John "Jack" Flood passed on June 12th, 2025, after a long struggle with life and its myriad complications. He dodged Friday the 13th by half a day, and he was 91 lucky years young when he passed.

He was born in Oak Park hospital in 1934, in the Chicago-land area, son of the late Muriel, nee Keneally, and Emmet Flood, and preceded in death by his brothers and sisters the late Emmet (the late Barbara), the late Mary (the late Martin) Wallace, the late William (the late Carol), the late Joseph (Mary Ann) Flood, and the late Muriel T. McDarrah, nee Flood; and survived by his lively and vigorous sister Annie Quinn (the late Martin) nee Flood.

Jack came into the world during the throes of the Great Depression, fortunate enough to be fed "cow's milk" seasoned with dextrose-maltose, according to his hospital nurse maids daily log, which was a luxury in that era. Son of a son of a son, and born to a father that ran rum, and son of a mother, a flapper era socialite; and grandson to a noted union organizer, Emmet Flood.

Jack wore cardboard shoes as a child. " In those days we wore holes through the soles of our shoes, and we couldn't just buy new shoes, so we had to fold up cardboard so our feet didn't get sore." Beyond cold feet, Jack hated much about that era, and he hated especially school, and corporal punishment, which was unnecessarily brutal in those years. He also wasn't big on family, and it showed throughout his life, in his many struggles.

Despite that, he was a prolific and dedicated reader, loved to take coffee in the bathtub with a good book, and preferred the semi-autobiographical literary form. An avid music fan, savoring the words of his hometown hero Ernest Hemingway and the more exotic Henry Miller alongside the minstrels tales of Jim Croce and Sam Cook alike, and "soul music" generally, but he could never quite write down the many tall tales of his own fabulous life that he lived as a world traveler, preferring a live audience instead.

Many will recall his stories, and as he passes on through the veil of ether that awaits all the Irish, many will likely smile at his ability to recount his shenanigans with awe, as if he had kissed the Stone of Blarney himself--which it is widely believed he had. Yet due to the nature of tales, and especially tall ones, no one could be sure.  Such is the gift of gab-and he had that.

A lifelong pugilist, he was also a Korean War veteran. When plied, his story telling proficiency shined, perhaps having missed his calling as a writer. He lost his right eye through retinal detachment, in the service of his country, during a match he said wasn't worth it, and once remarked "I don't even know why we were there in the first place. I went to Korea to kill people, and those b*stards stationed me in Japan instead, boxing for the generals like I was some kind of animal in a cage!" 

Irony was often lost on him, a slight fault he never fully acknowledged.

After his service, and with one keen eye, he hitch hiked across the globe in the 1950's, his travels ranging from post-war England to India, Turkey to Iran and further, but his momentum was stopped at the border of China. 

 "As I was trying to get a ride over the mountains, a driver told me there had been an earthquake that destroyed the road!" It was one place he wished he could have visited, but fate intervened, and like "Balor of the piercing-eye" of Irish legend, fate decided his brave adventure and his singular focus on freedom from constraint and convention must end, and that he had seen enough of the globe. More than most ever will, and not quite enough, as he was know to travel throughout his life.

Jack's era was defined by social upheaval, including the assassination of a president,  the presidents brother, and other figures, and he had opinions about all of it. He also was active in the 1960's Chicago labor movement in peripheral roles. He was a lifelong admirer of the organizing ability of Martin L. King, and the ideals of social and racial unity and equality through the common humanity of labor and working persons. And he loved to roam the seedier parts of Chicago, his hometown, seeking persons whom he could share a pint, or share a story.

He had an affinity for the "action" around organizing, as well as a finger on the pulse of local garbage haulers, and rumor has it, in their pockets as well! He liked the idea behind the famous quotes of that era, such as “We may handle garbage but we’re not garbage,” and the Zen simplicity of "I am a man."

Sadly, beyond living a monoscopic  life, he also suffered from the pain of a broken back, an injury suffered in his youth spent hauling heavy cans of ashes in the service of his father and other mid century waste management lads. It was an injury from which he never recovered, the pain of which intruded on every aspect of his life, so much so that it clouded his already poor vision and abilities on a weekly basis. In that light, Jack wasn't gifted with the skills of patience, nor was he much of a family man, though he did his best under the circumstances that were "Jack." 

He leaves behind a family of six for the last time, with his known children Marissa, Marc (Kim), Christopher, Joseph, Rachel (Mourad), and Martin, finally without him, and also many, many grand kids and great grand kids, some of whom he knew, and many of whom he did not. Despite this, he is remembered well by many, and loved for what he was, and still is in hearts across the globe, and possibly even across the trailer park there in Freeport--the city where Lincoln freed the slaves with a well asked question*--and  where Jack came to his final end as well.

He was cremated without a service, and according to his wishes, and an un-named loved one from his many eusocial family circles received his ashes thus. In the tradition of the Irish traveler, the road has risen to meet him once again, and the wind at his back now and forever, the sun forever warm upon his face, and the rain still falling in the various cities and far flung fields he found himself throughout his life. 

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam!

* Though Jack couldn't elaborate upon it, he knew the gist of the Freeport Doctrine, and true to his quest to uphold the commonality and rights of the working persons, he did his best to honor its historic meaning. The question Abraham Lincoln posed to Stephen Douglas at Freeport, and which Douglas could not sufficiently answer, was a calculated constitutional question:  "could the people of a territory in any lawful way, against the wishes of any citizen of the United States, exclude slavery from their limits prior to formation of a state constitution?" That question handed Lincoln the election, and the rest is history.

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