Look back on history and April 2, 1966 doesn’t stand out for any particular reason. But legend has it there was a waxing gibbous moon the night Kevin Chigbrow was born and the evening sky grew noticeably brighter the moment he arrived—as though the moon were actually full.

If you ever had the pleasure of meeting Kevin, you surely walked away a little lighter on your feet. And if you saw him on a regular basis, say at the corner shop he once owned in his beloved NE Portland neighborhood, you probably left feeling you were walking on air. Kevin was infectious and always lifted your spirits. He led with an easy smile and a glint in his eyes. His chin was always up, even if his chips might be down. And if they ever were down, you’d never know it because Kevin always made it about you.

Kevin was incredibly handy. He could fix anything, whether it was your leaky faucet or your foul mood. He could build anything, too, be it a cabinet or your confidence. He could light a room with his electrical skills, or simply just by walking into it. At a party he could be the life of it. He would enjoy any offering, be it food, whiskey or wine. Then he’d purposefully stay late just to help with the dishes. On Christmas Eve he was known to play Santa for the neighbors, even at the risk of missing bedtime before the real Santa squeezed down his own chimney.

Kevin was the type of man who made other men want to be better men. He was a family man, first. He adored his beautiful wife, Leslie, more than anything on Earth. He held her higher than the stars and always seemed to know he’d hit the jackpot. And the feeling was obviously mutual. They were one of those rare double jackpots. To be in their presence was humbling. And always inspiring. They were the best of us.

They made a son—a beautiful, thoughtful and athletic son named Dane. They never missed a milestone—be it his first steps, or his first base hit. Dad was there for all of it. And he couldn’t have been more proud. No, Kevin never talked about himself, but he sure loved talking about his boy. Maybe they should have named him Great Dane.

Yeah, and let’s not forget their dog, Dash—the luckiest dog in the world. There’s a famous quote that says, “Be the person your dog thinks you are.” Kevin was exactly that. He was as good as it gets.

Seems the only thing Kevin couldn’t fix was cancer. He fought it tooth and nail, which is to say with his patented smile and all the tools in his box. Kevin died on August 18, 2024. The moon was nearly full, but one could swear the evening sky grew noticeably darker.

Kevin will forever shine on all those who survive him—his mother, father, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins and countless friends he held so dear, but especially Leslie and Dane. They will see and feel him everyday forward. For he is a light that will never go out.

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