Kevin McDonnell Obituary

Eulogy of Kevin Patrick McDonnell

April 13, 2002

Our Lady of Charity Catholic Church



Good Morning,



My mother Rose, my sister, Madonna and I want to thank you all for coming here to celebrate my father’s life. I have prepared these words I hope will summarize for us what my father meant to our family and those that had the good fortune to meet him. I will try to give you a picture of Kevin, his life and the impact an otherwise common, but caring man had on others.



Born the 26th of March, 1921 in County Wickow, Ireland, Kevin Patrick McDonnell was from a small Irish Catholic family of 12 children. I believe, in those days, that was the minimum to be called a family.



Nevertheless, after growing up in Ireland and riding motorcycles, Kevin and some of his brothers and sisters came to America, evidence of his and his family’s early spirit of adventure and their courage.



Now Dad was a plasterer—a plasterer is not only a skilled tradesman but also an artisan. A plasterer shapes the environments people lived in--cornices and architectural ceilings—the subtle character of a home that is usually impossible to find under today’s modern construction methods. My Dad could turn ordinary living areas into majestic sitting and dining rooms—which he did for us in the homes we grew up in. I guarantee you won’t find such a product anywhere at Home Depot.



While on Holiday in Ireland, Kevin Patrick met Rose O’Donnell (the first Rosie O’Donnell), a Scottish lassie, Rose herself having immigrated to New York. In 1956, they would wed at St. Sabina’s in Chicago, and make Chicago their home for 46 plus years of marriage. And for all of us to learn from, they kept their promise those 46 years, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, Dad took care of Mom and Mom took care of Dad, much of this, of course, over the last few years.



Returning my story to the late-1960’s-- times would turn tough for plasterers—mass produced wallboard became much cheaper and faster to install. Nevertheless, Dad hung in there, and to make ends meet, at one time worked two full-time jobs—I guess to be sure he always had at least one. With demand for plasterers in new construction drying up, Dad later joined the Chicago Housing Authority, where he worked for many years and helped many minority residents keep up their apartments and live in some decency.



If it were not for a work-ending shoulder injury, Dad may never have retired. But thankfully he did, affording him time for a second career--to be a loving grandfather of 8 children. I know my sister Madonna and her husband will always be grateful for the time Mom and Dad were able to spend with their Matt, Jimmy, Jessica and Tommy. [Dad was glad and relieved to hear young Jimmy proclaim him the “Boy Grandpa.”] Susan, I and our children too were blessed by Grandpa's grace.



When it came to he animals—Dad was our Dr. Doolittle. He cared for several dogs, cats, and parakeets with the same love and tenderness he gave his human family as well.



And like a true Irishman, Dad loved his Guinness. One of his joys in the difficult last few months was having a beer here and there with his son-in-law and my brother-in-law that he loved, Salvador.



In the later golden years, one of Dad’s favorite pastimes was watching golf on TV. Now as most of you know, Dad never did play the game of golf, but like so many other subjects, he was a library of knowledge about golf. Dad could tell you more matter-of-factly about golf than any sports writer ever could--all in that soft-spoken Irish brogue.



Over the last year, Dad faced, fought and beat lung cancer, returned to his feet after three months of recovery from surgery, and fought several aggressive infections bravely—all while coping with the debilating effects of Parkinson’s disease.



Last Thursday morning, Dad’s condition deteriorated to the point where he was very sick and suffering. Dad had seen my parish priest earlier that week, and we had prayed the “Our Father” regularly together since Father Ted had been in. On this morning, the presence of Jesus was very evident, and seeing his suffering, I told to Dad it was OK if he wanted to go with Jesus now. Remarkably, Dad slowly fell into a deep peaceful sleep. And so it was, after the dawn of Chicago’s first glorious spring morning in 2002, after being cheered up by his brother Uncle Joe, beautiful cards and letters (one in particular from Matthew) and a tearful, but joyful Our Father, dad left our world, to enter yet an even better one.



I then reminded Dad that while I had hoped to be in Augusta, GA to see the Masters myself this weekend, I knew under the circumstances that Dad would have the ultimate view to watch golf at the Masters, which made me happy.



Now I wouldn’t be surprised if Dad’s first stop after arriving in Heaven was a walk with his dog to the first tee to see Tiger Woods, one of his favorites, tee off at 9:53 a.m. Chicago time. And Dad must have figured out that Padraig Harrington, an Irishman, was there, too. Padraig took the lead on the first day of the Masters, I’ll bet with Dad’s help.



Dad, after 81 years, on yet another beautiful day, we say goodbye. You have left this world and the many people you have touched better off than before you arrived. We thank you for the tenderness, love and courage you showed us while you were here this earth.



Dad, may God Bless you!