Little children are always excited about their age. Every month is important. A little boy might declare “I’m and a half”, while not having a clue what it means. Later on he will learn about fractions and the real value of the half. Time passes and years become decades. We don’t like to acknowledge them as one big birthday is replaced by another. Age is poignantly important when the end of life comes.

Mr Google

Dad’s oldest brother, Dan Campion, died recently. He was the patriarch of that generation. After the removal of his remains to the church, we gathered in Quinlan’s pub in Moyne village for refreshments. It was a chance to meet cousins, some that I hadn’t met since my childhood. Dan and his wife, Carmel, reared nine children, Fr John, Martin, Kevin, Catherine, Rita, Angela, Dermot, Fintan and Monica. Martin and I sat by the stove, chatting. We talked of times past and what it was like to grow up in a house with eight siblings.

We talked of Dan’s age at the time of his death: 85 and a half years old. The half was back again. He had struggled with ill health in the last few years and each of those days lived took its toll on him, especially during that last half year. His mind had suffered too and dementia had taken hold in the last few weeks. Fr John was philosophical about this; telling us that Dan had returned to his childhood memories during this time.

During Dan’s funeral mass, John said that in a strange way through his father’s confusion the family was prompted to recall the names of people from their own childhood. Funerals are a time when the history of family ties are explored and passed onto the next generations. Dan would have liked that. He was an exceptional historian. His real prowess lay in his ability to trace family genealogy.

Many people called to him over the years from near and far to get help with their own family trees. Dan had a massive memory for family names, connections and all sorts of facts. Above all he was kind and willing with his knowledge. His family joked that he was Mr Google.

Cartoon by Clyde Delaney.

Grief is tough

The rituals involved in our Irish funeral tradition spark memories, elicit compassion from our neighbours and friends, and also make us aware of our own mortality. Several times over the three days John and Paddy, Dan’s two remaining younger brothers, were heard talking of their own age. Both farmers with colourful imaginations and embedded in the world of agriculture used the phrase: “He started taking them out of our pen now. We’d better watch out.” The “he” referred to their own Christian belief in God.

Death is final and poignant. It is the most natural thing in the world, but yet it leaves us empty and cold. As one friend from the old days said: “Death never goes away. If you have lost someone it doesn’t matter how long ago. That loss stays with you and is remembered often.”

He talked of his grandchild. As he spoke to me I could see two sets of parents nearby that had lost a young child, a sister who had lost a brother in his teens and so on. Everyone experiences loss and that is why the support of the funeral is so important, because as people shake your hand you know that they have some understanding of what you are feeling.

Dan was the patriarch of the Campion side of our family. He was a kind man giving his time freely to others. His eldest son, Fr John, gave him a send off fit for a king, with a beautifully crafted mass. The women of the parish, led by Naomi’s Café, organised a full dinner in the Parish Hall on behalf of the family.

This week we will remember Dan at his month’s mind mass. We will be asking ourselves where that month went, while his wife, Carmel, and family will have borne every moment in loneliness. Grief is tough.