By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.

When we were making the funeral arrangements for my dad’s requiem mass and committal, Friday the 13th emerged as the first available date, but I didn’t baulk at it. A date with such negative connotations was fitting. How could anything be positive on the day I would publicly say goodbye to my father?

As it was, it was a lovely day and the reality is, I have been saying goodbye to Dad since the moment he took his last breath. The ceremony is just another part of that. And it went well. Well… as well as these things can.

My four siblings and I met Dad at his home and the hearse was taken from there towards the chapel. As is the tradition where Dad is from in Ireland, we, along with the grandchildren, great children and other family and friends, walked behind my dad’s hearse to the chapel where he could then be gently carried inside. There was a lovely mass for Dad in St Gabriel’s, which has witnessed our family make holy communions and first confessions, and even marry. It’s where Mum and Dad took us every Sunday. Afterwards, we took Dad to the Hurlet crematorium (although I will never be able to think about what happens there) and had a lovely service there with the Priest, featuring some of Dad’s favourite music – Daniel O’Donnell’s The Old Rugged Cross, Jim Reeves I Won’t Forget You and, of course, for the man who came to Glasgow in search of work because he loved Celtic; Gerry and The Pacemakers, You’ll Never Walk Alone.

At the service, my older brother carefully read a eulogy I had written on behalf of the family with their blessing (which I will post below) and I read a poem.

This poem is important to me, and I am sure it will also resonate with others from a similar background. The first time I heard it, I immediately thought of my beautiful Daddy. It was written by the late great Seamus Heaney, and is called Digging. Heaney wrote it about his father and grandfather, and the poem speaks to the Irish tradition of working in agriculture, and also of the rich heritage and history of the landscape and how that is embedded in generations, regardless of whether the land is worked or the pen is used to cement rebellion and culture. At its simplest, it depicts Heaney recollecting a moment he watched his own father digging in the garden; an action that goes on to remind Heaney of his grandfather working the land.

I have similar memories of my dad digging up spuds in our back garden. Like Heaney, I was able to link this to my grandfather ploughing his land in Ireland, and bringing us freshly picked spuds from the field for dinner. I grow spuds, but I can’t dig in the way either of these men did. But I can, and do, write, and in my words, I will continue to find ways to keep Dad’s memory alive. Because, not being alive in my heart is no option at all.

My siblings and I will be bringing Dad home to that land soon, where the field was ploughed and the spuds were dug and shared with us children, ‘Loving their cool hardness in our hands’. To you it might be just a spud, but to me, it’s my culture; my roots; my very existence was unearthed in hard physical work that laid the foundations for future generations of our family. I look forward very much to bringing Dad home to rest in that space, alongside Mum.

Here’s a little insight into Michael McCuaig, 1933-2024. My daddy.

It’s hard to sum up our dad in a few words. He will tell you he was an ordinary man, but there was so much about him that was extraordinary.

Dad was born in Rathlin Island, in Ireland, in November 1933, on the 4^th of the month. Or the 1^st – depending on whether we are to believe his birth certificate or our granny. He was the second eldest of six children born to Mickey and Lily McCuaig, his elder brother, also Michael, having died the year before Dad was born.

In his younger days, Dad worked on the farm with his father, and as an assistant lighthouse keeper on the island, both perfect settings for the many ghost stories he terrified us with throughout the years.

When Dad was eighteen, he travelled to Scotland in search of work. Despite growing up on an island in Ireland, he knew all about Celtic and was a big fan, and so he headed to Glasgow. It was here, in 1952, that he met our mother, Margaret Maguire, at the F & F’s ballroom in Partick. Dad tells the story of spotting mum at the dancing and knowing she was the woman he would marry. Sporting his pioneer pin, he accompanied Mum home that night, fittingly across the water, on the Renfrew ferry. They married in October 1954, and spent their honeymoon on Rathlin, travelling on the overnight ferry from the Broomielaw to Belfast on their wedding night. 

Like many Irishmen, Dad started work on the railways. After serving his time as a railway signal fitter he moved into sales, where he remained in management for the duration of his career, meaning we always benefited from his annual shiny new car, making us the poshest family in the scheme we grew up in.

Mum and her family were also Celtic fans and so began the ritual of going to the football as a community. Dad loved Celtic – and Jock Stein – and while we don’t have time to go into detail on that –we will pause to tell you about the time he sneaked into Ibrox for a game against Celtic. After scouting the area for a while, Dad had a plan. As the St John’s Ambulance crew lifted a stretcher to take it into the ground, with calmness, Dad grabbed a handle and off he went. Into the stadium. We won, no doubt thanks to the luck of the Irish! Dad was described by a cousin as ‘the calm that balanced the Maguire chaos and noise’, so his demeanour wasn’t just useful for free entry to the football.

And yet in many ways he was as far from calm as you could imagine. He was full of high jinks and hilarity, endlessly teasing us as children, finding it hilarious to tell our friends we weren’t home if they phoned or called at the door. But as a father of five, he had time for each and every one of us, ensuring we all felt special and heard. He read us a bedtime story every night. Or should we say the bedtime story – The Three Billy Goats Gruff – from memory, with actions, every night, for our entire childhood. We really did live happily ever after, thanks to Dad.

Holidays to Rathlin were always full of adventure, and once a little anger when he relented one year and bought us an expensive dinner on board the ferry, which we all threw up one by one. He couldn’t stay annoyed for long though, as this was a father who deeply loved his children, faults and all.

But he wasn’t just a father. As a youngster he relished playing football on Rathlin – there was a tremendous rivalry when the Cuddins faced the Furrins (the lower end of the island against the upper end). His team, the Cuddins always won. Or so he said… He was also an athlete – he was proud to have run a four minute mile in Germany, not long after Roger Bannister got the credit for breaking the record. But his fitness was cruelly taken when he was knocked down in the street, having just secured entry to Glasgow University. He survived the horror crash that almost killed him but lived with a crippling disability that left him in constant pain throughout his life. Pain he never complained about.

Dad might not have made the news when he ran his four minute mile but he certainly broke the mould when he became the first Catholic President of Cathcart Bowling Club. Dad did like to make, and sometimes break, the rules. After all, he was a sergeant during his national service! He had a fun side to his voice too, working as a part time bingo caller when we were young. He excelled in this role too. He was Kelly’s Eye, in everyone’s eyes. 

It was all part of his character. What else could we expect from a man who drove a Norton motorbike, with our mum perched in the side-car like something from the movies. This was a man who pulled off his safari suit and sideburns like no other in the seventies, his Irish accent giving him a certain James Bond demeanour.

And bond sums him up. Dad stuck to us, and Mum, like glue. He never gave up on any of us, and in this past year, as carers and nurses visited, we sat back and listened as he regaled them with stories about his beloved family. He really did think the world of us. And Mum. He adored her, and in the last couple of years of her life he protected her and cared for her in a manner that will make us forever proud of him. He did this while in considerable pain himself.

And so, to the reason we are gathered here.

On the 26^th of November, after four weeks in hospital, Dad took his final breath exactly one year and one week after Mum. Today, is exactly one year and one week since we held Mum’s funeral service and it is both heartbreaking and joyous to have you join us again. It was a privilege to have a year with Dad as we mourned our mother. He drew strength from having his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren around him; and we gathered strength from him. Our children and grandchildren adored ‘Granddad Michael’ and we hope we can find strength to comfort them as they navigate this loss too.

Dad was 91 years old. Yes, a long life. But as someone who was the core of our family, it’s going to be a challenge to adjust to life without him.

It is time to return our thoughts to home. Dad was proud of the way Mum embraced Rathlin. Like Dad, she wanted to return there after her death. So, just a few months ago, we travelled with Dad to lay her to rest on our farmland on Rathlin. It was a difficult trip for us all, but especially Dad, who was saying goodbye to the woman he had loved for 72 years. As much as that trip was traumatic for Dad he loved it too, and we smiled and listened as he sat at the window, sharing memories of his times on the island. Amazing, was the word he repeatedly used. But he was the one that was amazing. 

Now, with incredible sadness, we prepare to make that journey again. In a final act, we will be taking Dad home to Rathlin, to Mum, where together they can rest, in love and in peace. They will be missed, but never forgotten. And today, especially, we ask you to remember our beloved father. Dad always said he was so lucky to have been blessed with a loving family. But, Dad, we hope you knew. We were the lucky ones.