We’d be at dinner, watching TV—anywhere, really—and Ken would start laughing, louder and louder, knowing one of us would get it out of him.

“What’s up, Dad?” his daughter, Gabrielle (known to him more often than not as Gabbo) would ask.

“Nothing, nothing,” he’d say, cracking up even harder.

“Dad!” she’d say, laughing too, wondering which bit he’d start on today.

Most likely, it’d be the story of when he took his wife, Julie, to a screening of the holiday-slasher-definitely-not-appropriate-for-a-first-date horror movie, Silent Night, Deadly Night for their first date. (Runner-up: when she wore a fancy dress to a baseball game and momentarily passed out from the heat.) Every once in a while, he’d remind Gab that he still couldn’t find a bicycle helmet appropriately sized to her head. Or his son, Brady, about his Kramer-looking hair, or his dubious gameness to eat the behemoth hamburgers he’d squish together for his legendary barbecues. Or, he would just cut up on Gab’s husband, Jason, who made his brave entry into Ken’s loving roasts and never looked back.

Sometimes, we’d return the favor, and remind Ken of every single minute of the two and a half hours it took for him to do his hair.

Ken would sit with his family and laugh for hours.

It was Ken’s humor, wit, and endless charm—and the love behind it all—that made him a beloved son, brother, uncle, husband, and father. Growing up in Carnegie with his mother, Helen, his father, Bob, and sister, Barb, Ken was raised on a few core virtues: the power of Polish cuisine, a deep appreciation of Civil War history, and any and all Pittsburgh sports. When he went to the University of Pittsburgh, he’d wait until Forbes Field opened its gates after the seventh inning, so he could sneak in and catch the end of a Pirates game, seeing Maz, Sweetness, and all his heroes. If you ever went to a Pirates game with Ken, he’d nearly fall off the ferry into the river on the way there, sure, but he’d buy you a soft-serve cone and give you a lesson in baseball history—and tell you about those late innings at Forbes Field.

Ken was an absolute joy to spend time with, instantly getting along with everyone he met, which made him not only an incredible member of our family, but a best friend. As his niece, Cindy, and nephew, Johnny, were growing up, he was known to pull the occasional prank or two. Or three. Don’t ask about the doll head. In the mornings, he’d make you (and himself, a couple times over) a piping hot and entirely-too-strong coffee, paired with the best breakfast sandwich you’ve ever had. If you were driving around town with Ken—avoiding the highways, of course—in search of the best hoagie in town, ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” would soundtrack your afternoon together. At night, if you were flipping through TV with him, and either Ken Burns’s The Civil War (or Baseball, of course), Supernatural, or the cheesiest horror B-movie you could ever dream up (Space Clown, anyone?), he’d pop a bag of popcorn for you and watch the whole way through.

Ken was a loving husband, a caring father, and a great man. Remember him by his kindness, heart, and the love he had for his family—and his smile, the one he’d get when he was about to start cutting up.

His family would like to extend their heartfelt gratitude for all of the caregivers along Ken’s way who took the time and met him where he was, especially on the third floor and inpatient hospice units at Canterbury Place.