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Martin Carey


Albany House, Mulranny, Co Mayo

Martin Carey was born in Thurles, Co Tipperary on April 2, 1945, to Joseph and Gretta Carey. He grew up in a family of eight. Martin met his wife Maureen in Manchester and married in July 1965. They lived in Manchester until December 1969 when they decided to return to Mulranny, Co Mayo. Martin became part of the local community through work and making life long friendships. He built the family home in 1970 where he raised his family of nine and continued to live to this day. His work included building houses, schools and one of his proudest projects, a church named Our Lady of the Valley in Achill Island. He was a founding member of the Order of Malta, Mulranny branch. He was also a member of the Civil Defence for many years. He enjoyed playing the drums as a member of the local Mulranny pipe band. As a neighbour, he was always ready to help if needed.
Having raised his family of nine and embracing retirement, Martin enjoyed his greenhouse where he spent most of his time growing vegetables and experimenting with new varieties of tomatoes and roses. His love of cars and engines throughout the years was a hobby he always enjoyed. Ballroom dancing was one of Martin’s favourite pastimes, he earned the nickname ‘twinkle toes’ in the locality. Martin’s love of his family shone throughout the years and he was always there for each and everyone of his children. No task was ever too big or too difficult. Martin’s life and dedication to his wife and family and how his family felt about him can be best depicted with the following poem.

Stop the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead. Scribbling on the sky the message, he is dead.
Put crepe bowls around the white necks of the public doves.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was our North, our South, our East, our West, Our working week and our Sunday rest.
Our noon, our midnight. Our talk, our song.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

We’ll love you forever.