Dads Eulogy. His Name was Manus. Not Magnus. Not Manley. Not Mallice. Nor Mansun, nor Mason. Not even Mavis. From the latin word for hand, the complexity of a name, simultaneously provided an equal measure of both amusement and bafflement. What can’t be in doubt is the qualities and strengths. The characteristics and traits. A modicum of style but a barrel full of substance. He was principled but fair - No black, no white, no orange nor green. Just equals. He had courage - Leaving his home and family to move to England. He sailed but couldn’t swim. Later took lessons in his 40’s. Claustrophobic but crawled through pot holes Carrying the coffin on his own of his second born son. He was a doer, not a talker. Steady. Solid and reliable. A fixer. A go too guy. A brother to four, A husband to one. A Godfather. A Cousin and an uncle to many. A Father to two sons. A Horsham Grandad to three boys. A friend to countless. And a brother in more sense that one. A brother to his Catenian brethren. But to all, a gentleman. A man of integrity. Normally with a plan on the go. A research topic. A holiday, a world the round trip with this siblings., logistics and organising where his thing. A man of simple pleasures. Simple tastes. No fuss, no frills. Port, cheese and mayonnaise with everything. He was industrious – Built a bike with his brothers, the only way to get something that they couldn’t afford and made the first toy he remembered to play with, two sticks called pickie. Pretty much worked on and off from the age of 8. A farm, a shop, a breadvan, a fish and chip van, a pub, helping with the boarders. He didn’t need to preach about hard work merely show it in his ways not words. A boy who more often than not didn’t go to school, later said working in Nigeria and Abu Dhabi was his education. Seeing what others endured made him grateful for his lot. His name was Manus And he thought of Others. Kind of heart and a generosity of spirit. There was a willingness to do something for others. Nothing was a problem, no questions asked. Not even a 9am phone call from a parish sister on a Saturday to come and put a tent up. Breakfast for others in a kitchen in Kerr Street, Portrush. An Ulster fry for those organising a raft race in aid of the RNLI. If you needed him, he was there. He asked of Others more than talking about himself. Enquiring about their health, their form. Phoning to talk to him and Mum, I’d end up telling them all about Lindsey and our boys. He loved to both hear and see them. His modesty would probably have been uncomfortable with this as it revolved around him. A tactile man, never walking past us without extending a finger or a hand. Just a brief touch almost to let you know he cared. A gentle bump of heads, a simple pat on the knee. He simply loved his family. His name was Manus And he was a man of faith. Faith in god. Faith in his beliefs. In later years he would tell me that in times of struggle, when he felt behind his right ear go tight, saying the Our Father silently to himself was the remedy. He personified the serenity prayer, accepting the things he couldn’t change, trying to change those things he could, and somehow distinguishing between the two. Philosophical and not sweating the small stuff. His mantra…I just don’t think about it. But faith extended beyond God and it also brought friendship. He spent time in this church, this parish and his Circle. Be it his turn on the count, driving the minibus run for the elderly parishioners to come to mass or waving goodbye to 4th Horsham Scout group parents that he, McKinney, Jerimiah, Ralph and Eade drove through Europe to Austria. This parish congregation welcomed our family, embraced him as it does so many who join it, a place for worship but also life long bonds. I hope Fr Aaron & Deacon Tom will forgive me when I say worship also extended to golf. From the Foley to the Benny, Cottesmore to Ifield, he needed no prompting nor coercing. There in a heart beat. The hardest part was deciding which of the bags, clubs or trolleys to bring. His sole indulgence. His name was Manus. And sometimes you could have often been forgiven for thinking he preferred animals to people. A lovely horse, a beautiful elephant, a giant giraffe. Captivated by wildlife but aghast at yappy dogs. A lover of country file and yearning for a goat for the garden. In his younger days he kept a pet hen. Chucky. When asked what he did with his feathered friend, his reply was “ well I sang to it”. Further enquiries were made as to what was sung. The reply “Bwark bwark bwark” was met with guaffing. He thought it was the best hen in Ireland as it lay two eggs a day. Little did he know his Mum Ellie added the second secretly. His family however couldn’t be trumped by anything. His name was Manus… And their names are Peter, Peggy, Paul and Hugh. The fantastic five, or as Mum calls them, “The 7 tribes of Mc Dermott”. Separated only by age. Geography tried, but they rose to the challenge, meeting in pretty much each continent as they went. England’s Lane, Sydney, Derrymacash, Montpellier Road, Mc Near Drive. The place irrelevant, the company the key. They were all like glue, with him in the middle. His Name was Manus. And her name is Sylvia. His reason to be. His forever friend. A partner, a lover, a wife and rock. The sun rose and set with her and the feeling was mutual. If he could have had one thing, she would have been it. In front or behind but nearly always by eachothers side. He was the protector, the gent, the constant and the guard. His only thoughts were for her, not himself. When you are young the closeness of ones parents can seem alien. When they kissed at the sign of peace in the very balcony before me, I knelt down and pretended to tie my laces. But as you get older you cherish they have eachother and admire their bond. To have loved and been married for over 49 years, together for even longer. Some example to follow. What I will always remember is the three of us laughing. Sniggering and jesting. The black Irish wit and the gallows humour. So many memories, spoilt by the choice. (end) His Name was Manus And he wanted to live. Right up to the end. Gazing intently at those around him. But in death as in life, his dignity still shone. Ironically, the man who made maps showed us the way. Whichever the path, what every the journey just move forward, just keep going. In the words of the Maquempee Brothers “head down and batter on”. Although tempting to indulge greed and wish we had him for longer, I am just grateful to have had him. Grateful doesn’t come close. Indebted perhaps. Proud to stand by him and to continue the family name. He once said to me “you don’t owe me anything”. My reply… “I owe you everything”. In his life, he was just happy with what he had. We should endeavour to do the same. To have been blessed with his company. His stability and his time. In the words of Christie Moore, “Ride on, see you, I could never go with you no matter how I wanted to. May his soul be at gods right hand.