Lionel David LaCasse

He was preceded in death by his parents, elder brother Chester Leo LaCasse, and his beloved children Lionel “Skip” LaCasse (Mary), Raymond LaCasse, and Pequette LaCasse Johnson (Jim). Lionel was a devoted husband to Charlene Miraglia LaCasse. He is survived by Charlene, sister Connie LaCasse Rossland, and brother David “Chipper” LaCasse (Carol). He is also survived by daughter Laurie LaCasse (Gabe), son Ronnie LaCasse (Lori), and 12 grandchildren with 9 great-grandchildren.

Lionel moved to Chicago, IL in 1955 from Lake Linden, MI and became a successful baker. Gifted mechanically, as his father Chester was, he later became an equipment supervisor for Burney Brothers Bakery Company. He loved the U.P. and bought a second home in Calumet, MI. There he pursued his passion for fishing the plentiful streams and lakes of the U.P. He also enjoyed riding his motorcycle around the country over the past 60 years.

Lionel was the best husband, father, and brother. Thank you for being the man that you were.

His granddaughter, Destinee Helen Marie Harris, had these words to share about him:

“Lionel LaCasse, known to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren as Pa.

Not many can say that they got to know my Pa well, as he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve but if you looked close enough you could see it through a twinkle in his eyes (if he let you). He did in fact know you though. He was gifted with an ability to understand you and he listened to you, your undertones and overtones — nothing passed him. With Pa, you were seen, heard and understood, even if he didn’t particularly like you or a single thing you said. He preferred to be neither heard nor seen and through life he was skilled at achieving that. In his youth, I believe, he’d say it served him well. Later in life we were all drawn to him, seeking that twinkle and wisdom we’d hope he’d share. Selfishly, a visit with Pa would reinstate in you that you were a real person, that what you feel or how you see the world is real and recognized. He would tell you in fact that, that in itself meant nothing but if you knew him, it meant the world. At any point in time in a visit, you could go from tears to laughter or if in a sad case where you didn’t see the humor, you really missed out. His front door was always open and he may not meet you with a smile but he’d hold the door and pull up a chair, every time.

I know God held the door open for Pa, I know he pulled up a chair at heaven’s kitchen table with his family sitting there expecting him. I hope he’s still there at that table when it’s my turn, to give me that twinkle and an understanding nod.”

Lionel’s granddaughter Rachael LaCasse-Fangman wrote a wonderful remembrance of her Pa:

“When I was really young, we lived with Pa on a dead end road right by the highway. Big pine trees filled the yard, and one of them held a swing made out of rope and an old piece of wood. He always seemed to be in the garage. There was always something going on in there–tools, visits from friends, my dad, the low hum of work–and often the steady, almost musical rhythm of his Harley idling while he stood nearby, cigarette in hand, making some small adjustment or just letting it run.

One of my earliest memories of him in that house isn’t in the garage, though–it’s in the kitchen, watching him make tea. He scooped the bag of tea out with a spoon, wrapped the string around the whole thing, and squeezed as much of the liquid out as he could. I was probably only about 4 and couldn’t handle how hot the tea was and failed to copy him with my own cup, but he winked at me like he had some secret other than just being older than me with tougher hands. To this day I love tea, and can’t make a cup without thinking about him. And yea, I still employ the wrap and squeeze method.

He had thick metal bracelets welded on to his wrists since as far back as I can remember. I’m told he messed with my dad to make him nervous about burning him when he insisted my dad weld these pieces of metal on. I wasn’t there but I can hear his chuckle at razzing someone just the same. I remember asking him once what would happen if he had to take them off one day, and his casual answer was that they’d just have to cut his hand off, no big deal. He passed with one of those bracelets still on, and even though his wrist was thin and it slipped around more easily than it used to, the image of that strong metal still being there spoke volumes about his quiet consistency.

As I grew older–through moves and divorces and all the reshuffling life brings–I’d find my way back to him. His door was always open. There was always a chair at the kitchen table or out on the porch. Sometimes we’d sit in silence; more often we’d talk, though I couldn’t tell you now about what. Important things, trivial things…it didn’t really matter. What stayed was a feeling of contentment and time well spent. Even on the days I did most of the talking and wondered if he was really listening or if he was just thinking I was some chirpy broad with nothing profound to say, there was something steady in his presence, like the rhythm of that Harley in the garage years before.

When my dad passed, I realized he had been listening all along. He wasn’t a mushy or sentimental man, and rarely made his presence known in a crowd, but when he cleared the room so he could tell me he understood how complicated all my feelings must be I knew. I knew without a doubt he’d been listening to everything I did and didn’t say through the years. He thanked me for being there, even when it would have made sense and been easier for me not to be. In the middle of his own grief, he validated my feelings and showed up as this quiet column of strength and understanding, with just enough humor to soften the weight of it. I have a feeling he did that for a lot of people over the years–steady, understated, and full of humor-laced wisdom if you were paying enough attention to catch it.

One of my last stop ins at Pa’s house was shortly after his health started to decline. His response to the sadness I failed to hide from him was that it was ok. He said ‘I lived a good life, when it’s my time it will be ok.’ I don’t know if that was just his simple belief, or if he was somehow trying to take care of me in that moment, but it worked. Fast forward to the last time I saw him, and the reality that he wasn’t long for this world threw a veil of melancholy over our visit, but his words that he’d had a good life remained with me while I held his hand, took a last look at that welded on bracelet, and said what I knew in my heart was my final goodbye.

I like to picture him able to ride that Harley again, sun glinting off his bracelets. In my version of the heaven he’s in there’s a garage or a table where his parents, three kids, his brother, and anyone else who went there before him can pull up a chair for a visit. There’s probably an old swing hanging from a big tree, and his dogs who he loved so much are there, too. He might even still be using the old wrap and squeeze trick when he wants some tea. Who knows, really. But I do know he lived a good life. And maybe, many years from now, there will be a chair there waiting for me.”

The funeral service for Lionel LaCasse is tentatively planned for May and will be announced at a later date. The Pearce Funeral Home in Lake Linden is in charge of arrangements. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Saint Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Online condolences may be shared at pearcefuneralhome.com