Meathwoman's Diary: The light and shade of an Irish funeral

If there’s one thing the Irish do well it’s funerals. Credit where is credit is due, we know how to throw a farewell party and no other culture comes close. Funerals become a community occasion, with everyone rallying around to make sure that family and loved ones of the deceased are looked after. If I didn’t know the above already it became abundantly clear at the weekend when I had to attend the funeral of my uncle Eamonn who passed away after a short illness.

From early in the day, family, neighbours and friends descended on his home armed with food, photographs and offers of help at the unmistakable Irish wake where the living, the bereaved and the dead openly share the world and remain bound together.

Relatives arrived back from overseas and ‘long lost cousins’ reunited in grief whilst sharing memories of happier times spent together in my uncle’s company. His partner, Pim, also made the long journey from Thailand to be by his side in his last hours and say goodbye.

“Jesus, name tags would be handy,” declared one weary family member in jest at having to explain who their mother was for the 107th time. Another bereaved relative announced their hand was all but bruised from the sheer number of well meaning sympathisers making their way to pay their respects.

The waft of tasty, hot food magnetised mourners to the kitchen and copious pots of tea were brewed for chatting droppers-by. Women often say that the tea and toast they are given after childbirth is the most delicious they have ever tasted, the same has to be said for sandwiches at a wake.

No doubt more to do with the nostalgia of little these triangle shaped pieces of culinary heaven and their stalwart like role at such occasions, somehow funeral sandwiches are part of the grieving process along with the funeral itself, the month’s mind and the anniversary mass.

As the evening went on, sympathisers waned and the immediate family, although no doubt grateful to see such a crowd so keen to offer condolences, got a short reprieve. Those recruited for the first ‘shift’ to keep vigil at my uncle’s coffin who were discovered asleep rumoured to have toasted my uncle at the local watering hole earlier in the night will remain nameless! But offered a welcome chuckle from all the next day as we were faced with the final send off.

The day itself, miserable and wet, was reflective of the sombre mood but moments of light and laughter also existed along side the darkness when symbols of my uncle’s life were left at the alter by his grandchildren with the priest commenting that he “wasn’t sure he was a fan of Pulp” after a CD of the UK rock band was placed to represent my uncle's love of music. Laughter spread through the tiny church in Rushwee when a family member assured him that in fact the young at heart 79-year-old was!

There may also have possibly been a wrong name mentioned by the priest at the grave side with no harm done or intended and adding a smile to the faces of those who needed it most, summing up the litany of light and shade of an Irish funeral!