Our family has been inundated with well wishes and kind gestures since our beloved father passed away on Wednesday evening. Through texts, emails, and condolences, we have heard a familiar theme emerge—that he was a great neighbour, a gentlemen, and as one young lady put it, like a second father to her. These touching observations do not come as a surprise to his family, but it does reinforce how truly blessed we were to have him as the head of our household. This morning I want to share with you a side of him that most people didn't see.
As many of you may know, our father was a Manchester United obsessive. And I mean obsessed! You might have even seen him wear the Man Utd jersey or brandish the gold Man Utd ring on his finger. What you were not privy to, however, was the game-day stress that pervaded the McLoughlin household. For those of us that were in the firing line of Johnny's nerves, it was usually best that we left the house for those sacred 90 minutes on a Saturday afternoon. On our return to the house, we could usually tell if they had won or lost by the presence (or absence) of the television lying in a pile of broken glass on the driveway. If they scored a goal, you could hear his roars of joy from Cloghan roundabout. Our father was a passionate man and there was never a dull moment with him.
As we grew up in Banagher, I saw my father as this larger than life figure. A man who I would have many "firsts" with. The earliest memory of those "firsts" was him giving me a piggy back up the stairs to bed only for him to fall—with me on his back—down the stairs an out through the window below. How many of you can say that you've had that kind of parental bonding? As I got older, trips to Granny's in Ballycumber were a weekend highlight. We would go to spend the weekend there shooting pheasants or cutting wood from the nearby forest. I remember one time when daddy was cutting a big log with a chain saw and the blade slipped and took a chunk out of his thumb. Daddy's reaction? To wrap a piece of cloth around it and keep on working. He was like a superhero to me.
Other memories of things we did together were school trips, watching Bruce Lee and James Bond movies together—he always loved Roger Moore's suaveness over Sean Connery's toughness. I tend to agree. We got our haircut at the same barbers and he was the one who placed the first pint of Guinness in front of me as a young man. One of the things that brought me the most comfort in times of great stress was to simply sit in his presence in our living room. He'd just sit by the window looking out, pondering the world. He exuded not only peace, but a depth of character that had a bigger impact on his family than he would ever realise. My fondest memory of that chair was seeing him jump out of it with joy as I walked in our driveway after a year away in Australia. The sound of his feet running on the gravel as he sprinted to meet me with a warm embrace was symbolic of his love for his kids.
In later years, as his mind slowly deteriorated, he would talk about certain things. At the top of the list was his love for his wife. He couldn't fathom how fortunate he was to be married to our mother. Over and over he'd gush about her being a great wife. Not even Parkinson's or Dementia could dim the flame he held for his beloved bride. He also talked about the pride he had for his kids. He was uniquely proud of each one in their own way. Proud of Susan for her deep empathy and leadership in our family, proud of Simon for his incredible strength of character and work ethic, proud of Alison for the mother and wife she became, and proud of Sean for his incredible success and humility. Of course he'd always punctuate these moments of solemnity with levity. Like the times he'd come home from the ESB night shift and knock on the window of Kilcommins' pub at 8 in the morning for a few cheeky pints of porter before heading home to bed for the day. His other main topic of conversation was how he had no regrets in life and had made no enemies. Today, daddy, as we say goodbye to you, we affirm those truths. You lived a life in service to others and treated all people equally. Your legacy as a man of integrity, passion, and kindness will live on in every life you touched.
As I close, I want to tell you that the last three days have been a rollercoaster. My mind has oscillated between denial, laughter, grief, depression, bargaining, and hope. As I have walked the streets of our town here in western Paris, I have carried you with me in my heart. In the aimless wanderings of both my feet and my soul, the word father has come to me again and again. It now has new meaning because my earthly father is no longer with me. No longer will I see the mischievous glint in your eye, no longer will I feel the smoothness of your cheek against mine, and no longer will your calming presence soothe my wearied mind. The weight of this is almost to much to bear. Yet in all my grief, I hear a voice on my walks saying to me, "Mally, what kind of a father are you going to be?" I no longer have you to teach me, daddy, but if I can make my own children feel a fraction of how you made me feel as a son, I will have already succeeded. In this time of unfathomable grief and loss, I am deeply comforted to know that you are now with our heavenly Father and that I will see you again.
Your adoring son, Mally
30/1/21
