February 11, 2022- Tim Lynch was the biggest kid in the room, and lit up that room as soon as he entered. He was one of those who held that “Close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes”-with the caveat that no one ever even think of bringing the former anywhere near his place. Horseshoes, the game, was a different matter, and each Labour Day weekend, for at least the seven years of my adolescence, the extended family found its way to the backyard of Tim and Margie Lynch. I got close several times, and may have even landed a ringer, or two, but Uncle Timmy almost always piled his shoes around the stake.
He was a classic Irish boyo, roguish in a way, but always a man’s man. He knew the value of hard work, and gave his best in his chosen occupation. Once the party started, though, Tim gave that his best as well. Whether in the small backyard in Lynn, Massachusetts or at the beach in either Seabrook or Salisbury, any time spent with Uncle Tim and Aunt Margie was the highest form of memorable.
He was also a man of character. When one of my cousins made snarky comments about another relative, Tim shot the kid down, posthaste. His love for his family was never more clear, on the day when one of his daughters and her little family were left homeless, after one of the worst apartment fires in Lynn’s history. When it was necessary to crowd into the house for a while, that’s what was done. The shattering moment of his beloved wife’s untimely passing, in 2000, brought a change in his demeanor, and the parties became quieter, less frequent-but he never lost his love of life.
Timothy D. Lynch was one of the last of my paternal uncles by marriage. He left the Blessed Mess behind, very early this morning, but he also left us with two sons and two daughters -having taught them to be nobody’s fools and to carry themselves proudly. He taught his nieces and nephews to never look down their noses at anyone-especially not at ourselves. Rest in Paradise, Unk.