It's hard to believe that we said good-bye to Bill five whole years ago. Half a decade! We miss him a lot. Five years ago, I meant to post the eulogy that I gave for him, but I never got around to it. And every year since. So here it is, my completely inadequate attempt to describe what he meant to us:
In the spring of 2007, Mark and I decided we would get married, quit our jobs, get rid of 90 percent of our possessions, and move to Dublin, a place he had been telling me for three years that he absolutely hated. When I agreed to move here, I had never even been to Dublin. And I had also never met Mark's parents, Bill and Joyce. I didn't know what I was getting myself into or whether I was making a huge mistake to leave my home and my family to care for these strangers. Before the big move, Bill used to ring us and leave voicemails saying, 'Don't come! We're heading into a recession -- you're better off where you are!' But we didn't listen.
When I walked through the door of 19 Quarry Road for the first time, I found two lovely and colourful characters there to greet me and accept me into their family. We fell into their routines as much as we could -- there were Thursday and Sunday night outings to the Homestead while Mark played pitch and putt with Bill every Saturday morning in summer.
We came, not just for those final moments as both Bill and Joyce passed on, but for the precious years we got to spend with them. For being near enough to pop in to fix the telly and go with them to doctor's appointments. And for the special outings, the birthday dinners, Leopardstown, the Christmases and Stephens's Days in the pub, clearing out their back garden, trips to the cinema, swapping books. We tried to buy them fancy gadgets and furnishings to make them warm and comfortable, though it was always a gamble whether they'd use them. We listened to their stories with delight, no matter how many times we'd heard them before. And all of it was definitely worth every single thing we gave up in America.
After Joyce died last year, we realised pretty quickly that Bill was lost on his own, so we asked what he thought of the idea of us moving in. He said sure, no problem. But there kind of was a small problem: I delicately explained that we wouldn't be able to all live in the house without fairly extensive renovations. "Do what you want," he said, "You have Carte Blanche! And I'll do the decent thing and die as soon as possible." For the next three months we proceeded to basically gut his house of 20 years in order to put in central heating, new floors, a new kitchen, and the ridiculous amount of stuff we managed to accumulate over only eight years. And Bill never complained about the chaos, not once. He happily read his books outside while we filled skip after skip with bits of his house, and when we arranged his things in the back bedroom, he acted as though it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him, even though he was the one giving up his bedroom for us.
We will remember Bill for his ability to bring levity to nearly any situation. In A&E, a female doctor asked him, 'Have you been falling lately?' to which he immediately replied, 'Well, I'm falling for you!' You couldn't beat his dark sense of humour, even at the end. If I started quoting all of Bill's best one-liners, we'd be here all day but it would certainly be the funniest eulogy anyone's ever heard.
We will remember Bill's energy. He worked most of his life as a mover, and when he retired at the age of 70, he took up wind surfing. He loved being on the water, and sailing was another great passion. Despite having a physically demanding job, he found the time and energy to pursue his many other interest.
We will remember Bill for his unique turns of phrase, even if most of the time he was actually quoting a classic. Although the overflowing bookshelves drove Joyce mad, he read constantly. He especially read books about war. I've thought a lot about why that was, and I've decided that Bill was fascinated by war because of how horrifying he found it. I think he found all conflict a very unsavoury thing indeed, which might be one reason so many people enjoyed his company.
Before I close, I want to especially thank our friends and family who visited Bill in hospital this past month while myself and Mark were away. I hope you were able to see a bit of the Bill we knew and loved so much. I want to thank Billy Perkins for being the best brother-in-law to Bill anyone could ask for, and I want to thank Bill's niece Mary for being with us during those last hours.
After we lay both Bill and Joyce Tyndall to rest this morning in Glasnevin, please join us in the Homestead on Quarry Road for a bite to eat.
Bill would probably want me to end with his most often-used line, 'Well, it only remains to bid a fond farewell!' But instead, I'll actually end by quoting Bill quoting Charles Dickens: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."
