Thank you for coming today. As you can see from the turnout, my father was a hard man to dislike. I know it's common at a funeral to only remember the good things, to omit the things that would embarrass someone. In my father's case, the most remarkable thing that can be said is that there is no bad worth mentioning. So let me start with the facts. My father was born in Elizabeth, N.J., on September 16 in 1938, when Franklin Roosevelt was president. He was the fifth of five children – John, Dal, Vic, Lydia and then my dad. His parents were Esequiel and Maria Ferreira, relatively recent immigrants from Portugal. He had pretty much your average childhood during World War II, so let’s fast forward to 1957 when he met the woman -- Fran -- who would become his wife on a blind date. He knew that Mom was the one for him pretty much right away, but from what Mom says it took some convincing for her to see that. They married on June 7, 1958 and I was born on February 17, 1959. Before any of you get out a calendar, let me say that I arrived early. A year and two months later, on April 7, 1960 my brother Brian arrived, and my parents, seeing what they had done, called it quits. My Dad spent a little over 10 years in the Coast Guard, and to him service to his country was an honor and privilege. Like most of what he did in life, he excelled in service and received numerous commendations. After the Coast Guard, Dad became an electronics technician and worked on so many different projects you would almost think he had multiple careers. When he was through with that, he reinvented himself and became a computer network engineer. Throughout all of this, he dabbled in sailplanes and model trains. Yeah, and he also found some time to raise his family and to touch a bunch of lives around him. It's the simple bio of a simple and modest man. But you don't measure the life of a man by simple facts, simply told. It's been said that you measure it in the truths he learned, or in the times he cried, or in the bridges he burned. I can’t remember many times in his nearly 75 years that he really cried, at least in front of us. Dad found it hard to express strong emotion. He preferred to let his actions speak volumes for him, and in that respect he achieved more than most. He learned a lot – every chance he had, he sought knowledge whether it was educating himself to advance his career or learning the minutiae of his various hobbies. He tried very hard not to burn any bridges, but he stood fast in his integrity and when it came to our family, fought like a lion. He had no problem burning a bridge for the sake of his family. He wanted the same for my brother and me. He wanted us to appreciate the world, to learn, to be honest and caring, and above all to give everything we did our best effort. Listening to this, you would think my Dad is in line to be nominated for sainthood. There are no real miracles here aside from a card trick he once taught me, and I am not sure that qualifies as an actual miracle. So while all of you remember the good my Dad did, let me give you some of the dark details. My Dad loved to laugh, but only when appropriate. Appropriate was a big word for him. Still, whenever possible he loved to laugh, and he loved to tell jokes. Here’s the deep, dark secret: my Dad had awful comedic timing and could never, ever tell a joke the same way twice. Or tell it right. Here’s an example: around the time of the moon landing, he told this joke. NASA accomplished something huge landing a man on the moon, but they are planning on something even bigger. They are going to land a man on the sun. Before you get too concerned, the scientists at NASA figured out how to do it safely. They plan on landing at night. OK, it’s a mildly amusing joke. Problem is, my Dad always messed up the punch line by saying something like “the astronauts will wear asbestos underwear” or he would switch the moon and sun around. Yeah, I know. Pretty bad, right? But here’s the thing: no matter how much he messed it up, he was blissfully unaware that he did it and was so amused by his own joke that he would laugh really hard. That would make whoever the target of his misfired joke laugh because he was so happy telling it. Hmmm….I guess that isn’t so bad. How about this: he could be incredibly stubborn. Another example: around the same time as the moon landing we went to see a science fiction movie, Journey to the Far Side of the Sun. When we came back from the movie – which, by the way, we both enjoyed – we spent much of the next week arguing about the concept of the movie. He just could not believe that I didn’t see it was possible scientifically, and I found it hard to believe that he didn’t understand that 10 year old boys know literally everything. We argued all week, and in the end I won because he just got tired of trying to reason with a know-it-all. Well, I guess neither of those really illustrate the point I was trying to make. There is one thing I can tell you, though. There was never a time in my life where my Dad was not there for me. His patience and help went way beyond what you could expect, and even when I did stupid things directly against his advice, he let me stew in my own juices for a while and then gently guided me towards success. He had a temper and I would know I had done something wrong, but he also seemingly had an infinite capacity for love and compassion. These are the lessons he left for me, and I think he hoped somehow that my brother and I picked up on his desire to learn and would take those lessons to heart. I could tell you that he taught me things like my life-long love of science fiction or that I have my career thanks to his gift of a computer, but those are just cold facts. I think he would have liked it more if we learned to how to be good men. Here is how I measure my father's life. In the end it is not what he said but what he did, not the words but the example. My Dad didn’t have a lot of words, but he had a wealth of example and all of it good. In his relationship with Mom he showed how true and strong love can be, and the importance of being a good husband. In the tough times when there was little food on the table he demonstrated that a good man is always willing to sacrifice for his family no matter the cost personally. In his interactions with others he taught that everyone deserved a second or third or fourth chance, but only if the need for those chances arose from honest mistakes and not deceit. In all things he sought to impart the necessity for honesty and integrity. The world is a better place because of the way he lived both his private and public life for nearly 75 years. He has given us the example and now it is my turn to carry the torch. I have to ask myself “what would Dad do?” Granted, the answer to that question would probably involve a punch line, but you know I am remarkably OK with that. This I will do to honor his memory and his life. And it has the added benefit of being the right thing to do, which I am sure would appeal to his desire to be appropriate. Sleep warm, Dad. Sleep tight. Sleep well. I love you. Always have. Always will.