Neighbours and kinsmen, with sharpened spades and shovels, had stripped off the top sods and opened a deep wound on the greener side of the hill at Killuran Beg. They then staunched that opened wound with the coffined lifeless body of Uncle Mattie … the priest recited the prayers for the dead, sprinkled holy water on the coffin and raised his voice and hand in a final benediction. The earth was shovelled over the coffin and then the green sward was rolled back on again leaving just a low green mound. The priests then made their way slowly from the graveside solemnly intoning … “de profundis clamavi ad Te Domine … Domine exaudi vocem meam”. But there were many wounds in hearts and minds left unstaunched that day, as we bade our final earthly farewell to the man we all had loved and respected. Men looked up to Matthew MacMahon and that, not just in the physical sense, even though he was the tallest man in the parish. It was because of his big-hearted warm welcome, his frank direct manner of speaking and his constant good humour – but how sad now to realise that these admirable qualities were for ever stilled, except to live on only in our memories – all filled our hearts and minds with a sense of grief and loss. Yes, it was he, who having lived for just some months short of a century – he of the patrician, craggy face and the eyes that laughed beneath the shaggy brows – that we left in the graveyard with all of the departed loved ones. Then we slowly walked down the short distance on the winding road to that fine, solid farmhouse wherein we would see or hear him nevermore. There all the talk was on the man he had been, and memories came rushing back of family visits we had made here to my Mother’s birthplace when the catch in the voice and the soft misted eyes told us all of the great love he bore for his own kindred. I spoke of the occasion when, as a boy visiting from the city, I sat beside Granny MacMahon before the warm open-hearth fire. She asked me to help find her well-fingered rosary beads which had slipped from her ninety-four years old fingers. I succeeded in retrieving her beads and she then thanked me and told me that she would pray for me. Sadly, a few weeks later, she had gone to receive her heavenly reward. I also recounted the time, on a Munster Fair Day, when along with Uncle Frank, he made one of his frequent visits to our home in Limerick. I was about nine years old then and on that day, unknown to all present, I sampled John Jameson Ten Years Old Whiskey. I took it straight from the bottle which Mum had provided for their delectation and from which they had imbibed. This was my first and only time ever – it was surely a case of early attraction – sudden aversion! Oh, happy home Killuran, where work was real hard and play was real fun! Killuran was much the better of his near-century living there! Uncle Mattie loved it almost as much for the hard toil on it’s broad acres, as he did for the happy evenings of music, dancing and friends on cuaird. And his mind and heart were attuned to the great peace and beauty of the green hills, the little river and nearby Doon Lake. I left Killuran House that evening, saddened that Time had closed the Book of Life for my stalwart Uncle Mattie. Pity is that so many wholesome and fine things are now maybe forgotten – but to those of us who are left and who had loved him so well what a priceless gift and a blessing is sweet memory … Rest peacefully now big, gentle Mattie, we loved you as we knew you – until (hopefully) we meet again … a very fond … Farewell!