He started as the kid who stayed after class to make the teacher laugh, discovering early that humor could soften even the hardest day. Small-town stages, cramped comedy clubs, and low-budget sets became his training ground, not for stardom, but for connection. He learned the rhythm of real conversation, the power of a pause, the honesty of a line delivered like a secret between friends.

As his career grew, he never hardened into a persona. Directors trusted him, crews loved him, and audiences felt like they’d known him for years. He was the steady presence in the background of our lives, the voice that made grief easier and joy bigger. When he died at 69, the loss felt strangely personal, like a light in the corner of the room going out. What remains is that quiet glow he left behind in everyone he ever made feel seen.