“Here is the test to find whether your mission on Earth is finished:  If you’re alive, it isn’t” (Richard Bach)

“How will I be remembered?” is a looming question that finds its way into the mind of every person with the privilege to age.  To know that we were loved and will be missed is the last remnant of our humanity, an imprint that we will leave behind to remind the world that we were here as our bodies turn to dust.

Such is the case with a man named Martin Fallon, an Irish immigrant who had long ago left the familiar surroundings of his childhood home in Sligo to follow the diaspora to a new life in North London.  In Martin’s era, young men most often followed the path that was neatly set before them, which was to finish school if the fates allowed, find a job that was honest and dependable, and to win the hand of a woman who would become your wife and mother to your children.  It was a traditional pathway that would see its rewards revealed in generations to come. 

Except that Martin didn’t follow the road travelled by so many before him.  He remained a lifelong bachelor and childless, a salt of the earth type of man who retired after years of working his dependable jobs.  Bachelorhood didn’t have the cache then that it has enjoyed in more recent years, a lifestyle of choice and a willingness to remain uncoupled. Instead, unmarried men of Martin’s generation most often remained circumspect of their position, sowing seeds of friendship within the community and maintaining the bonds of familial ties, even if they were at a geographical disadvantage.  Life was foreseeable and steady, and predictable in its comfort. The daily smiles that were shared in the town square were an unspoken assurance that someone would be there to help in a time of need. 

When Martin died in May of 2025, a local merchant posted a handwritten notice along with a timeworn photo of him on their storefront window, announcing the details of his approaching funeral for those who would want to pay their respects.  A local woman passing by took a photo of the notice and posted it to social media, along with a nostalgic message of how many of the “old boys from Ireland” were “slowly dying out.”  The area had changed significantly from its Irish heyday, and she wanted to pay homage.  The post quickly went viral, with the message misconstrued to infer the notice was seeking any living relatives of Martin’s who may not know that he had died.  In the end, Martin had a funeral that was dignified if not smaller than most Irish send-offs, but he was properly remembered by those who cared. 

If you’d like to read Martin’s final notice, enjoy and raise a glass of cheer:  How the death of an ‘old boy from Ireland’ in London-Irish suburb sparked a misguided viral appeal – The Irish Times

Decades ago, when I worked at my first job in NYC, I met a very unique man in the lobby of the building.  I had become accustomed to the bustle of the morning commute, knowing who to nod to as I grabbed my coffee and who to hold the elevator door for as I rode up the floors of the skyscraper.  On this morning, an elderly gentleman, impeccably dressed and short in stature yet large in personality, seemed to appear out of nowhere and said hello.  His pace was leisurely, that of a man who didn’t seem to have a care in the world or what time the lobby clock was showing.  Instead, we exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes after he introduced himself and then asked an unusual question for a first-time acquaintance.  “What day were you born?” the twinkle in his eye genial enough not to cause concern, and as I was young enough at the time to be his granddaughter, I didn’t see the harm in the indulgence.  We exchanged our final pleasantries and went on with our day.

The next morning there was a small box left for me at reception.  Inside was a glass paperweight of a Ram, the symbol for my zodiac sign.  Along with it was a scribbled note on plain white paper, with handwriting faint and slightly askant that said, “Remember you’re a Ram.  You’re strong enough.”  I never saw that delightful leprechaun of a man again, and since he was in his 80’s at the time of our meeting, he’s long since departed from this earth.  I can’t recall his name, but I can remember the white bushy mustache that adorned his upper lip and the incredible message of hope he gave to me that day.  My “Ram” paperweight has followed me throughout the years, moving with me in a box that contains my personal effects, and among cherished letters and pressed flowers, taking a place of honor in my home wherever that has been.  It reminds me that even in my weakest moments, I’m strong enough.

The remembrance of our lives will be as unique as the life we lived.  For some, a large family will remain behind, with our stories being regaled for generations to come. For others, the imprint will be less remarkable; kind words and fading memories will linger for a while until all that is left is an etched headstone with a name, or ashes that have been scattered to the wind on a cherished parcel of a former life.  What matters is that we will be remembered, if only for one kind act to one appreciative person. 

The poet Maya Angelou once said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”