Mark was a true inspiration. I had the pleasure of working with Mark in many different capacities at Estes. No matter how hard the day got Mark always looked for what was going right and what the positive was in the day no matter how small it was. I have worked with alot of people and Mark will always be one of my favorites. No matter how hard he worked he never took the credit for what was being done he would always tell his clerks that it was because of them that the day was good. His pride for seeing people accomplish even the smallest of tasks was overwhelming. He was and will always be a great inspiration to myself and many others. Mark I will miss our McDonald's Fridays, your amazing (and sometimes inappropriate) stories, your laugh and the way that no matter how hard I was on myself you always had a way of making me feel like  I could do anything....and for that I will be forever grateful! 

Your family is in our thoughts! 

There are not enough words at this time to express the heartache we are feeling at Estes Express right now. I am so delighted to read all the beautiful ways Mark touched his children.  He often boasted about his children to me at work. I loved hearing his funny stories from of old growing up on the "Westside". As a work colleague, I will always appreciate Mark. I remember when I first came aboard as a P&D Driver for Estes, Mark, really took the time to tell me just how proud he was of me and how hard I worked to get there. I truly appreciated hearing that from him. I will miss telling him, "I won't be here Friday" and his reply was always, "You're going someplace fun aren't you?" 

You are Missed, "Marky-Mark"😊😊❤💜💙

May you rest in the loving arms of our creator🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

“Well it's alright the way that you live, it's alright the way that you live.”

Eleven years ago on a roadtrip with my father, I shared the album The Monitor by the band Titus Andronicus. I was meandering through my twenties, struggling in general, and the raucous, Springsteen-esque, literary punk spoke to me. My father always displayed (maybe feigned at times?) the utmost interest in whatever my sister and I were listening to. That was the type of man he was. He listened intently. He genuinely wanted to know the people around him. The Monitor is overstuffed with themes on the complicated nature of humanity, and my dad soaked it in. Its lyrics hold a light to society’s ugliest pieces, filtered through deep empathy, a complicated love of life, and a desire to do no harm in our short time here. I was surprised at how much he loved the album most might consider strange, but thinking back, it makes sense.

I’ve been blessed with exemplary human beings on which to model my life. When experiencing loss, many people are comforted by the idea that our loved ones are in a better place, that they are no longer experiencing pain, and that their spirit will always continue to be with us. I encourage you to seek the more tangible things they left behind. My Opa left behind the most “can-do” attitude and work ethnic I’ve ever known. I see it in his son Kenny, and in all of his grandchildren. He taught us that “there is a tool for every job.” There is a second part to that quote left unspoken, but if you know, you know. My Uncle Hans left behind a contagious spirit and love for life. I’m reminded of him every time I hear that unmistakable belly laugh from his son Andrew. That laugh says more than words ever could, lightens up any room, and genuinely makes you feel like everything is going to be OK.

My father leaves behind a deep love of humanity and a desire to take care of those less fortunate. I see it in his daughter, who dedicated her life to social work. I see it in his grandsons, Harrison and Crosby, who are two of the most loving and caring children you’ll ever meet. He left me with the great wisdom that sometimes, just showing up is enough. He inspired me with a moral compass unparalleled. It's one thing to always do the right thing, always make the selfless decision. It's another thing to do that out of genuine care for those around you, to have a genuine love for everyone you meet. That’s what my father leaves behind with me. It's why I became a teacher. I hope I can tread as lightly as he did, and make the people around me feel as welcome and included as he always did to those around him.

I am comforted that though my dad’s time was cut unexpectedly short, he got more out of life than most could in a hundred years. He reveled in travel, spending hours basking in the music on Frenchmen Street or in the dive bars of Nashville. He appreciated art and passed on a great taste in music and film. He never missed the opportunity to belly up to a bar and strike up conversations with complete strangers. He danced at music festivals and would always be the last one up sipping bourbon next to a campfire. He showed me what is important in life and to not sweat the small stuff. He taught me how to be a great father.

It’s no secret that we shared a (perhaps unhealthy) love of golf. I’ll never forget our golf trips, even though the details of some nights are a bit fuzzy. He’d break me out of school as a kid, writing fake excuses for dentist appointments so that we could get in 18 holes. We’d often finish and sneak back to the first tee for another “emergency 9”, much to the dismay of our spouses waiting at home.

Three weeks ago, we played our final round together. Be present in every moment, your time isn’t guaranteed. As we often did as a twosome, we saw a gentleman playing by himself and invited him to join us. As a shy kid, I hated being paired with strangers on the golf course. My father taught me to relish in the opportunity to meet someone, hear their story, and make a new friend. As always my father took genuine interest in the gentleman, and the stranger opened up to us about his life. He shared his story of taking up the game late because he was raised by a single mother in a tough spot. By the end of the round, my father was fatigued and unable to finish, the first hint that something was wrong. But he continued to ride along with us, chumming it up with the stranger like they were lifelong friends. My dad had a habit of repeating a phrase to those we would meet on the golf course at the end of the round: “You never know what kind of person you’re going to be paired with, but I really enjoyed playing with you today.” Funny thing is, he said this every time, no matter the circumstance, and he meant it. He saw the best in everyone, no matter what.

A few months back, Titus Andronicus announced a tour to celebrate the anniversary of their seminal album, The Monitor, my dad immediately bought us tickets. I’m certain he would have been the only person there over forty years old, but that was just the type of person he was. He wanted to live and experience everything he could, and he did right up to the end. In reflecting on who my dad was, I think I’ve better understood why he enjoyed the album so much, aside from the blistering guitar solos. At its core, The Monitor is about navigating a world full of suffering and strife, while maintaining an unwavering commitment to caring for your fellow humans. It’s about marching on in spite of immeasurable odds. That’s who my father was. He could weather the storm better than anyone. While he won’t be there with me at the show in November, I hope the words of Patrick Stickles resonated with him in the end. It's alright the way that you lived, dad, it’s alright the way that you lived.  

I worked with Mark for years, I called him Sunshine and he sang the Sunshine song to me every morning. 

I will miss Mark for his great smiles and orneriness that he had in him

Jill Gillespie 

My dad had a way with words. He always knew the right thing to say. I went to him when I needed a grounded perspective on what mattered most in life. As a perfectionist, I often get caught up in the minutiae of everything, punishing myself for tiny mistakes. Dad's advice? "You gotta expect losses." It was a constant refrain of his, so much so that it became a bit of a joke in our household. "You gotta expect losses." It's so simple, yet so comforting to me. It allowed me to breathe easier, to accept that things will not be perfect and they shouldn't be perfect and it was ok. And he was right. But this loss, this one is a little too much to take.

There was not a person who met my dad that did not enjoy his company, that did not quickly advance from stranger status to that of friend. An excellent conversationalist, highly empathetic, and intelligent beyond what he ever cared to reveal, his humility and thoughtfulness made him the definition of 'down to earth.' I left every interaction with my dad feeling affirmed, confident, and with a smile on my face knowing he was beyond proud of the person I had become. I am who I am because of him.

It's because of my dad that I love the theatre. He took me to Broadway shows downtown despite it being financially difficult for our family at the time. It's because of my dad that I am a photographer. He bought me the camera I still use today and inspired me to explore the art and beauty in documenting the everyday. It's because of my dad that music is integral to my family. He took my brother and me to concerts and festivals at such an early age that I can barely remember our first live show. Now having kids of my own, I recognize it takes a true hero to take a crew of children to see a hard rock concert, to enjoy the sights and sounds while simultaneously shielding them from the occasional drug paraphernalia that is ubiquitous in such settings. Our last concert was Dr. Dog less than a month ago. We delighted in the experience of sharing Lenny's first music festival together. These are the transformative experiences that my dad gave to me, and that I now have the pleasure of passing on to my children in his name.

I am glad he's at peace. I'm grateful for the final moments I had with him, listening to David Bowie and squeezing his hand. But there's a lot to grieve. I'll miss his pop in visits to my kids, when Opa brought an abundance of sweets but always made sure to bring them a bowl of fruit for balance. I'll miss the times he randomly called or texted me "Sweater Song!" because he felt he had an obligation to tell me whenever and wherever he heard the Weezer classic. I'll miss him calling me to sing Happy Birthday in my Oma's German accent. I'll miss him singing (and grossly misremembering the lyrics) the little Dutch boy limerick to my kids. I'll miss late night campfire conversations in Nelsonville and sharing a cold beer over some good tunes. I grieve that we missed the opportunity to explore New Orleans together. I'll miss being able to physically ask him, "what would Opa do?"

But as one of my favorite musicians said, "the stuff of us that's most real is eternal and free." His essence, his spirit lives on. It will live on in my photographs. It lives on in my children who share his likeness and his love of music. It lives on when we go to Braves games and I teach the kids the meticulous art of official scorekeeping. Although Lenny may not recall his embrace, I hope that she'll feel the connection to her Opa through the many ways in which he's impacted our lives and the example he set. His legend looms large in our hearts. I sense that we'll always be able to ask ourselves "what would Opa do?" and he will come to us when we need him the most. I am heartbroken but I am so lucky to have had him as a father. I know that I have to expect losses. His spirit has comforted me through this transition, and for that, for him, I am eternally grateful. From the bottom of my heart, thank you Dad.