Three departed friends in Tipperary village were part of life's rich tapestry

It is a fact of reaching 56 years of age that most of the adults who looked out for, and reprimanded, Anthony the child are deceased. Trips to the village memorial garden and graveyard provide ample evidence of this reality.

Narratives surrounding the deceased inevitably function as a catalyst for memories. In this regard, Anthony’s most mischievous act as a primary school student was to remove the hairpiece of a highly respected neighbour named Alfie McDermott. I can still recall the precise location, on what we call the boreen, where this scuffle took place. I was almost certainly responding to Alfie’s perennial teasing.

Fortunately, this incident did not prove to be an obstacle to the development of a warm relationship between perpetrator and victim in later years. On the contrary, during what transpired to be my final conversations with Alfie before he passed away, he was consistently affirming of me.

We had bonded despite my perpetrator status of the mid-1970s.

The softer childhood Anthony manifested itself when he paid regular visits to Margaret Norris. Tea and biscuits were supplied by an immaculately dressed hostess. Adorned typically by ornate brooches, Anthony and Margaret connected. Her shiny brooches projected an aura of mystique in the child’s vivid imagination. Possessing an innate gentleness, Margaret patiently accommodated my unyielding curiosity and unrelenting questioning.

Sadly, I lost touch with her for several decades. However, I was privileged to encounter a conversationally lively Margaret during her final days. During my visit she delighted in the antics of her cat fawning over her. I learned recently that Margaret’s husband Ned, who predeceased her, used to cultivate my grandparents’ acre with horse and plough. Stories of my mother’s trips to the Norris farm to collect milk have been a feature of conversations for as long as I can remember.

Another fact of reaching 56 is that the signs of vulnerability synonymous with the advancing age of neighbours have become more apparent to me. Baby steps with walking sticks and walkers replace fast walks, and seemingly effortless climbs over fences. Shuffling replaces lengthy strides. Sometimes, wheelchairs may be the only means of getting around safely.

Age-friendly house entrances such as ramps and handrails have become more commonplace. The ultimate sign is the addition of a downstairs bedroom in two-storey houses. This is an undoubted blessing, and it is typically accompanied by the installation of age-friendly showering facilities.

However, despite limited mobility and bouts of poor health, the tenacity and resilience of my aging parents and their neighbours remains intact. I can only admire their sense of stoical determination.

My friends and I agree that our parents are extraordinarily resilient. They were raised before rural Ireland benefitted from electrification and when water was sourced from wells and communal pumps.

Miles of walking across the countryside in search of kindling was a common activity. Vegetable gardens, poultry and pigs provided food and meat for families. The gruelling physical labour of harvesting crops such as turnips and potatoes were a taken-for-granted reality for many families. Rural Ireland’s modes of transport consisted of shanks mare, cycling or donkey and cart.

Nevertheless, this resilience can be both a friend and a foe, as balancing acts are managed between continued activism and the avoidance of accidents. For the children of elderly parents, the balancing act is often informed by the constant fear of potential worst case scenarios such as a severe fall or getting scalded with boiling water. It should also be noted that the boundary between resilience and stubbornness is usually blurred!

Drawing on my own caring experience, the most stressful moments were those when I made emergency calls for either my mother Mary (92) or Patrick (98). One late night 999 call which I made stands out.

Of course, there are clearly those moments when the fragilities of old age are crystallised. One such moment which concerned my mother’s severe deafness occurred over a decade ago. On entering the kitchen from the back garden, she stated that she could no longer hear the birds singing.

Another notable moment, of a different kind, concerns my neighbour of fifty years, Biddy Lonergan. She was a remarkable woman, not least for her generosity. Known for dressing stylishly, Biddy’s mode of transport for most of her life was a bicycle.

I loved the vibrancy and old world energy of her back garden. Possessing a nourishing relationship with the natural world, it was an entirely congruous sight to see Biddy working shovel and hoe. Biddy and nature were utterly at ease with each other’s company.

It was Biddy who provided me with an example of what I described earlier in this article as stoical determination. With clippers in hand, I observed her cutting the front hedge energetically on a balmy summer’s day. Biddy was in her late 80s and would soon pass away.

- (Dr Anthony O’Halloran, who hails from Ardfinnan, is a political scientist and author).