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Tribute to Dr. Éamon Phoenix

by Francesca Ryan (Éamon’s niece)

Mummy didn’t have a lot of time for visitors. She was rearing four children aged under 6 with the conflict roaring outside – life was as hectic and frenzied as those circumstances demanded.

But she always made time for her beloved cousin Éamon.

When he came to visit, Éamon arrived bursting with yarns and recently uncovered facts he couldn’t wait to share, and a much-needed injection of serenity to neutralise the chaos.

“I won’t stay long, Marie,” he’d jovially announce as he padded nimbly down the hall in his distinctly respectful gait, using his hand to settle his mop of dark Phoenix hair into that trademark side shade.

Nobody believed that – not even him.

In mummy, a QUB history graduate with the discipline surging through her veins, Éamon had the ideal audience. She heard. She listened. She queried. She debated. She taught him as much as he taught her – as the descendants of a family of proud educators should. She adored him and his company, and the feeling was clearly reciprocated.

And we, even as kids, were enthralled by him. He was the learned, wise uncle who mesmerised us with his knowledge of old stories and mystical places, like a fascinating character you’d read about in an enchanting book and wish you knew one – we knew one.

Invariably, he’d be there many hours later as he and mummy put the world to rights on centuries of bloody, rebellious and tragic Irish history diluted with the joyous stories of their “ancestral earth”, as Éamon preferred to call it, in his soft lilting tone.

Indeed, all chats led to their ancestral earth – Laurencetown and its encompassing lanes, fields and tributaries. Drumnascamph, Lenaderg, Kernan Lake, Elmfield, the old school house, Broken Bridge Road. The Feeneys. The Conlons. The McCartans. These were the names of the people and places that made Éamon and mummy glow with a delight we didn’t fully understand. It was a genetic pride stemming from being members of that community they adored.

As direct descendants of the village’s revered Phoenix clan, son and daughter of Jim and Rosaleen respectively, their place at this historic round table of Laurencetown’s forefathers was assured.

How proud they were when a plaque to the family was unveiled at the site of the Ballylough National School (Phoenix’s School) in the brilliance of a July evening sun in 2014. The tribute by Tullylish Historical Society cemented the status of their ancestors in the annals of West Down history. An acknowledgement of the significant contribution of the Phoenix family to the area and its schooling.  Presbyterian educators who kept the Irish language alive and worked towards its advancement – a legacy we all cherish.

As a family, we had an enviable vantage point for decades as we witnessed, spellbound, Éamon animated and full of life on our brown velvet sofa. The sofa would be replaced, the house redecorated, the children got older, but the chorography never changed. Éamon would call and everything else would stop.

“I won’t stay long, Marie.”

And there they would be hours later – still talking. Bringing history to life. Bringing each other to life.

And it wasn’t restricted to the home visits. Days out that will live long in our memories range from Éamon’s wedding to his beloved Alice, to his captivating tours of Friars Bush Graveyard we attended as children. These were events that took us out of the west and into south Belfast, where even as kids we knew something was different. The vibe was more relaxed, or was that just Éamon’s natural ability? Hard to tell.

We recall the day he brought mummy a copy of his book Northern Nationalism, which was perched proudly on display in our house long after it was published. They shared an unbreakable bond, entwined with blood and history. From their own memories of sword-fighting as kids at Dundrum Castle to the many day trips as teens to Ballyhornan in our daddy’s Hillman Imp car, the stories were as riveting as they were endless.

Nothing could stop them sharing their memories and knowledge – not even Covid. Throughout Covid mummy would eagerly dial into Eamon’s virtual lectures, always quietly proud when he mentioned his cousin was in the audience. And then there were the Covid phone calls. On one occasion she had Éamon on the phone for a few hours “telling me ghost stories from our ancestral earth”. It’s difficult to imagine a better way to spend a lockdown, and as many people who heard that story proclaimed, “You’d pay for that experience!”.

In July 2022, Éamon played a key role at mummy’s funeral, as was befitting of their relationship. Across those dark days, he brought his warmth and light and kept mourners fascinated with his chat, visitors to the house making a de facto queue for a chance to speak with him.

Several weeks later he took us to Laurencetown for what would be our one last time there together. An historic day, as it happened, with the passing of the British Queen. Our lives with Éamon bookended by history, as he would have wanted.

A light went out

Another two short months later, a light went out. His gentle, kind soul followed mummy and all the generations of Phoenixes that went before them. He is undoubtedly strolling through Heaven, telling stories, asking questions, making notes and absorbing all the information from any relatives and friends he didn’t get to quiz while here on Earth. Mummy, Daddy and the Hillman Imp nearby.

And like a true Phoenix from the ashes, Eamon’s spirit and energy will forever rove our ancestral earth that he cherished so much.