15th February, 2022, St Mary’s Catholic Church, Dunolly., Victoria, Australia
Rita Monica Moclair was the youngest of nine. She grew up in rural Galway in the West of Ireland in the 40’s and 50’s. She and her siblings lived in the toe of an old boot on the side of a boreen. She had to ride 64 miles on the back of the postman’s bike to fetch water from the nearest well and she walked barefoot to school every day in snowdrifts neck deep.
She was doted on as the youngest and loved her siblings fiercely in return. She missed them terribly when she moved to Australia. She is survived by her brother Joe and sister Angela.
Despite obtaining her GCE in Ireland, she returned to high school in Mildura as a mother of 8 and enrolled in a number of HSC subjects, excelling in Australian History which she read avidly up until the time she died.
She worked in London in the 50’s but her work there is still so controversial and sensitive that legislation prevents me from identifying it because- even at a remove of 60 years- Empires could be undone if it were to be revealed.
The 60’s were spent raising the first 6 of her 8 children in Belfast, Athlone and Killarney before moving to Mildura in January 1973 where Joe and Romy were born.
Killarney is one of the most beautiful places in Ireland-McGillicuddy’s Reeks, Innisfallen Island, Muckross Gardens, the Gap of Dunloe, Torc Waterfall and Aghadoe Heights were our backyard. Mum loved it despite the occasionally fractious relationship we had with Mrs Murphy next door who once emptied her house of all its furniture in order to build a wall between our two houses in Upper Lewis Road, dispatching her two young sons to patrol it, yelling insults that have passed in to family folklore such as, “Your ma can’t cook a banana.”
She was homesick and heavily pregnant with Joe when we arrived in Mildura, having spent a fortnight acclimatising to our host country at Mont Park Psychiatric Hospital watching World Championship Wrestling and queueing for soup in the canteen before driving through the Wimmera and the Mallee in a two-car convoy, through drought and dust storms and locust plagues and mice infestations before being delivered to vines and orange orchards and three-cornered jacks and pop-up sprinklers and cacti and bungalows and enervating heat. To console herself she’d play Mary O’ Hara’s Spinning Wheel repeatedly, mourning the old country and the family she’d left behind.
She was a model of resilience her entire life and she soon adjusted. Things took a turn for the better when she discovered an Edward Beale salon in Moonee Ponds and managed to get a decent haircut in the Australia of the 1970’s, notwithstanding that it involved two overnight trips on the Vinelander there and back, covering a distance of 1200 kilometres. In 1981 she supported us by opening a shop that sold religious artefacts, importing crates of tea and fabrics from Sri Lanka. She also managed 17 acres of vines, producing walthams, sultanas and currants for sale.
At the end of that year we piled in to our old Holden station wagon and made for Melbourne with Joe as her co-pilot manually operating the high beam by banging a button on the floor of the driver’s side. Mum supported us by delivering groceries and cleaning at half-way houses before securing work at the ATO where she made friends for life in Ranjanee and, later, Christine. The development of Menieres disease forced an early retirement. City traffic intimidated her when we moved to Melbourne, but within a few years she returned home thrilled with herself for having sailed through a congested intersection whilst blithely eating an apple.
One of the most formidable of her many qualities was the unstinting commitment she had to securing first rate educations for her children despite her inability to fund them. She coaxed Xavier College into taking Tony by reminding it of its core Jesuit charter of caring for orphans and widows. When she was called to Whitefriars to discuss Joe’s sub-stellar academic progress she chided the school for its inability to recognize the rare jewel she had entrusted to it. She auditioned a number of equally prestigious institutions such as Siena, Preshill and Sacre Couer who vied for the privilege of educating her precocious and brilliant progeny. She wouldn’t hear of payment.
She returned to Galway in 1984 and rented a house in Renmore. The Ireland she returned to was not the one she had left and that period was tough, although she was buoyed by the release of The Smiths second single which became a staple of her limited pop repertoire and, amongst her children, her most popular cover, totally eclipsing Betty Davis’ Eyes.
She returned to Melbourne in 1986 and lived in Blackburn before moving to Burwood. The backyard was always full of friends, friends of friends and partners and she was always cooking elaborate meals and consoling Pete’s girlfriends, Pete’s estranged fiancees, Pete’s aggrieved exes and women who were on the cusp of instituting proceedings to enforce their contractual rights against him. She continues to receive letters from one of Pete’s exes who is, apparently, doing just fine and has, like, totally moved on.
She left the city and moved to Timor in 2001. She described these 20 years as the happiest of her life. She lived on her own and committed herself to recreating Monet’s Giverny, a Sisyphean task she was never going to complete. Having complained bitterly in the late 90’s of how, despite raising 8 children of her own, she had not been provided with a single grandchild, a flood of fecundity soon ensued. Rebekah was the first in 2001. We were living in Alice Springs then and mum, Hanny, Pete, Tony and Romy drove from Melbourne in a hired camper van to attend her baptism and deafen her with Territory Day fireworks, a round trip of 4,500 kilometres. Being flown above the red centre by James Nugent remained one of her fondest memories.
Once the flood gates opened, Gabriel, Charlie, Maisie, Max, Frances, Eloise, Lucien, Dan, Raphy, Pippa, Ines, Claudia, Helena, Rita, Michael and Lucinda followed like machine gun fire and she was often glad of the geographical distance she had established. She had a prodigious memory and recalled everything of significance about each of them, their friends, their educations, their hobbies, their interests, their fears and aspirations. Each of them felt seen and understood by her.
She loved travelling and managed to see some of the worlds great gardens in Kent and Normandy and Tuscany and Ubud and Kyoto and Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie and Fitzroy Crossing. All of these were fed into her life’s work in Timor. She was a fiend for gazebos and pagodas and rockeries and Japanese bridges and ornamental totems.
In recent years she had eased off travelling and had stopped driving. She remained formidably curious and physically active, but she was deaf as a post. We, as a family, are deeply appreciative of the care for her provided by her neighbours in Timor especially Maree, the Fosters and Leigh who was entrusted with realising her endless projects.
She was a champion. I can’t believe she’s gone, but she was ready. Physically she had declined, but mentally she was as acute as ever. Living on her own terms was non-negotiable. She valued her independence above everything. She lived for her garden- it was a way of repaying Paulette for her generosity in buying Timor and providing it to her so she could live there on her own terms. Ensuring Gabriel attended the Australian Open was an unflagging priority and she hounded me to secure a ticket to the men’s final for him, insisting I call John McPherson to make it happen. One of the last things she did on earth was to sit and watch Rafa snatch his 21st slam knowing that Gabriel was at the venue watching it live thanks to her intervention.
What lessons do we take from mum’s life? Money comes and goes, it’s not important and shouldn’t guide your decisions. Do what you love and success will follow. Be the first to give. Don’t watch Rafa in the final of a slam. Don’t pray that Novak’s plane crashes. Remember that feelings aren’t facts and that you can compel your limbs and muscles to act rightly in spite of your feelings. Whether you can or cannot cook a banana is unimportant, except to the Murphy’s. Pass on your plum pudding recipes. Don’t get Pete to do the dishes. And by somebody I don’t mean Lovedy.
for Martin McGuinness: 'He risked the rejection of his comrades and the wrath of his adversaries', by Bill Clinton - 2017
23 March 2017, St Columba's Church, Derry, Northern Ireland
Bernie, Grainne, Fionnuala, Fiachra, Emmett: members of the McGuinness family, honoured clergy, President Higgins, Taoiseach, Gerry, former Prime Minister Ahern, former President McAleese, First Minister Foster, thank you for being here, to John Hume, Peter Robinson, and all who were part of the amazing unfolding of Martin McGuinness's life.
I was thinking about it: after all the breath he expended cursing the British over the years, he worked with two Prime Ministers and shook hands with the Queen, four Taoiseachs, navigating the complex politics of the North.
As an American, I have to say a special word of appreciation to the sitting Taoiseach for what he said in the United States on St Patrick Day on behalf of the Irish immigrants.
As someone who spent sleepless nights in the beginning of the ceasefires and dealing with the aftermath of them and the Good Friday accord, I want to say a special word of appreciation to First Minister Foster for being here, because I know, and most people in this church know, that your life has been marked in painful ways by the Troubles. And I believe the only way a lasting peace can take hold and endure is if those who have legitimate griefs on both sides embrace the future together.
I learned this from Nelson Mandela who was a great friend of mine, who called me one day complaining as the president of South Africa that he was getting so much criticism. I said, "from the Afrikaners?". He said "no, from my people. They think I've sold them out." After all, he won 63% of the vote, it's inconceivable in a western democracy to do such a thing now. And I said, "what did you tell them?" and he said "I spent 27 years in jail, and they took all my best years away and i didn't see my children grow up and it ruined my marriage, and a lot of my friends were killed and if i can get over it, you can too. We've got to build a future."
Now, I want to say something about Martin McGuinness. I came to treasure every encounter. I liked him. They asked me to speak for three minutes, he could do this in 30 seconds. I can just hear him now: "Here's my eulogy: I fought, I made peace, I made politics, I had a fabulous family that somehow stayed with me and endured it all. I had friends (I was married to Gerry almost as long as I was married to Bernie). It turned out I was pretty good at all this and we got a lot done - but we didn't finish, and if you really want to honour my legacy, go make your own, and finish the work of peace so we can all have a future together."
He was only four years younger than me. He grew up at a time of rage and resentment; not only in Ireland, but across the world. And it was pronounced here: one of seven children in a Bogside family without an indoor toilet. (That's a great political story, I'm the last American president to ever live in a house without an indoor toilet and it's very much overrated except for its political value.) He was part of the rage of his time, he hated the discrimination and he decided to oppose it by whatever means available to the passionate young, including violence.
Somewhere along the way, for whatever reason, he decided to give peace a chance. Some of the reasons were principled, some were practical, but he decided. He was good about sticking at something he decided to do, and he succeeded because his word was good, his listening skills were good, he was not afraid to make a compromise, and he was strong enough to keep it if he made it.
And finally, he realised that he could have an Ireland that was free, independent and self governing, and still inclusive. That the dreams of little children were no more or less legitimate, just because of their faith background, or their families' history, or the sins of their parents. In American law, there is a phrase that comes from the 18th century, called "corruption of the blood", that the sins of the parents used to be visited on their children, and their grandchildren, and their great grandchildren, and we specifically prohibited that; easy to say, hard to do. He was trying to do it.
Most of the publicity Martin got as a politician was the very absurd notion that he actually got along with Ian Paisley. I thought it great that he got a word in edgeways, I never could! But the thing I think he was proudest of that I loved to listen to him talk about, and we talked about it again three years ago this month when we walked across the bridge here with John Hume, was when he became education minister in the transitional government. His first budget recommended a more than generous allocation in aid to the poorest schools in the protestant neighbourhoods, because he thought those children would be just as a crippled by ignorance as catholic children would, and that the only way out of poverty, and the only way to give people the emotional space to live together, work together, and share the future together, is if they could have the dignity of a decent job, and the empowerment of knowing they can take care of their families and give something more to their children. I could tell he was proud as punch with himself. Normally it's not a good thing to be proud of yourself but I think if there's a secret category of things you can be proud of, taking care of the children of people with whom you had been at odds is surely on that small list."
So that's what he did, he persevered, and he prevailed. He risked the rejection of his comrades and the wrath of his adversaries. He made honourable compromises and was strong enough to keep them, and came to be trusted because his word was good. And he never stopped being who he was; a good husband, a good father, a faithful follower of the faith of his father and mother, and a passionate believer in a free, secure, self-governing Ireland. The only thing that happened was: he expanded the definition of "us" and shrank the definition of "them".
The world in every period of insecurity faces a new wave of tribalism. If you really came here to celebrate his life, and to honour the contribution of the last chapter of it, you have to finish his work, a great son of Derry. Our friend Seamus Heaney in his Nobel prize speech, said that the secret of his success was "deciding to walk on air against your better judgement". Believe me; when the people who made this peace did it, every single one of them decided to take a flying leap into the unknown against their better judgement. It's about the only thing aside from your faith and your love which makes life worth living.
Our friend earned this vast crowd today. Even more; he earned the right to ask us to honour his legacy by our living. To finish the work that is there to be done.
God bless you.
For Aunty Nuala: 'She was a woman painted in vivid colour', by nephew Joe Kelly
In 1973 we moved to the Australian town of Mildura. If you have never been to Mildura it is hard to explain. It sits as a desert outpost, marooned in a sea of red dust. In 1973 it was a frontier town full of frontier people – people looking for a new start or to forget an old life. By day the sun bleached all color from any life that pressed its way into the desert moonscape, by night the sandstorms stripped whatever was left. This is where we made our home.
Our years in Mildura made us used to people who existed in shades – people who were polite but reserved. People who told their stories in pauses, every exchange a trade of trust for detail. In simple terms, the people we had known were hard to know and hard to please.
In 1983, our father Des died and life’s crazy tide delivered us back to Ireland – to Galway. Nothing in our life to date had prepared us for our Aunty Nuala. She was a woman painted in vivid colour. A woman of stories and history and trust and love. A smoke tinged, brandy wielding character who, to us, looked like she could better Hemmingway in a bar fight and delight in telling you the tale. Someone who said what she meant and meant every word of what she said. To our mum she was the fearless older sister, to us a protective auntie who helped us navigate a new and unfamiliar town.
Nuala found us in a state of disrepair. We had lost our father and lost the only home we knew. Nuala was a skilled nurse who had for her entire life selflessly tended to the pain of others. What is amazing about Nuala is that she did this while holding nothing back. To us, as to countless others, Nuala gave fully and unconditionally. Intuitively she gave us space when we needed it and was the first to offer a shoulder to cry on. She had a press that housed an unending supply of sweets and crisps. She was magic.
Her throaty laugh is probably what we will miss the most. That and her wild tales of her wilder youth in London, a footloose fancy-free nurse chasing adventure down every street. She’ll remain in our memories a woman naturally full of vivacity, hilarity and gusto, a woman who loved bigger than anyone we have ever known, who poured that love into those around her. And we’ll be forever grateful that she was part of our family and we were part of hers. We will be forever grateful that she shared with us her greatest loves – Tom and David. We will love her and miss her. But we will never forget her.