The Irrelevant Musings of a Factotum

In Memoriam: William Michael Donovan

2/6/2016

June 16, 1953 - February 3rd, 2016

Hey everyone,

On February 3rd, 2016, my father, William Michael Donovan, passed away after a long battle with cancer. He was 62 years old. We held a memorial service today, Saturday February 6th, 2016, at the Liberty Bell Church in Allentown Pennsylvania, with Pastor Bob Stevens presiding. My brother and I kept the service simple, and easy, just the way he would have liked it. We celebrated the wonderful man he was, with great family and friends, followed by a gathering at the Allentown Brew Works to raise a glass to Michael Donovan.

Treasured family friends spoke or read today, so thank you to Bill Hoffman, Carol Pulham, Bob Stevens, Ce-Ce Gerlach, Mark Smith, Don Ringer, and Joyce Marin for lending their voices to our celebration of Dad.

I wish I had more to say, but it's just been a long week. I'm sure there will be more in the coming days and months.

At the request of many, I'm going to give record of the service we held. Below you will find each of the readings that were read, as well as the full text of my words I spoke in honor of my father.

Thank you to everyone who has been here for me in the last week. Your support has meant the world.

Morning Call Article about Dad's Passing

Dad's Obituary - Funeral Home
Bachman, Kulik & Reinsmith

Dad's Obituary - The Morning Call

Audio of Speakers from Dad's Service

Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep
File Size:	63 kb
File Type:	docx

Download File

James 2: Verses 1-4, 8, 14-18
File Size:	118 kb
File Type:	docx

Download File

Chuang Tzu 18: 6-8
File Size:	99 kb
File Type:	docx

Download File

To Those I Love and Those Who Love Me
File Size:	76 kb
File Type:	docx

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The Road Not Taken
File Size:	79 kb
File Type:	docx

Download File

In remembrance of William Michael Donovan
Saturday, February 6th, 2016

Hey everyone. Hey Dad. Here we all are. Not a bad turnout for a guy who almost exactly one week ago told me that a room that would hold 40-60 people would be more than enough. I wish you could see how people from all sides have come together over your passing. I mean, Mayor Pawlowski wrote you one of the most beautiful notes out of anyone, and he gave me a personal phone call that meant the world to me. On the lighter side, I received a letter from a former student of yours who you stayed friendly with. And apparently you kept telling her that she needed to meet and go on a date with me. So her email basically summed up by saying "soooooo, should we do that?" I've never met her, so I haven't answered her yet. Is she cute? You don't have to answer now, you can tell me later. If you answered now it might legitimately terrify everyone in this room. But seriously, Dad, I’ve received an absurd number of letters from people who include some variant on the sentence “I disagreed with your father on most things, but...” followed by a sentence invoking your integrity, your honor, your steadfast truthfulness, and your adamant conviction in your beliefs.

But more than that, they cite your humor, your grace, your loyalty, your passion, your honesty. You describe yourself on your website as “Urbanist, Thinker, Optimist, Cedar Crest College Associate Professor of Business, Partner with Koa Labs in Cambridge, MA., former Allentown City council VP. Also very lucky to have experienced a wonderful and interesting life with setbacks now and then.” We should all be lucky enough to describe our own lives that way.

But that’s what made you wholly unique, Dad. You earned respect from people, and you never demanded it. You never belittled people, you always made sure to hear the differing opinions. When you were going through hell, your path to salvation was to go help someone else find theirs first.

The night you died I walked into Ringer’s. I found a quiet room with about 6 patrons. I walked straight to your favorite table to sit down and have a beer in your honor, and I was stopped by a man at the bar. He said “Do you mind not sitting there? Could you sit at any other table?” I stammered and mumbled a confused apology and moved to the next table over. He followed up with “It’s just, a great man passed away this morning, and that was his table.” It was in that moment I saw the single rose in a vase sitting in the center of the table. And I realized everyone in the room was staring at me with the same, protective expression on their face.

That’s the power of you, Dad. I have letters from all over the world, from people on all walks of life, with no discernable emphasis towards Gender, Politics, Race, Religion, or any other defining feature. Well, with one exception, like 1 in 3 women who wrote me have told me that you had a crush on them, and that you used to flirt with them, you Casanova, you. But you truly were a man of the people, all people. And when I say all people, it’s important to note I don’t just mean the little guy. There’s this common misconception that “Man of the people” simply means you’re a Robin Hood, giving a middle finger to the establishment. I have countless letters from members of that establishment, expressing their sincere grief at the loss of your presence in their life.

And you inspired people. I mean people would walk through fire for you. My god, over there is Will Boyajian, one of my closest friends from college, who in a matter of seconds of my asking on your behalf, agreed to play music at your funeral. In one short conversation with you a couple years ago, you inspired him to leave the United States and go teach theatre to Ukranian kids at a summer camp outside of Kiev. That is an absolutely insane sentence to say out loud. You inspired a movement here in Allentown, a movement that cannot be stopped. You inspired me to follow my dreams.

Because you always followed yours dreams and goals, in your own way.

You wanted to play first base or coach the first base line for the Boston Red Sox so you coached my little league team.

You wanted to be the Mayor of Boston, so you successfully ran for and became Vice President of the Allentown City Council, and then ran for Mayor giving the aforementioned Mr. Pawlowski quite a run for his money.

You wanted to reach the pinnacles of higher education, so you became a teacher that challenged students at an Ivy League level. I received a letter from a former international student at the Southern Maine Community College. He holds Bachelor’s, Master’s, and Graduate degrees and yet still names you as his “best teacher” and says he often found himself wishing his Phd professors were half the teachers that Professor Donovan from Community College was.

You were robbed the chance of raising one daughter, so you raised your two step-daughters as your own.

You wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail, so you took your sons on hiking trips to the Appalachian Mountain Club and taught them about nature.

You always wanted to perform and sing on stage, but that terrified you, so you made me do it. Well I followed my dreams. Dad I now make most of my (remarkably meager) living as an actor.

You wanted to see the world, so you inspired your other son to spend almost the last 10 years traveling the globe working in the fields you always loved.

You wanted to make a difference in the world, so you traveled abroad to bring a wholly unique educational experience to kids in Ukraine.

You wanted to meet your Grandson, so you hopped a plane to Dubai because you happened to be in London. Which, what?

I could keep going, but I hope you get the picture. You, Dad, inspired hundreds of people, many of whom sit in this room right now.

So now we come to the part where I have to wrap this up, figure out how to say goodbye to you, and acknowledge that this might be the last time anyone ever sees me talk to you directly. Because make no mistake, I will talk to you every day, I just probably will try and avoid looking like a crazy person.

So, thank you, Dad.

Thank you for supporting my dreams.

Thank you for inspiring me to be a better person.

Thank you for showing me the way I hope to always treat others.

Thank you for making sure that you were always a constant, positive presence in my life, after moving to Pennsylvania, despite living hundreds of miles away.

Thank you for sending me to college, a debt I can never repay you (and will never repay Sallie Mae)

Thank you for always including me in your life here in Allentown.

Thank you for teaching me about how to be the father I one day hope to be.

Thank you for the laughs, hugs, stimulating conversation, guidance, debate, friendship, and most importantly, love.

A friend of mine’s sister passed away suddenly around Christmastime. There was a loud outpouring of support, not unlike for yourself. Through the powers that are terrifying of Social Media, it made its way to your feed. And you followed the story closely, bringing it up to me quite a few times. She was 22 years old. Far too young to go, her family would have been well within their right to sit down, and shut themselves off to the world, allowing grief to rule them for a little bit. And no one would have thought less of them. A Jewish family, they sat shiva at their house, but they hung a sign on the front door that read,

“Dear friends, thank you for being with us today. This is not a house of mourning, it is the home where Jordan lived, was loved, and will always be remembered. Thank you for joining us in that spirit. Warm laughter, happy memories, hugs and smiles are encouraged.”

That message resounded with you, Dad, and so it’s the spirit I choose to hold myself. When we leave here today, we’re all gonna stroll up to the Allentown Brew Works, (literally all of you, come) where I’m going to have a beer (hopefully in your #4 mug, Fegley’s, can we make that happen?) and I’m going to swap stories with your friends and family. I’m going to have a smile on my face, and the same twinkle in my eye that you got when you talked about something you cared about deeply. And I’m going to continue living my life to the fullest, just as you taught me taught me to do.

Goodbye, Dad. I’ll see you when I see you. But not yet, I’ve got a whole world to inspire first.