Uncle John

My Uncle John a.k.a. Fr Louis O’Dwyer died at lunchtime today.

He grew up in London but was evacuated to Galway during World War II which gave him a mixed accent. Irish people thought he was English and in England people instantly thought he was Irish. To me he sounded like John Cleese. 

Ordained a priest in the Benedictine Order, he studied in Douai Abbey in Belgium before returning to England to teach philosophy in an all-boys boarding school in Cheltenham.  He played rugby for Belgium, earned two PhDs in philosophy with a keen interest in the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger and spoke 11 languages including Hebrew and Russian.  When I asked why Hebrew, he laughed and told me it helped him understand the bible better.

When I was getting married, we did not want a mass as part of the ceremony but met huge opposition from the conservative elements in both families.  Uncle John did everything he could to accommodate our wishes.  He said that the mass was not actually part of the marriage ceremony but despite his sweet manner and his considerable diplomatic skills they refused to be persuaded.  We caved and included the mass.  Uncle John however, got the last word.  As part of his speech in the church he said, “You Catholics in Ireland.  It’s like those people who want chips with everything, so it is with some Catholics and mass; you feel the occasion is incomplete without it.”   At the end of the church ceremony, Uncle John turned to our guests and announced, "And now they are married, let's give them a big clap."  I loved that part.  The conservative elements of the family didn't approve of that either.

On Valentine’s Day in 1994, my uncle in Cork died.  Uncle John officiated at the funeral.  This uncle and aunt holidayed every summer in West Cork and loved having visitors.  Uncle John told us all the story of how at the end of one such visit, my cousin, Kathleen Anne presented my aunt with a huge potted plant.  Kathleen Anne’s boyfriend, not wishing to leave out my uncle, dashed out to the porch and returned with a cactus.  We held our breath.  Uncle John continued, “And you know, to the world, Arthur was sometimes like a cactus; prickly and difficult to get to know.”  We laughed. 

One of his favourite stories from his time as Parish Priest in Cheltenham was when a retired Major rang him on the telephone.  “Padre,” said the Major, “what’s the drill?  Got to bury the wife. Dead you know.”

Uncle John loved all my jokes even the rude ones.  The last time I saw him was in May 2018.  My mother and I travelled over to Reading to join our English cousins in celebrating his birthday in a pub garden near his monastery.  Sitting under an oak tree beside a busy canal on an absolutely stunning summer’s day, I whispered to him my latest joke about an Irish couple adopting a German baby girl.  He loved it.

Mum told me he took his vow of poverty seriously and handed over his monthly teaching salary to the monastery.  He was always putting other people first and had the gift of making the vulnerable feel heard.  

Uncle John was easy to be with, he was always pleasant company.    All his nieces and nephews loved him even those that were completely disaffected by the church.  He took an interest in everybody which made it easy for people to relate to him.

I will miss him.