Monday, June 1, 2026
When you try to sum up 93 years, it’s tempting to list the big milestones: where he was born, where he went to school, his years in the Air Force, his career at Grumman, the places he traveled, the family he loved. And all of that matters. But when I think about my dad, I think of stories.
I think of Dad in the winter time, eager for a big snowfall so he could take out his snowblower and do everyone’s driveway.
I think of Dad in the spring time, growing hundreds of little tomato plants in the basement just so he had some to give away because he believed that everyone should have a garden.
I think of Dad in his garden, surrounded by tomatoes, hot peppers, blueberries -- way more than any one person could possibly eat. But that was the point. The garden wasn’t just for him. It was for his neighbors, his friends, whoever happened to stop by. If Dad had extra, you were going home with some even if you just stopped by to say hello.
That was Dad. Quietly generous. Not making a big production out of it. Just sharing what he had.
I think of him up at his lakehouse in Vermont, riding around in a golf cart with a friend, doing most—maybe all—of the talking. He had many stories and delighted in telling them. Stories about his travels, a great restaurant, a neighbor, a project, or simply offering encouragement and advice.
Dad had a full and fascinating career, especially during his years at Grumman working on the F-14 program. But what stands out to me is not just the work -- it’s the way people remembered him at work. One man shared how Dad took him under his wing when he was a young Naval officer, offering respect, counsel, and guidance. Dad knew a lot, but he didn’t use that knowledge to make people feel small. He used it to help people stand taller.
That kind of respect leaves a mark.
After retirement, Dad did not slow down. He took over his parent’s property in Vermont, building a comfortable lake house where he happily hosted friends and family for many years. After my mom died in 2005, my dad travelled the world. He came home from every trip with hundreds, maybe thousands, of pictures which he would then organize into a slide show and mail out copies to all the new friends he met on the trip. He literally had pen pals all around the world. Back at home, he would be excited to gather friends together to show his photos and tell his stories.
He knew that joy is better when it is shared.
And food, of course, is part of the story too. He loved nothing more than going to a good steak house and sharing a bottle of wine with friends and family. Everyone who went to Vermont had to go out for chicken and biscuits at the Wagon Wheel. He was a regular at the Red Lobster in Hicksville and at Lorenzo’s in Glen Cove – everyone who worked there knew him and fed him well. He loved to host dinner parties - grilling steaks or making sausage and peppers.
My dad also knew loss. He missed my mother, Terry, for many years. And today, as much as we grieve losing him, there is comfort in imagining them together again.
Dad was many things: a son, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a veteran, an engineer, a neighbor, a friend. But more than any title, he was someone who stayed connected—to people, to places, to memories, to stories.
And those stories do not end today.
They continue every time someone remembers the garden. Every time someone tells a Grumman story. Every time someone looks at travel photos. Every time someone shares food with a neighbor. Every time we hear ourselves saying something Dad would have said.
We will miss him deeply.
But I am grateful—grateful for his long life, grateful for the people he touched, grateful for the stories he leaves behind, and grateful that so many of you are part of those stories.
