Michael Thomas Spies

Born in Inglewood, and lovingly referred to as the “the golden child” by his siblings, he was the last blessed child of 6. Shortly following his birth, his family moved to Anaheim. On rare but nostalgic occasions, he told heartfelt childhood stories of running freely through the acres of orange groves in a county whose namesake credits the Orange for the groves behind his childhood home.

The Wonder Years

Mike was indulged by his older siblings, especially Joan and Pat, both whom stake claim to “changing his diapers” and rearing him alongside their mother Helen.

Like many others from his generation, he watched the sixties unfold through the lens of a wondrous child. He watched his older brother Larry get drafted to Vietnam, the Beatles breakup and JFK get shot.

He attended elementary school at St. Justin Martyr for 8 years, primarily taught by nuns in full habits. He humbly revealed later that until he was 13, he thought nuns were actually bald.

As a child he would race his sister home from school to watch “Sheriff John” on TV. His sister Margie, older but inevitably slower than he, was forced to watch “Dark Shadows” on the miniature TV set: “Too bad, Peanut.” He liked playing sports. His older brothers Larry and Bill hazed him into competitive sports. In fact, they played so rough one time, the neighbors called his mother “concerned for Mike’s safety” as a growing boy.

That 70s Show

Mike went to Loara High School in Anaheim, CA (class of ’77), which is where he met Kelly Holman, a sparky brunette and school mascot. Kelly admitted later she hoodwinked Mike into talking to her by faking a “locker combination issue.”

By nature an introvert, Mike asked his friend to ask his friend to ask Kelly on their first date. An extrovert at heart, Kelly met him where he was – especially when he rode up to her house to pick her up on his ’76 orange Suzuki motorcycle, a good luck charm which remains parked in his garage to this day.

Their first date was at a roller disco, neither his first or last time on roller skates.

Under the sparkling disco lights of the local roller-skating rink, Kelly ‘accidently’ fell and Mike saw an opportunity to plant one that basically sealed the deal. The year was 1976. The loudspeaker played Paul McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs” – the next two years were storybook. They married in ‘78. Mike proposed while they climbed trees in Majeska Park, a block away from his childhood home.

If you’ve ever visited their house, a Boston fern from their wedding day sits on the front porch. The fern recently turned 42 years old, a living metaphor for the marriage journey so many of us were inspired by and aspire to.

Two years following their wedding, the pair started a family. They had a daughter Elizabeth and three sons Michael, Thomas and Matthew. He is also survived by two adoring grandchildren, Mirabel and Dylan, who for an unexplained reason affectionately named him “Bubba.” The name stuck.

Following his father’s footsteps, Mike was instinctually a good coach. He made time from a busy career and coached every one of his kids in every single sport.  As years went on, other kids he coached called him “a second dad” and “the best coach I’ve ever had.” “He not only taught me about the sport, but about life.”  His end-cap to every pregame speech he gave was “go have fun,” which was code for “kick their a**” because not-so-secretly, he was fiercely competitive. He loved an underdog win more than anything.

His kids recall his magic tricks with Necco candy wafers. He could magically pull candy out of your ear. He invented his own card game called “Everybody Wins,” a plagiarized and utopian renaming of “War.”  He taught them how to bet and gamble with Skittles, and took them to Vegas when they were 21 to celebrate in grand fashion at the Craps tables.

Mike got his first job out of college at the legendary Hughes Aircraft in the time of famed aviator Howard Hughes. He worked in the aerospace industry for 30 years, retiring at 55 as Director of IT for Raytheon’s Space and Airborne Systems. Colleagues trusted his patient leadership style, knowing he would speak what was necessary, when necessary. He led with quiet strength and wisdom – similar to his personal life.

On the day he retired, he celebrated by burning his starched collared shirts, work slacks and dumped his work shoes in the garbage, which comes on Monday, a subtle homage to his most dreaded day of the week. He proudly wore shorts and sandals the rest of his life except for the special days he performed weddings for young couples. He borrowed ties on those days and began to operate under the name “Reverend Love.”

Empty Nest

Upon retirement, he and Kelly bought a truck and hit the road. They graced the marble floors of the Taj Majal, studied Buddhism and Hinduism at the temples of Angkor Wat, stood atop the melting glaciers in the Alaskan wild, paid tribute at Mozart’s tomb in Austria, learned how to make beer with the Benedictine monks in rural Germany, and picked tea leaves for a tea ceremony with local Sri Lankans. Together, they visited nearly 30 countries and 32/50 of the U.S. states and National Parks. They bode their spare time between Hawaii, Cambria, CA and various GroupOn travel deals – Kelly’s forte.

Mike had three goals in retirement beyond travel. He wrote them in caps in his Franklin Planner: 1. Create and build relationships, 2. Become an avid golfer, 3. Learn the guitar. We emotionally, but proudly checked them off for him.  Well-done, Bubba.

He also took guitar and ukulele duet classes with his daughter. He golfed and camped with his sons. He taught his grandchildren how to swim. Without fail he reserved Saturdays for Notre Dame football, Sunday for family dinners, and mid-week fall nights for John Wooden’s Bruins. He thought the Dodgers were a bunch a’ bums – a rare but targeted critique of anything or anyone, and one mainly inherited from his father Fred.

At his core, he was an understated philosopher in search of knowledge. He spent sacred time with his loved ones and had a poignant elegance of expressing wisdom of his years of error and triumph with love and kindness. He embraced his later life roles to the fullest as husband, dad, grandfather, coach, fan, mentor, confidante, friend, uncle, brother, sage and keystone to a loving and adoring extended family and community.

He will be remembered as a gentle giant who knew he had nothing left to prove on this Earth because his intentions were pure and his priorities secure.

Lastly, he would want you all to know that he was definitely taller than his brother Bill.

Rest in Peace, Bubba - Move those Chains Forever.