes me into the dining room to show me his mother’s remarkable collection of curios, displayed on shelves (photo). There’s a history associated with these treasures. Mary’s mother died in giving birth to daughter Rita; the family’s circumstances resulted in the children being placed in orphanages, with the boys going to Mount Cashel and the girls to The Belvedere as was the custom. When Mary returned home to help look after her father, she brought Rita home as well. Since she had so little as a child, these little knickknacks she acquired in later years took on special significance.

She married handsome Anthony Power, who was well known as a traditional singer. She and Anthony raised four sons and two daughters, all of whom remain in Branch.

Mrs. Mary was known as a keeper of many of the stories handed down in local tradition in this very Irish community; stories of unusual happenings and odd occurrences – strange encounters with little folk, their black hats pulled low over dark, threatening eyes. (“It was easy, you see, to tell the good fairies since their hats were red.“)

Before long, her stories began to draw the attention of folklorists and collectors, and soon the kitchen hosted visitors dropping in from Canada, the United States, Ireland, Belgium, and beyond. They arrived as strangers and left as friends, names newly signed in the autograph books she kept or in the journals that also contained poems and observations about events in Branch or at the folk festivals to which she was invited.

Hospitality isn’t a word from a tourism brochure in this house, it’s a way of life. Today, Henry and Eugene fondly reminisce about Mrs. Mary, each adding to the other’s stories as they carry on her tradition of welcome.

Before I leave, Eugene shows me a mark on the stair rail that appeared after his mother passed away, in the spring of 2006 (photo). She believed that we all leave our mark when we pass on, so that we’ll be remembered.

As I leave the house I know I’ll be coming back to share in that hospitality; Mrs. Mary did leave her mark – not just on the stair rail but on a family, a community, a province and a culture.

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