Following is a tribute to Michael McMorrow on a facebook page by his son and grandson (both also named "Michael")

Posted by grandson.

"He was born on the tumultuous border between the newly formed Irish Free State, and by six more Irish counties on the northern side - into a tiny cabin in a rural part of Ireland. Descended from the Irish Nationalist hero, Sean MacDiarmada, he’d need that radical hot revolutionary blood in his veins to persevere through his earliest years ahead.

From what I know, his early childhood was a happy one, though one of considerable poverty and challenge. He painted a little bit of that experience for me - speeding down a bumpy country lane atop a shoddy bicycle with no brakes - him on the front and his brother on the rear - using his bare foot pressed against its tire to control for speed. His father ran a country store that supported a half-dozen children, packed like sardines into a one-room stone hut, with a small loft where the children slept.

It was upon the arrival of his youngest brother that his mother died in childbirth. I recall my Grandfather telling me that the last he even heard from his father was when his dad called up to the children in the loft and said, “Goodbye, I love you, remember your prayers.”

My Grandfather, maybe six or eight, was then sent away to a notorious orphanage called St. Jospeh’s Industrial School in Salthill, Ireland in Galway. I don’t know much about his experience there, but I imagine it must have been a harrowing, hardening tenure, on top of what he’d already experienced.

It is my understanding that at the age of 14, an Uncle that had been exiled to America for robbing a train in the North, afforded my Grandfather the ability to leave the orphanage in Salthill for NYC. He joined the American Air Force, and while stationed in England, met my transcendent Grandmother. Together they moved to America, raised my six uncles and aunt in California, and fulfilled the tenets of the American Dream. It’s remarkable to think about.

While the interactions between the two of us were fewer than I’d have liked, we did get one memorable trip together in Ireland in 2015. Together with my Grandmother and Father we explored the village where my Grandfather grew up, near Kilty Clogher. We visited his childhood home and he shared narratives of a day in the life, like pointing out where the outhouse was. He referred to his father as “Daddy” - which I thought was sweet. We traversed to all of the local hotspots with the ferocity of a tempest - even pulling his younger brother out of the local pub for an impromptu photoshoot with a statue of Sean MacDiarmada. We climbed Thur Mountain - he rested halfway- but my Dad and I made it to the top and examined possible ancient Celtic religious symbols hand-carved into stone. From our lofty vantage I emulated 800 years of generations that came before me and offered a wistful glare across the border to Ulster. We prayed in churches in Glenfarne and Manorhamilton, and dipped our hands into the holy waters of Knock - where the Virgin Mary was said to have been spotted in 1879 alongside St. Joseph, John the Evangelist, Jesus - and a couple of resident angels. While in a local pub my Grandfather brazenly urged a group of young trad musicians to play the song “Lovely Leitrim” as he proudly belted out the lyrics like it was his personal national anthem.

He left us yesterday morning, sadly, but left surrounded by family. I regret that I didn’t have the opportunity to learn more about his life from the man that led it. But it was a life well-lived and the results are a testimony. It began with a difficult journey - but he ensured ensuing generations could traverse forward along a smoother road than the one he experienced, and are better positioned to obtain liberty and happiness in this life. I’m eternally grateful."