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While blowing out the candles on his 96th birthday cake, Ron proclaimed that he might "fall asleep on us" before he turned 97, punctuating the statement with one of his signature laughs. Ron was, if nothing else, a man of his word. He knew what he knew and practiced it consistently. He knew his family, his friends, and believed in being kind and doing the best you could with what you had.

Being born into the Great Depression forged his frugality, work ethic, and resourcefulness. This mentality seemed to know no bounds as the yards, garages, and basements he had access to began to resemble junkyards more than places of residence. His collection was simply his common-sense way of being resourceful; anything still boasting a box was "like brand-new!" While growing up in that era brought many challenges, Ron always found a way to introduce a few more. We were often regaled with stories from his youth, like the time he tried to conquer his fear of heights by climbing onto the roof of his five-story school. A white-knuckle grip on the gutter and a quick response from the local fire department taught him enough of a lesson to only attempt such a feat once more after that.

Ron split his youth between Cleveland and Los Angeles. At age 10, he departed Cleveland with a suitcase full of clothes, traveling cross-country by train alone. He returned to Cleveland at 16 after graduating from Manual Arts school, that same suitcase now stuffed with vinyl records. His return, he explained, was in part because he "wanted to be with the friends he grew up with." He made good on that wish, as they all started families, grew old, and continued making memories together.

His search for professional opportunity began at a tender age, doing whatever he could get paid for, leading to some memorable misadventures. These included competing with the Ragman and his cart, being sprayed in the eye with freon while collecting refrigerators for scrap, and a brief, too-literal stint attempting to paint home interiors by coating everything in the room. Who knows how many more shenanigans he has taken with him.

Throughout his life, Ron wore many hats: proud husband, father, grandfather, uncle, godparent, police officer, and entrepreneur. His dedication and fierce work ethic were equal parts living out his beliefs and trying to create a life of comfort for those around him. Often working up to three jobs at once, he was a man of action. He served as a Cleveland Police officer for 35 years, spending most of his time working in the third district and eventually out of Cleveland's Justice Center, before he retired. If he wasn't on-duty as an officer, he was working after-hours security, directing traffic, attending to a junkyard, or doing yard work. If his own yard was already tended to, you'd find him a house or two over, mowing their grass without invitation. It was this spirit that led him to explore entrepreneurship by starting Skillcraft, a business selling products made by visually impaired workers. He also attended most sports, competitions, and intramural activities that his grandson Thomas participated in throughout his entire life.

Ron's frugality was the stuff of legend. He'd drive halfway across town to save ten cents on tomatoes and often told his wife they were "out-of-stock" at the grocery simply because he refused to pay the asking price. Despite this penny-pinching, Ron's heart was as big as his laugh. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, quick to show his temper, amusement, and general contentment with life.

A man of many talents, Ron enjoyed bowling into his 90s, horseshoes, cornhole, scraping, and both dancing and horseback riding with his beloved Josephine. He was also an amateur boxer, thanks to his father and uncle Pat's insistence that all the boys in the family be schooled in it or lose a tooth trying. He even delivered a baby while on Police duty!

His last few years were challenged by the onset of Lewy body dementia after going under anesthesia for a hip replacement at ninety-one. While the disease certainly brought its challenges, its confusion was often met with curiosity and a hearty laugh at himself for not being able to understand what time it was. The dementia sometimes paired well with his near-complete loss of hearing—possibly an effect of using empty bullet shells for ear plugs in the police shooting range. If you saw him wandering around the yard at 2 am, don't worry, he was just trying to see "who had the gall to run a chainsaw at this hour."

Ron would want to be remembered as valued, helpful, and reliable – three qualities he embodied throughout his life. His dedication to helping others was his way of showing he cared and gave him purpose.

To be close to Ron was to be family. He leaves behind a legacy of commitment, consistency, laughter, love, and a gravitas of belonging that words can't do justice. He is survived by his daughter Gail, grandson Thomas, numerous nieces and nephews, and lifelong friends and their families, all of which include: Avon, Lombardo, Kontul, Reed, Mazur, Kajganich, Abarca, Cubar, and Smiths. He also leaves behind two cats, Tina & Gigi, and one last bucket of copper wire for stripping.

Ron was predeceased by his beloved wife of 60 years, Josephine Avon (Kontul), who surely welcomed him with open arms and immediate questions about their cats. Also waiting to greet him are his: sister Dolores Avon (Reed), nieces Judy and Kathy Reed, Annie Vanek (Kajganich), nephew Gary Kontul, many brothers- and sisters-in-law, including Charles Reed [fellow officer] and, most recently, Erma Kontul (Mariotti), cousin Theresa Kuehn, lifelong friends John Mazur and Dorothy Abarca, many of his police partners and friends including his partner Donald Bellew, a 1960s extended Chevy van for road trips, and his pets Cobina and Cleo (a stray cat who gifted them with 9 others!).

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that future visitors to Ron's grave leave a small piece of scrap metal or a good garage sale find. Ron would appreciate the gesture, especially if you managed to get it at a discount.

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