It's been a long time since I've stood up here. Dad and I used to be lectors here at St. Francis. He loved filling this church with that booming voice of his. Any of you who ever received a phone call from him know his voice was unmistakable. When he called someone on the phone, I never heard him say "This is Hugo". Everyone always knew immediately who it was.

This church meant a lot to him. My parents didn't get married here. They were married at Sacred Heart, but they lived on Benkard Avenue, where my uncle Ettore and my dad's parents lived with mom and dad in a three-flat just a few blocks from here. So we became members of St. Francis, and I and my siblings all went to school here. My brother Mike reminded me that dad always sat in the same place in church, over there near the third Stations of the Cross station. I remember that, at mass, dad had a habit, during the prayer response, of always reciting his lines much faster than everyone else, as if he were pulling the whole congregation along with him, as if he were, characteristically, leading them along in prayer.

My uncle Ettore yesterday said that he imagined dad meeting his old departed friends in the hereafter. They'd greet him and talk about old times, but after about ten minutes, dad would have organized SOMETHING… They'd meet every Tuesday night, probably at Didey's, and dad would come up with a way to do even more good in a place that's already filled with good.

From the time we (my siblings and I) were old enough to get involved in activities such as Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, Little League, Pop Warner, dad was there with us. At every practice, at every game, at every camping trip. I was trying, the other day, to remember a single baseball game, basketball game, or school activity that dad didn't attend, and I couldn't think of one. In my entire childhood.

Dad lived for his family. Never once in his life as a husband and a father did he EVER do anything just for himself. He was the most unselfish man I've ever known. He constructed his life around his family. Weekends were spent at Little League games, weeknights at Pop Warner practices or at basketball games. He never picked up a golf club in all the time I'd known him, though if he had, he would have made sure that one or more of his children would come along. He never went off by himself on a Saturday to play golf. Such activities, and the time they can require you to be away from your family on a weekend, were not part of his life, and therefore not part of his family's life, which, if you've ever seen my brother and I play golf, you'd certainly deduce.

Dad was born on W. Parmenter St. in 1926, in a house that no longer stands. For his entire life, with the exception of the war years and a few years in college, he never lived more than ten miles from the house he was born in. Newburgh was his home, and, although he occasionally had thoughts about leaving, and moving to Florida, I never thought he would. His friends and his roots were here, and he was an indelible a part of the culture and fabric of this city. That being said, he understood that Newburgh was not a city of opportunity, and so when each of us, his children, found other, more prosperous parts of the country to make our lives, he understood and approved. Mom and dad both knew when and how to cut the apron strings, and I doubt anything would have hurt dad more than to know that he was in some way hindering our lives, careers, and our ability to start a family. His family obligations, when he was young, likely cost him by interfering with his schooling, potential career in sports, and ability to find opportunities elsewhere. He was adamant that the same thing would not happen to his children. And it never did, although the reluctance I and my siblings always felt at moving away from Newburgh was not from a sense of guilt or obligation, but from not being around mom and dad as much as we wanted.

As a young man, dad made friends that lasted him a lifetime. Many of them are gone, but many are still around, and a few are here in this church. If dad counted you among his friends, consider yourself fortunate. People like Dale, Gill, Tom Victor, and many, many others, who brought so much joy to his life.

One of the most satisfying things a person can experience is to be among a group of people, and to realize that every person in the group genuinely enjoys being around you. Dad knew that feeling far more than most of us ever will. When dad and mom had a sporting goods store in New Windsor, the store was always full of people who would drop by just to be around dad and talk about the old days, or football, or whatever. (We wished they would have bought more sporting goods, but that's another matter).

Each of you who knew dad knows how engaging he was, whether he was telling fishing stories with Dale, or teasing Gil Rashbaum or Tom Victor about something or another, or about his time in Europe and the Pacific during WWII. Bragging was always part of his conversation, but it was never about himself (except maybe to Dale, as to who was a better fisherman). He would brag, but about how good a baseball player his brother had been, or about his kids and his grandchildren, or about his wife. Did any of you ever hear him say anything about his family that was not positive? While we each got our share of upbraiding and discipline, he respected and admired each of us, and we each knew it.

Dad's late teens and early 20s were spent serving his country in WWII, and attending school at the University of Mississippi. If dad was feeling down or out of sorts, all you had to do was ask him about the war or Ole Miss, and he would brighten up. He would tell stories that I'd heard many times before, but which I'd never gotten tired of hearing. Once in awhile, he'd ponder the disappointment of having had to leave college without graduating, and how his life could have turned out differently, and I'd remind him that, if he had stayed at Ole Miss, he wouldn't have met mom,. and I wouldn't be here, so, I would tell him, don't expect any sympathy from me. That would always make him laugh. Like anyone with human feelings, dad would have his moments of regret, but it was easy to get him to acknowledge just how fortunate he'd been in his life. He lived 78 years. He saw the world. He was married to a beautiful woman for half a century. He raised four children who turned out okay. He watched six wonderful grandchildren grow up. If ever a man passed into the next world fulfilled and satisfied, it was dad. Where he is now, looking down on us, I'm sure he's contented, seeing the people he cares about, here together, celebrating his life. Speaking for all of us, it was a joy and a privilege to have known him, and to be his friend. For me and my siblings, it was a greater joy and privilege to have been his children.

We'll all miss him terribly.