The Late Tom Lundy The death of the late Tom Lundy has closed a chapter in history of the little village in which he lived and of which he was so proud. He was the oldest man of his generation and the last to go, as all his compares had long departed. Tom came of a family with deep roots in his community. He remembered the days of his youth and the stories told by grandparents and the old people existed, roads were bad, schools were cold, and children of the time went bare footed to knox and Banada. However Tom grew up in a village which though poor had become self-sufficient after the initial recovery from the great flu in 1918 which had troubled every home. Villages like Cloongoonagh, had learned to become self sufficient in Tom's young days. The emphasis was on survival and at an early age he learned how to sow, and plant the land, fish the rivers, and catch game. He became very good at all these skills in his youth and in later years, all anyone had to do who needed information, was ask Tom. A football was hard to come by in those days, but Tom was always where there was one, and all his life there was the excitement of a small boy in his eyes when playing, or in later years attending matches. It could be said that he lived for the game. He had an intense interest in the local club and supported it to the very last. On his last journey up the hill to the church his fellow clubmates bore him shoulder high, a tribute to the supporter they all loved so well. There was nothing worldly about Tom. He could as easily leave the field of hay to the elements on a Sunday as not when there was a match on. He lived for the hour, the day and as long as God gave him. He spent nineteen of his married years in England where most of his family was born. In the seventies he returned to Cloongoonagh set up house and resumed farming. While he was away, many of his friends had gone to other parts and though he missed them sorely he took up the old life where he had left off. He raised cattle, trained dogs, walked the bogs, in search of game, fished the rivers, played cards and visited Aclare. Everybody like Tom, that tall kind grey haired man, of few but kind words. He was always conscious of his roots and the past, and only a few months back when a memorial was being raised to the memory of those in unmarked graves in the old cemetery in Banada, he asked to have the name of an aunt of his who as a young girl of fifteen years, was killed from a fall from a load of turf being brought from the Knox bog in 1915. He felt that after all those long years forgotten in the folds of time she should be remembered and so she was. Tom was good family man who cherished his children, who, with all others remember him with love. May he rest in peace. Courtesy of the Western People 31st December 2003 Tweet

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