By Dipika Kohli

"Life is all memory," said playwright Tennessee Williams, "except for the one present moment that goes by you so quick you hardly catch it going."

West Cork's Tommy Barry celebrated his 60th wedding anniversary in June. He also had a birthday—on June 1, 2002, he turned 106.

Tommy Barry was born on June 1, 1896, in Cahir, Goleen. Gabhailin translates as "a little fork of the sea," and tucked on the tip of the Mizen Head peninsula, here waves crush against rocky cliffs. This is where Tommy Barry has spent almost all of his long life.

What, I wondered, could I say to a man who had lived longer than a century? What could it have been like to be alive in the early '20s, as young men like Michael Collins struggled for Ireland's independence? How did it feel to live through two world wars? To hear the news that a new kind of bomb had destroyed a city in Japan, bringing the world into the uncertainty of a nuclear age, at a time when the Barrys were expecting their third son?

'Hello, Mr. Barry,' I say, introducing myself to the oldest man in Ireland.

Tommy Barry is seated in a flower-patterned sofa chair in a far corner of the room, with family photographs and a line of books on the shelf beside him. There is a quiet calmness around him, a certain inner peace—it is apparent from the first minute we meet. He holds a tiny book in his hand.

A prayer book, wrinkled at the corners, and aged. 'He's always studying one of those,' says Mae Barry, his wife. From time to time, he looks up, either at the racing on television, or in an attempt to hear what's being said around him. 

'"You see, he's practically deaf," says Tommy Barry Junior. 'He can hardly hear anything.'

'I see.'

The elder Tommy Barry reads without glasses, intently concentrating on the text before him. After a time, he decides to make conversation.

'And who are you?'

I say my name, but he can't hear me. So I tell him again, louder. Then he leans towards me, tilting his ear in my direction. He catches my hand, it is soft and spread with creases. At once, I am transported to a time when I was very young. My grandfather, I remembered, once sat and spoke with me in this same way. 

'You'll have to speak a little louder.' So begins my conversation with a man of 106. 

Tommy Barry's mother died when he was 12. This left John Barry, his father, to run their farm. John Barry raised cattle, chicken and ducks. Always kept busy, along with his six children he also took care of his parents. The young Tommy Barry studied at Lissagriffin. When he was 11 years old, he watched as sailors climbed up the cliffs of the Mizen Head, making their way to land from their sinking ship, the Iruda. During the Great War cattle prices rose fourfold, which was fortunate for the Barry family. Food was scarce, however, during the World War II.

Tommy Barry had three brothers and two sisters. One brother and one sister went to live in America.

In a soft voice, Mae Barry tells me about their children, five sons and one daughter. She speaks fondly about times when she was younger, and smiles when I ask how she met her husband. 'We were neighbors and would have known each other for a long time,' she says quite matter-of-factly. The two were married on June 25, 1942. At that time, Mae was 20, and Tommy was 46.

In their first three years together, Mae gave birth to John, Tommy, and Tim. Richard was born in 1947, Mary in 1952, and their youngest, Kevin, in 1953.

Though to this day he has not been to Dublin, Tommy Barry made a trip to America once when he was 71 years old. A photograph shows him standing tall, a slim figure dressed to the fashion of the day. This was a visit to see his sister in New Bedford and it was the first time he had been in a foreign country. When two of his siblings left Ireland, did he even for a moment consider going abroad? Tommy Barry lifts his shoulders, and his voice is firm. 'Leave Ireland? Only for a visit.'
 For most of the year they live in Goleen, but summer is the time when Tommy and Mae are able to spend time with their children and grandchildren. Another of their sons lives in Cork. It is obvious that family means a lot to them, and as I learn more about their family ties, I can't help but be impressed by the great love they share between them.

An hour into our discussion, I remember again that calmness I noted in the elderly gentlemen when I first met him. Simply put, Tommy Barry is quite content. He isn't bothered about the things that most of us worry about from day to day, and he doesn't seem to have any regrets. Thinking about the good and bad times he's lived through, I wonder what advice he might have for young people of today.

'Advice?' He frowns slightly, then pauses for a long time. It might have been five minutes that passed, or it might have been 10. In that time, Mae Barry and I are respectful and attentive. Mae repeats the question to her husband, but Tommy Barry nods confidently. He heard the first time, and has understood perfectly.

'All the advice I'd give to anyone,' he begins, looking straight ahead and with great conviction in his blue-grey eyes, "is to say your prayers. Say your prayers. That's the best advice I could give 'em."

(For a complete history of Tommy Barry's life to date, highlighting stories of his wife, his godchildren, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, visit the Mizen Vision Visitor's Centre, on Harbour Road, Goleen. tel
+353.(0)28.35225, mizenvision@eircom.net. Special thanks to Moira Collins for her assistance with this story. You can reach Dipika Kohli at | +353.28.33175; dipika@design-kompany.com.)