John B. Larson

Mr. Speaker, I rise today to address my fellow townspeople of my hometown of East Hartford.

In what was a heartbreaking loss for them in the primary on September 11, I wanted to especially thank them for the number of thank-yous, the cards, and the media attention that I received from all of them from the bottom of their hearts.

Mr. Speaker, I also wanted to rise and at the same time acknowledge someone who rarely gets thanked. Mr. Speaker, I think this is true of most Members of Congress. The people who often don't get the praise they richly deserve are the spouses.

Having gone through several elections--having been here for what will be 28 years--I can't think of anyone who did more on behalf of me and my children and, frankly, the First Congressional District and this great country of ours than my wife, Leslie.

Why do I say that? Like most spouses, Mr. Speaker, they do their job quietly. They do it without recognition. They do it because of their belief in the spouse who is running, but also to nurture their children.

Oftentimes, they are viewed as an appendage. Oftentimes, they are the ones who don't get the attention, nor do they ever seek it.

My wife is a master gardener, and she is incredible. She knows more about soil and soil content and the right kind of fertilizer, and what to do. Our backyard and front yard are ablossom with flowers and vegetables that come from her nurturing and caring.

Do you know what, Mr. Speaker? None of those flowers or those plants or the gardening ever say thank you. They don't speak at all. What she revels in is how she is able to take them from seedling to flowering-- without a thank-you and without applause.

It is the same way that she has stood by me over all these many years of public life and, also, our children, who she had to nurture and to explain after September 11 what was happening in Washington, D.C., and whether Dad was okay.

It is spouses who give up so much of their lives on behalf of the elected officials that they represent. They do so willingly. They don't complain. They never seek the footlights. They never truly receive the thanks that they richly deserve.

More than a master gardener, my wife, Leslie, has been there for me and my children and has done so persistently, even when things have been tough and even when there is unfair scrutiny and expectation.

I don't think Congress does enough, Mr. Speaker, for our spouses. In fact, we seem to have done less and less over the 28 years that I have been here. There ought to be more recognition for the true sacrifice that they have made. I don't think there is a Member here in the body, married, unmarried, or whatnot, who can think of people who have sacrificed more than the loved ones who they represent.

Mr. Speaker, I rise today--and I will submit remarks later for the Record--to thank my wife, Leslie Larson, for her continued support and love for me but, as importantly, for her children, the community she lives in, the great State, and, of course, this great Nation we all love.

Mr. Speaker, I rise today to address my fellow townspeople of my hometown of East Hartford.

In what was a heartbreaking loss for them in the primary on September 11, I wanted to especially thank them for the number of thank-yous, the cards, and the media attention that I received from all of them from the bottom of their hearts.

Mr. Speaker, I also wanted to rise and at the same time acknowledge someone who rarely gets thanked. Mr. Speaker, I think this is true of most Members of Congress. The people who often don't get the praise they richly deserve are the spouses.

Having gone through several elections--having been here for what will be 28 years--I can't think of anyone who did more on behalf of me and my children and, frankly, the First Congressional District and this great country of ours than my wife, Leslie.

Why do I say that? Like most spouses, Mr. Speaker, they do their job quietly. They do it without recognition. They do it because of their belief in the spouse who is running, but also to nurture their children.

Oftentimes, they are viewed as an appendage. Oftentimes, they are the ones who don't get the attention, nor do they ever seek it.

My wife is a master gardener, and she is incredible. She knows more about soil and soil content and the right kind of fertilizer, and what to do. Our backyard and front yard are ablossom with flowers and vegetables that come from her nurturing and caring.

Do you know what, Mr. Speaker? None of those flowers or those plants or the gardening ever say thank you. They don't speak at all. What she revels in is how she is able to take them from seedling to flowering-- without a thank-you and without applause.

It is the same way that she has stood by me over all these many years of public life and, also, our children, who she had to nurture and to explain after September 11 what was happening in Washington, D.C., and whether Dad was okay.

It is spouses who give up so much of their lives on behalf of the elected officials that they represent. They do so willingly. They don't complain. They never seek the footlights. They never truly receive the thanks that they richly deserve.

More than a master gardener, my wife, Leslie, has been there for me and my children and has done so persistently, even when things have been tough and even when there is unfair scrutiny and expectation.

I don't think Congress does enough, Mr. Speaker, for our spouses. In fact, we seem to have done less and less over the 28 years that I have been here. There ought to be more recognition for the true sacrifice that they have made. I don't think there is a Member here in the body, married, unmarried, or whatnot, who can think of people who have sacrificed more than the loved ones who they represent.

Mr. Speaker, I rise today--and I will submit remarks later for the Record--to thank my wife, Leslie Larson, for her continued support and love for me but, as importantly, for her children, the community she lives in, the great State, and, of course, this great Nation we all love.

Mr. Speaker, I include in the Record the following eulogy, which was introduced by Raymond D. Larson on behalf of his dear friend, Nolan W. Callahan. Nolan gave this eulogy for his father, Mark E. Callahan. The eulogy encapsulates an extraordinary life of an everyday American, husband, and father. Delivered on February 1, 2018, the eulogy commemorates a life defined by resilience, warmth, and an unwavering love for his fellow man. More than a tribute, it serves as a timeless guide on how to live life, urging us to laugh hard, look at the stars and feel small, and dedicate ourselves to making others brim with joy. It is one of millions of stories of the American Experience made possible by the will, determination, and perseverance of Mark E. Callahan.

First of all, thank you all for being here. Looking out

today I see Mark's close friends and family all gathered to

celebrate his life, and it's an honor to address you all, as

you were the reason that Mark fought as hard as he did

against his illness. I especially want to thank the clergy

and staff here at Saint Patrick's and Saint Anthony's, as

well as the staff at Newkirk & Whitney funeral home. You all

helped give my father a beautiful ceremony and you've helped

my family and I garner a sense of grace and closure. Thank

you.

I believe it was in the middle of summer in 2013 when Mark

suffered an accident that severely damaged his right eye.

After countless procedures and surgeries, he ended up losing

a majority of his vision, rendering him all but blind in one

eye. It was later that year, in December, when he got the

fateful phone call that brings us all together today, over

four years later. Yet, a while after being diagnosed with his

cancer, Gary McKeone, who was one of Mark's friends,

organized a party for him with the help of Sully's Cafe of

East Hartford and a few other coworkers. The Gazette, a local

newspaper, heard that the jolly good fellow was having drinks

raised to his name, and naturally sent a reporter to cover

the event. My father was a very popular man. Days pass, and

soon enough I see the edition of the paper that had the

article about Dad. And I'll never forget the headline. It was

a quote from Mark, and it simply said, ``I feel like the

luckiest man in the world.'' The luckiest man in the world.

This was after losing half his vision, while in the midst of

staving off a terminal disease, and he was the luckiest man

in the world. I believe that almost everyone in the world,

myself included, would have given up if they were dealt the

hand Dad was, but not him. Instead he thrived. He didn't

merely say that he felt like the luckiest man in the world,

he truly believed it, and lived that way: every day a

celebration and every moment a new memory waiting to be had.

While I was writing this I had a hard time deciding which

stories to share with the congregation today that might

illuminate the kind of man my father was. It wasn't difficult

because there weren't enough stories to choose from, just the

contrary. I sat for hours running through my mind, thinking

of the things he did, as well as the lore I've heard from his

family and friends of his colorful past. I thought maybe I

could talk about his endless quest for knowledge, perhaps

tell you all of the time he had a question about space and

decided the best and only way to get to the bottom of things

was to pick up the phone and call NASA. (They didn't help at

all. They were only concerned with finding out how on earth

he had gotten their number.) Or, maybe I could try to explain

his spontaneous and fun loving nature, and tell you all about

the time he gave Tiny Tim a ride to one of his shows in one

of Uncle Kevin's flower shop delivery vans. That's a true

story, but not one that would adequately describe the man he

was. Instead, when I think about my father I think about two

things; his unfaltering love for his fellow man, and his

sense of humor.

Years ago when I was a boy, Dad used to take Molly, Rose

and I to Terry pool on Saturday mornings to swim. This was a

dream come true for us, an Olympic sized pool all to

ourselves in the dead heat of summer. We would cool off while

Dad took care of maintaining the pool, which would open up a

few hours later to the public. Needless to say, every time we

got the opportunity to go to work with him, we would always

pounce on the opportunity. Now, one night he and I were

coming back from the beach when he suddenly realized that he

had left a pump on at the pool, and he told me that we needed

to stop by Terry so he could turn it off. When we got there,

I stayed in the car as he walked into his pump room,

affectionately called ``The Cave''. When he came back out, he

was preceded by two people, pool hoppers as he called them,

soaking wet wrapped up in towels. Dad came out right behind

them, shook their hands, locked the pool, and got back in the

car.

He proceeded to tell me what had happened. Apparently, when

he walked into The Cave, he could hear distinct voices and

splashing coming from the water. He walked out to the deck,

and saw two people: a father and a son. Upon their seeing

him, they jumped out of the pool and began to climb the

fence, assuming my dad would call the police or chase them

out or something like that. I'm sure that's what most people

would do in his situation, but not my father. Instead, he

asked them to get down off the fence because he was afraid

they might hurt themselves on the way over. He introduced

himself and offered them towels, and asked why they were

there. It turns out the man was trying to teach his son how

to swim, and couldn't afford the entry fee to the pool during

regular hours. My dad, hearing this, made a deal with them;

that he would let them into the pool during regular hours for

free so long as they didn't try to hop the fence again. A

laugh and a handshake later, a deal was struck and abided by.

I don't know why, but that sentiment stuck with me forever.

Help your fellow man. Regardless of the circumstances, if

someone is in need of help, provide.

My father was also, without a doubt, the funniest man I've

ever met. At any party or event, the seat next to him was

always the best seat in the house. His sense of humor was

discrete and dry, his laughter contagious, and his wit razor

sharp while somehow also benevolent. He never laughed at

anyone, only with them. If he decided he wanted you to laugh,

within minutes you'd be gasping for air and drying your eyes.

Him being a master of the craft of comedy, he could take any

situation and turn it into the hardest you've laughed all

week. It was a showing of his love, he genuinely only wanted

people to have a good time, even if it meant putting a cheese

doodle in each nostril and staring at you until you noticed.

He was a man who enjoyed creating laughter more than he

enjoyed laughing himself, a sentiment that was dramatically

increased whenever he was surrounded by family.

Now, there aren't words that can describe how much he loved

his family. His brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, children

and wife were his entire world. These are the people he

lived, and ultimately fought for. His time on earth was

brief, but he provided a bounty for all who knew him. I think

about everything he gave me, and at the end of his life I

realized the greatest thing he ever gave me was this family,

the people sitting in this very church. He gave me the world

through all of you, and my sisters and my mother.

I sometimes wonder, when he walked into Michael's Bakery

and proposed to the woman standing behind the counter, if he

knew at the time that he was in fact asking the strongest

woman in the world to marry him. Mom, the care and affection

you provided for Dad not only in the past four years, but

during the entirety of your marriage has changed my

definition of love. Your complete selflessness and awe

inspiring dedication to his well-being is nothing short of

miraculous.

I'll leave you now asking you to live the way Mark did, let

his life be an example of how to be happy. Laugh hard and

often. Unconditionally love not only your family and friends

but the strangers you meet on the way. Dedicate yourself to

the mission of making others brim with joy. Read a book and

share it. Look at the stars and feel small. Get a running

head start and dive headfirst into the ocean. Rise with the

Sun. Drive with the windows down. Eat pancakes before they

get cold. Go to a wedding and dance all night. Hug your

children. Work hard. Call NASA. Take a nap in a bath of

sunlight. Hug a dog. Be honest. Fight for what you want. But

most of all, live in the moment and smile for every second of

it.