Wednesday, September 2, 2026

First of all, thank you all for being here. Looking out today I see Mark's close friends and family all gathered to celebrate his life, and it's an honor to address you all, as you were the reason that Mark fought as hard as he did against his illness. I especially want to thank the clergy and staff here at Saint Patrick's and Saint Anthony's, as well as the staff at Newkirk & Whitney funeral home. You all helped give my father a beautiful ceremony and you've helped my family and I garner a sense of grace and closure. Thank you. I believe it was in the middle of summer in 2013 when Mark suffered an accident that severely damaged his right eye. After countless procedures and surgeries, he ended up losing a majority of his vision, rendering him all but blind in one eye. It was later that year, in December, when he got the fateful phone call that brings us all together today, over four years later. Yet, a while after being diagnosed with his cancer, Gary McKeone, who was one of Mark's friends, organized a party for him with the help of Sully's Cafe of East Hartford and a few other coworkers. The Gazette, a local newspaper, heard that the jolly good fellow was having drinks raised to his name, and naturally sent a reporter to cover the event. My father was a very popular man. Days pass, and soon enough I see the edition of the paper that had the article about Dad. And I'll never forget the headline. It was a quote from Mark, and it simply said, "I feel like the luckiest man in the world." The luckiest man in the world. This was after losing half his vision, while in the midst of staving off a terminal disease, and he was the luckiest man in the world. I believe that almost everyone in the world, myself included, would have given up if they were dealt the hand Dad was, but not him. Instead he thrived. He didn't merely say that he felt like the luckiest man in the world, he truly believed it, and lived that way: every day a celebration and every moment a new memory waiting to be had. While I was writing this I had a hard time deciding which stories to share with the congregation today that might illuminate the kind of man my father was. It wasn't difficult because there weren't enough stories to choose from, just the contrary. I sat for hours running through my mind, thinking of the things he did, as well as the lore I've heard from his family and friends of his colorful past. I thought maybe I could talk about his endless quest for knowledge, perhaps tell you all of the time he had a question about space and decided the best and only way to get to the bottom of things was to pick up the phone and call NASA. (They didn't help at all. They were only concerned with finding out how on earth he had gotten their number.) Or, maybe I could try to explain his spontaneous and fun loving nature, and tell you all about the time he gave Tiny Tim a ride to one of his shows in one of Uncle Kevin's flower shop delivery vans. That's a true story, but not one that would adequately describe the man he was. Instead, when I think about my father I think about two things; his unfaltering love for his fellow man, and his sense of humor. Years ago when I was a boy, Dad used to take Molly, Rose and I to Terry pool on Saturday mornings to swim. This was a dream come true for us, an Olympic sized pool all to ourselves in the dead heat of summer. We would cool off while Dad took care of maintaining the pool, which would open up a few hours later to the public. Needless to say, every time we got the opportunity to go to work with him, we would always pounce on the opportunity. Now, one night he and I were coming back from the beach when he suddenly realized that he had left a pump on at the pool, and he told me that we needed to stop by Terry so he could turn it off. When we got there, I stayed in the car as he walked into his pump room, affectionately called "The Cave". When he came back out, he was preceded by two people, pool hoppers as he called them, soaking wet wrapped up in towels. Dad came out right behind them, shook their hands, locked the pool, and got back in the car. He proceeded to tell me what had happened. Apparently, when he walked into The Cave, he could hear distinct voices and splashing coming from the water. He walked out to the deck, and saw two people: a father and a son. Upon their seeing him, they jumped out of the pool and began to climb the fence, assuming my dad would call the police or chase them out or something like that. I'm sure that's what most people would do in his situation, but not my father. Instead, he asked them to get down off the fence because he was afraid they might hurt themselves on the way over. He introduced himself and offered them towels, and asked why they were there. It turns out the man was trying to teach his son how to swim, and couldn't afford the entry fee to the pool during regular hours. My dad, hearing this, made a deal with them; that he would let them into the pool during regular hours for free so long as they didn't try to hop the fence again. A laugh and a handshake later, a deal was struck and abided by. I don't know why, but that sentiment stuck with me forever. Help your fellow man. Regardless of the circumstances, if someone is in need of help, provide. My father was also, without a doubt, the funniest man I've ever met. At any party or event, the seat next to him was always the best seat in the house. His sense of humor was discrete and dry, his laughter contagious, and his wit razor sharp while somehow also benevolent. He never laughed at anyone, only with them. If he decided he wanted you to laugh, within minutes you'd be gasping for air and drying your eyes. Him being a master of the craft of comedy, he could take any situation and turn it into the hardest you've laughed all week. It was a showing of his love, he genuinely only wanted people to have a good time, even if it meant putting a cheese doodle in each nostril and staring at you until you noticed. He was a man who enjoyed creating laughter more than he enjoyed laughing himself, a sentiment that was dramatically increased whenever he was surrounded by family. Now, there aren't words that can describe how much he loved his family. His brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, children and wife were his entire world. These are the people he lived, and ultimately fought for. His time on earth was brief, but he provided a bounty for all who knew him. I think about everything he gave me, and at the end of his life I realized the greatest thing he ever gave me was this family, the people sitting in this very church. He gave me the world through all of you, and my sisters and my mother. I sometimes wonder, when he walked into Michael's Bakery and proposed to the woman standing behind the counter, if he knew at the time that he was in fact asking the strongest woman in the world to marry him. Mom, the care and affection you provided for Dad not only in the past four years, but during the entirety of your marriage has changed my definition of love. Your complete selflessness and awe inspiring dedication to his well-being is nothing short of miraculous. I'll leave you now asking you to live the way Mark did, let his life be an example of how to be happy. Laugh hard and often. Unconditionally love not only your family and friends but the strangers you meet on the way. Dedicate yourself to the mission of making others brim with joy. Read a book and share it. Look at the stars and feel small. Get a running head start and dive headfirst into the ocean. Rise with the Sun. Drive with the windows down. Eat pancakes before they get cold. Go to a wedding and dance all night. Hug your children. Work hard. Call NASA. Take a nap in a bath of sunlight. Hug a dog. Be honest. Fight for what you want. But most of all, live in the moment and smile for every second of it.