We are here today to honor my Dad, who passed away at 79 years old.

He was a quiet man. He didn’t talk much about himself, and he didn’t need attention or recognition. But his life spoke for him.

He served his country in Vietnam with courage and dedication, earning four Bronze Stars. He didn’t wear that service as a badge for praise. It was simply part of who he was—something he did because it needed to be done.

My parents built their life together in a way that speaks to both love and commitment. My father married my mother at the end of June, and just about three weeks later, he was on his way to Vietnam. Even so, they stayed connected through distance and time, and built something that lasted.

They met at a bowling alley—two lives crossing paths in a place that, fittingly, would remain part of their story.

Their life together was like bowling together for decades: sometimes strikes, sometimes gutters, but always side by side for the next frame.

From there, they built a life together. They raised a family, created a home, and built something strong and lasting—a loving family that became the center of everything.

They also had their adventures. They took road trips to Wisconsin and Florida, and enjoyed stopping at Big Boy restaurants along the way. And let’s just say GPS wasn’t around back then, so not every trip went exactly as planned.

There were bigger adventures too. One night, Dad surprised Mom by saying he had bought a Corvette online, and that they needed to fly down to pick it up and drive it home. Let’s just say that I’m still glad I wasn’t in the car for that ride back home.

At home, he was steady. He showed love in practical ways, not always with words. You could see it in what he provided, in his presence, and in the consistency of who he was.

Dad and Ron genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. They shared countless conversations, laughs, good times, and many pots of coffee together. Whenever I showed up somewhere without him, one of Dad’s first questions was usually, “Where’s Ron?” Sometimes I wondered if he was happier to see Ron than he was to see me.

Dad was also a bit of an instigator, and one of my favorite memories of him was at our wedding. When it came time to cut the cake, I playfully smashed the first bite into Ron’s face. I looked over at Dad and saw the biggest grin spread across his face. He was absolutely delighted. That mischievous smile said it all—he loved a good laugh and was always happy to encourage a little harmless trouble.

He showed up for his grandchildren. He was present in their lives through school events, activities, and everyday moments. Whether it was something big or small, if they were there, he was there too. That kind of presence becomes something children never forget. I remember when Nick was selected for the Disney College Program. My Dad was so excited and proud of him that he gave Nick such a big hug, he lifted him up off the ground. I hope Nick never forgets the feeling of that moment.

Dad didn’t have many hobbies, and he wasn’t someone who needed a lot of things to stay busy. But he had purpose. He worked, he provided, and he was there.

One time, he even stepped up to coach little league for my brother. That season didn’t exactly go as planned—my brother ended up breaking his arm and couldn’t play —but he still showed up and did what he could. That was who he was: he stepped in when needed.

And, well, he tried to help me with math, though it didn’t go very well. He didn’t have much patience for it, and I never really understood it. I usually ended up in tears, but looking back, it wasn’t really about the math anyway.

What stands out most now is not just what he did, but how he did it. He was strong and a fighter, often coming back from illnesses that doctors were uncertain he would survive. He didn’t know how to quit.

He showed discipline and quiet strength. He kept going when it would have been easier to stop. That resilience defined him.

We will remember him in the small moments—because that’s where he lived most fully. In the routines. In the presence. In the things that don’t always get written down, but are never forgotten by the people who were there.

Dad taught us that love isn't always expressed through words. Sometimes it's shown by being there, doing what needs to be done, and putting your family first.

We will miss him. And we will carry him with us—in stories, in habits we learned from him, and in the parts of ourselves that came from him.

Dad, you left us with a lifetime of memories that we will treasure forever. You are loved beyond words and are missed beyond measure.