Version 1

It’s hard to stand here and say goodbye to my dad, Michael. He was the kind of man whose presence filled a room, not because he was loud, but because he had this quiet confidence that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. He didn’t need to say much for you to know what he was thinking or feeling. But what he did say—those little nuggets of advice, the dad jokes, the reminders—always stuck with you.

Dad wasn’t the kind of person to boast about his accomplishments, but there was plenty to be proud of. He worked as an electrician for nearly 30 years at the same place, and he loved it. He was the guy everyone called when something went wrong, whether it was a blackout at work or someone’s house needed rewiring. He had this uncanny ability to figure things out, no matter how complicated. I’d walk into the garage, and there he’d be, fixing something with tools I didn’t even know existed.

But what I admired most about Dad wasn’t how he worked—it was how he lived. He had this remarkable way of making everyone feel welcome, no matter who they were. Growing up, our house was always the place where all the neighborhood kids would gather. It didn’t matter if the game was basketball, soccer, or even just playing cards; Dad was right there, cheering us on, cracking jokes, and making sure everyone had a good time. I can still picture him standing at the grill on those summer afternoons, wearing his old Yankees cap and flipping burgers, his face lit up with that easygoing smile that made everything feel like home.

One of my favorite memories is how he’d spend his Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, rain or shine, Dad would head down to the local deli—Tony’s, the one he swore had the best bagels in town. He’d come back with a whole stack, along with the newspaper tucked under his arm, and we’d sit around the table, just talking. He’d complain about the latest Yankees loss or tell us about something ridiculous that happened at work, and even though it was just a routine, it’s those moments that I’ll miss the most.

Dad had a unique sense of humor, too. Not everyone got it, but if you spent enough time with him, you knew that his sarcasm and dry wit were how he connected with you. I’ll never forget how he used to tell me, “Don’t get too big for your boots,” whenever I thought I had all the answers. It was his way of keeping me grounded, of reminding me that, no matter how old I got, he’d always have a way of bringing me back down to earth.

And then there were the stories. Dad loved telling stories, especially the ones from his childhood. He’d talk about growing up in Queens, sneaking into Yankees games with his brothers, or the time he somehow managed to ride a bicycle through the middle of a neighborhood parade. Those stories painted such a vivid picture of who he was—a guy who lived with spirit, mischief, and a deep appreciation for the simple joys of life.

I think that’s what I’ll miss most about him. He didn’t need much to be happy. A Yankees game on TV, a cup of coffee from the diner, and time spent with family—that was enough for Dad. He didn’t need flashy things or big vacations. His happiness was rooted in the everyday moments, and in that way, he taught me what it truly means to appreciate life.

It wasn’t always perfect. No relationship ever is. Dad had his flaws—he could be stubborn, and he had a tendency to think his way was the only way. But even in those moments, you knew it came from a place of love. He wanted the best for us, even if he didn’t always know how to say it.

As we say goodbye to Dad today, I’m reminded of something he used to say whenever things didn’t go as planned: “Well, life’s what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” It’s a John Lennon quote, but it might as well have been his motto. He knew that life was unpredictable, and that the best way to live it was to roll with whatever came your way, without losing your sense of humor or your sense of self.

So today, let’s remember Dad for who he was—a man who lived simply, loved deeply, and laughed often. A man who found joy in the little things, like a perfectly toasted bagel, a Yankees win, or a good story shared around the dinner table. We’ll miss him, but we’ll carry those memories with us. And every time I hear someone say, “Don’t get too big for your boots,” I’ll smile, because I’ll know that a part of him is still with me, keeping me grounded, just like he always did.

Rest in peace, Dad. We’ll never forget you.

Version 2

My father wasn’t just a dad—he was my closest friend, my role model, and the strongest person I’ve ever known. To say he was simply a good man doesn’t do him justice. He was an extraordinary man who lived his life with quiet grace and strength, never asking for recognition.

Dad wore many hats in his life—he was a wonderful friend, brother, husband, father, and grandfather. His love for us was boundless, and he was loved deeply in return. There’s no way to fully capture the influence he had on my life and on those around him. He was always the first to offer help, the one you could rely on for advice, and someone who was never too busy to lend a hand.

When I think of Dad, all my memories are warm and filled with love. He wasn’t big on saying “I love you” out loud, but you never doubted his love for a second. Whether it was me, Sophie, Mom, or his grandchildren, he always showed up in the most meaningful ways. If you needed him, you could count on leaving with a new perspective, because Dad always had a way of making you see the bigger picture, teaching life lessons along the way.

The memories I have with him aren’t always easy to put into words. They’re memories of simple moments: talking about his love for New York Giants football, or the countless camping trips we took—where we once woke up in the middle of the night freezing because we forgot to turn the heater on. Or the time we all hiked up the steep trail in the Smoky Mountains, and Mom and Dad needed a hand getting back down—it’s those moments that stick with me the most.

Above all, Dad’s greatest joy came from being a grandfather, or “Pops” as his grandkids called him. Emma and Caleb meant the world to him, and they loved him just as much. He’d spend hours playing their favorite games, reading to them, and singing lullabies. Nothing brought him more happiness than seeing their smiling faces and hearing them laugh.

One memory that stands out is his signature Sunday roast dinners. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it became a family tradition. Dad would always say, “There’s nothing better than a roast on a Sunday,” and no matter how busy we all were, we’d gather around the table to share that meal. It’s something I’ll carry on, though I know I’ll never quite replicate the magic of Dad’s roast dinners.

I also remember working on house projects with Dad. He was always tinkering with something. We’d spend hours in the backyard building things—whether it was a garden shed or a treehouse for the kids. I still smile when I think about the time I tried staining a piece of furniture, only to realize halfway through that Dad had handed me the wrong can—it was motor oil! We laughed about that for years.

Even in recent times, Dad enjoyed giving advice from what we lovingly called “his throne,” the old armchair in the living room where he’d sit, watching us work on whatever project we were doing. He loved to observe, offer his tips, and crack jokes about how we were doing things wrong—but always with that familiar twinkle in his eye.

There’s no way to fully capture who Dad was in just a few minutes. But if you knew him, you know what I mean when I say he was extraordinary. He didn’t need to show off his strength or his kindness—it was just who he was, every single day.

Before I end, I’d like to share a couple of words from a letter Dad wrote for me and Sophie. It’s something we found while going through his things this week, and I’m so glad we did:

“If there’s one thing I hope you take from my life, it’s this: always help others. Don’t just sit on the sidelines—be someone who makes a difference. Give, and you’ll receive far more in return than you could ever expect.”

And this:

“Remember, people may forget your words, but they’ll never forget how you made them feel. Be mindful of how you treat others, and you’ll have no regrets.”

Dad, we love you, now and forever.