Michael "The King" Robert Moran

The irreplaceable, irrepressible Michael R. Moran, also known as The King. The Big(-ah) Boss, Cumpà, Big Mike Moran, Diamond Mike, Daddy, Grandpa, et al., departed this world after a heroic and inspiring fight with Parkinson’s Disease on February 12th, 2025. He is survived by his wife of sixty years, Carmel (Walsh), two children, Michael Patrick (sp. Elizabeth) and Delia (sp. Terry), two foster children Trùc (sp. Thuy) and Tan (sp. Nigh), ten grandchildren, Nicole, Elysia, Rónan, Tara, Aoife, Talia, Órlaith, Ava, Scarlett and John, two siblings, Thomas and Geraldine, and countless friends, confidants and cohorts. Michael’s middle child, Stephen Thomas Moran, died in September, 2019.

Michael was born in New York City, the fourth of six children, November 7, 1942, to Thomas and Alice (O’Brien) Moran. His parents were immigrants from Ireland, when “people” were still the country’s most important export. Michael’s father, Thomas, worked for the prestigious firm of Morgan Stanley Bank, as an elevator operator, at a time when “Irish need not apply” was still affixed to the end of most job listings. The Moran children; Anne-Marie, Rita, Thomas, Michael, Catherine and Geraldine, grew up in a one-income Irish Catholic household in Queens. Michael, the self-professed “black sheep” of the family, was the apple of his mother’s eye. She knew full well that he was “stealing” the icing off of the tops of the Dugan’s cupcakes he was tasked to retrieve, with a patented technique developed by children raised under rationing* and for that and other mischief, she christened him her “little divil”. It was on one of the errands to Dugan’s that Micheál stopped off at the SilverCup Bakery for a 5c, day-old, Pullman Loaf and blew himself up while dropping lit matches into an open oil barrel. The SilverCup staff covered wee Michael in lard with an, as yet un-patented technique, which apparently resulted in his excellent complexion. The lard sizzled on his burning skin and no-doubt aided in the re-growth of his eyebrows and eyelashes. SilverCup Bakery is now a film studio, where fire is a strictly controlled affair.

School was initially challenging for Michael, a scrappy youth accustomed to toughing it out as a pool shark at the Astoria Billiard Hall and the rough and tumble streets of New York. After a few spirited disagreements with the nuns and priests charged with educating young Micheál, he began his secondary education, a borough away, at Saint John’s Prep in Brooklyn. St. John’s became a place for MRM to shine, despite often subjecting him to pugilistic confrontations in an effort to keep hold of his new trench coat, book bag and instruments on the lengthy subway ride to and from school. Michael excelled as a high school student, winning the spelling bee and science fair, and as musician, he mastered all the “brass” instruments. This was despite being told he “did not have a musical bone in his body” by his first piano teacher. He learned to play the piano without the aid of a teacher in a style that can best be described as “Liberace-like”. Thus he became one of the first unique musicians to emerge from the Queensbridge Housing Projects, preceding the Hip Hop revolution by several decades and following in the footsteps of his hero, fellow Queens resident, Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong. Much later, MRM briefly considered a career as a Calypso singer after his breakout hit “Don’t You Tie My Donkey Down There Boy”. Through the efforts of his children, Michael Robert Moran finally received the first (and only) “Cerasus Roseus en Nivea’s Malus Domestica*** honorary Doctor of Music, from St. Peter’s College, University of Oxford. Even without an instrument at hand, Michael was declared the unquestionable winner against the All-Ireland Feadóg (whistling) Champion at Ashford Castle in 1998, by a distinguished panel of international judges. Perhaps his greatest musical instrument was his voice, which could effectively channel the magic of several accents, real or fake languages and approximate a more amusing version of any artist, from Stevie Wonder to Julio Iglesias.

At work, MRM seemed marked for greatness from the start. He displayed an early entrepreneurial zeal at the age of eleven, carving out a profitable “Shoe Shine” concession along Northern Boulevard that resulted in his being the top earner in the Moran household, and inspired a failed effort to conceal his success and not upstage his father. By high school, Michael was working three jobs, learning enough mechanic skills to do tune-ups, tire rotations, oil changes, etc. At Steinway Poultry, he “candled” eggs, perhaps pocketing the “double-yokers” for his father, while achieving the self-appointed designation of “Chickenairean” for his ability to expertly butcher a chicken. After a successful stint in the United States Army, Michael was honorably discharged with the rank of “Sergeant”, despite borrowing a jeep and impersonating an officer at the Officer’s Club. Michael then became a top “door to door” salesman*’” for the “Wear-Ever” Pot and Pan Company, using a (controversial, perhaps dangerous, possibly illegal) technique of knocking on a stranger’s door to ask for a drink of water and once obtaining the substance, pouring it into a pan concealed in his salesman’s suitcase to mix his famous Pineapple Upside-down Cake and create a show for the, often protesting, then purchasing, housewife. MRM sold so many pots and pans that he had to “borrow” several pieces from a set he sold to his then girlfriend, Carmel Walsh. She has yet to receive any replacement pots from the Wear-Ever Company.

After a brief career with the railroad as a “Yard Master”, MRM obtained a management position at the New Jersey warehouse headquarters of General Foods, Inc. Michael was asked during his interview for employment why the manager should hire him. In response, which he later admitted was mystically inspired bluster, he replied “because if you hire me, there are only two things that can happen to you; you’re either gonna go up, or you’re gonna go out!” MRM got the job, and fired the manager who hired him one year later. It was as a General Foods executive, wearing the requisite, maintenance-heavy dress shoes, that MRM met Charlie “The Shoemaker” Bivona*’* (a rabbi. More about that later) and started his life-long penchant for helping the ambitious to a better life. “Big-a boss” Mike Moran hired so many Sicilian immigrants for General Foods that he felt compelled to speak (and act) “Italian” and was the first (and only) entirely Irish, “Italian-American of the Year”, at that year’s annual Bergen County Knight’s of Columbus Dinner.

As a new husband and father, it became clear that the “Big-a boss” had to be his own boss. MRM created “Moran & McLafferty”, a maintenance company that cleaned or fixed just about anything, with McLafferty being the first, but not the last, hands-off, short-lived, ineffectual partner, latching onto the hull of his rocket ship to success. Around that time MRM decided to add “Tree Surgeon” to his skill set, during the worst ice storm in NJ’s history. He also discovered how to obtain a double-hernia, while suspended in a harness from a fifty-foot crane, holding a running chain-saw. The timing was inconvenient; MRM had previously contracted to clean more driveways of any new snow within a 24 hour period, than was possible even by the healthiest of men. When he saw the snow falling from his hospital bed, he cinched his newly repaired waist, escaped from the hospital, jumped into his shamrock covered jeep and cleared “those f’ing driveways”. Then he returned to his hospital bed for an extended stay.

Death-defying, back-breaking labor became too much risk for a father of three. It was a permit officer named O’Brien (another rabbi) that ended Moran’s hands-on approach, when he told MRM ‘get out of those overalls, out of that ditch, put on a tie and meet me for a drink in an hour or I’ll shut down your job and cite you for working without a permit!!’. After the drink, Diamond Mike adopted a more executive approach to work and never put on another pair of overalls again.

Michael claimed he became “a millionaire by thirty”; successful enough to make the first of many momentous trips to Ireland, his parents ancestral homeland. He took his Irish-born wife, their three children, his parents and an aunt (the musical nun) in the summer of 1972. It could have been 1872 and was in many ways a shock to young Michael, but nevertheless it began a life-long love affair with Eire. To illustrate how things had not really changed for some time in Ireland, Michael later recounted how he was warned by his father “now, slow down going into the town Micheál, there’s a pothole around the corner”. Humoring his old man, Michael slowed down, knowing full well his father had left Clonbur some 50 years earlier, and they would have surely filled in a pothole in the interim; but there it was in all it’s glory, ready to rip out any ignorant driver’s undercarriage. His parents and young wife had not truly prepared Michael for his visit to Connemara and visiting with his mother-in-law at the farm. The details of how he, his wife and children, survived three weeks in her two-room thatched cottage attached to a barn filled with livestock and heated by a peat fire, with no electricity or running water, are best left to the imagination.

Skipping ahead to what he considered yet another mystical event; Carmel failed in her efforts to conceal a small kitchen fire at home in NJ, and that resulted in an insurance claim which required speaking, as you did in those days, to the “man of the house”. When the adjuster contacted Michael Robert Moran for a “walk-through”. Diamond Mike demonstrated his grasp of construction, setting the young man straight with the instruction to “sharpen his pencil”. The adjuster was so impressed by MRM’s knowledge and confidence, that he partnered with him in the first of MRM’s insurance restoration construction companies, and became yet another hands-off, short-lived, ineffectual partner (a rabbi, nonetheless) in MRM’s Continental Construction Company.

It was around this time that Michael’s young wife and mother to his three wee children, became gravely ill. Through some miracle, after being read last rights and “declared dead” more than once, Carmel pulled through. Michael was instructed to treat her like stained glass; she needed rest to recuperate. MRM decided that what was really needed was a cross-country trip over three weeks in a Winnebago with three kids and five other adults. To be fair, three of the adults were nurses and another was an internist. The trip was such a smashing success, it became his model for effective patient care. What Carmel most remembers from the trip is that she didn’t see Elvis in Vegas. More therapeutic trips followed.

After a few wildly successful years running his own shop, traveling, accumulating outrageous homes, cars and boats, Diamond Mike grew antsy. He said that it bothered him that his father “didn’t really understand what he did!” So, he decided it was time to throw his fortune in with yet another feckless partner to establish the world’s largest Irish pub in East Rutherford, NJ and become a bar owner. Dick O’Leary’s was an unmitigated…something. Let’s just say it was a ton of fun and a very expensive lesson in humility.

At least D. O’L Pub did result in the one genuinely successful partnership of his career. Rita Cerchio joined a pummeled MRM at an ebb in his fortunes and, to borrow from that earlier “rocket” reference, mount a successful relaunch to success. Moving on from NJ, Diamond Mike relocated to South Florida with his team and assembled the juggernaut Florida Restoration Services. After several of, what had come to be expected, MRM successes in Florida, Micheál met a young Irishman named Sean. The details surrounding their meeting and subsequent, possibly legendary adventures are clouded in a foggy dew. Suffice it to say, their meeting was “kismet”.

Michael admitted to being embarrassed by his lack of more formal education. It was never a real possibility for him as a young man. He wanted to go back and finish “school”, but felt it was too late. Instead, he started accumulating degrees and licenses of different sorts. Ultimately, he became “Captain Michael Moran”, appointed a “Rear Admiral” and then “Emeritus” in 1999, through the United States Coast Guard. In point of fact he was highly educated in the School of Hard Knocks. His experience, knowledge and wisdom were sought out by professionals educated in all fields and he will not be readily replaced as a “consultant” anytime soon. Despite the numerous occasions over the last fifteen years, when the King, as he was known, announced his retirement, it is not to be assumed that anyone ever believed him. The man never stopped working. Ever.

Sometime during all of this momentous commotion, Michael’s growing family had a serendipitous growth spurt with the addition of some amazing foster children; two brothers from Vietnam, Trùc and Tan Truong. Although the King never mastered the Vietnamese language, he was deeply connected to his new, exceptional family as “Father” and “Grandpa”. It was one of his few regrets that he did not travel with his children back to the home of their birth, once that became unexpectedly possible, but he came to love Vietnamese food and culture through his beloved adopted children and grandchildren, who, it has been provocatively whispered, treated him better than his blood related progeny.

Michael, or Grandpa, as he has lately been known, enjoyed his grandchildren to no end. He mastered the ability to ignore any misbehavior and resist the temptation to provide discipline. He said that he knew that wasn’t his job; he had the privilege to just play with them, spoil them and watch them grow up. He is survived by ten grandchildren, aged 24 to 4. A genuine tragedy attached to Michael’s death is the loss to this younger generation and the time they should have had with “Grandpa” to feel his joy, listen to his stories and ultimately have the benefit of his love and advice. It falls to others to speak well and often about him, to keep his wit and wisdom alive.

Michael faced many periods of hardship during his life, but the hardest to bear was the death of his son. Dr. Stephen Thomas Moran was a well respected Doctor of Psychiatry, he had been published in several prestigious medical journals, and he was only 52 years old when he died. Michael expressed the wish to be buried with his son’s ashes, so Stephen will finally be laid to rest with his father in Holy Cross Cemetery, at the burial ceremony in April, 2025.

Michael responded to his Parkinson’s Disease diagnosis fourteen years ago with determination and defiance. He maintained a tireless commitment to do all he could to delay the onset of symptoms and live his best life for as long as possible. He had many angels in his life that helped him in his lengthy fight with Parkinson’s. First and foremost in the circle was Rita Cerchio. She increasingly supported and protected him, advocated on his behalf and directed his medical care, as the disease tightened it’s grip on him through the death of his son, CoViD, a broken hip, heart failure, countless doctor visits and hospital stays. His dedicated home-care nurses, Sonia and Maggie, saw him through thick and thin with superhuman and loving attention. Ivan and Ernesto stepped into the breach as diligent amateur trainers, masseuses, physical therapists, among other much appreciated advocacy. Marcelo and his team members at Dr. Physio had the King run a marathon and kept up his “Iron Man” style training over the last decade. There were many excellent doctors and nurses who attended him over the years. It is in no small way, due to these efforts, that his life was enriched and extended.

Michael supported many charities over the course of his life. In lieu of flowers, Michael’s family would ask that you consider making a donation to The Michael J. Fox Foundation or the Franciscan Friar Charities.

When all is said and done, perhaps the only conclusion about such a life is that it was magnificent, that it stands as an example of a life well lived, that it was full one, that he touched the lives of many people, that he brought joy and was a joy to be around. He had the ability to make others feel special, when he was the one who was really special. Michael was know for employing many deep and provocative sayings, like “there’s only one bus driver”, “you get in…and you get out”, “the chicken is in the basket”, “I can’t be your friend, I’ve got too many already”, “you don’t ask, you don’t get” and one that characterized his commitment to reach out and help other people; “Everyone needs a rabbi”.

Michael cultivated a skill for helping his friends, and he had lots of friends. He looked for the talents, humor and ambition in other people. He’d engage with those he saw potential in and urge them to become break-out stars; he’d hire them, get them jobs, counsel them through trouble, encourage them. He said he had many “rabbis” in his life. Michael R. Moran was an Irish Catholic Rabbi.

At some point, Michael attempted to write his autobiography, but the whereabouts of that incomplete and scandalous document are under key, in a location unknown to anyone outside the family.

What else is to be said about such a man?

He will be missed.

Visitation will be held on Friday, February 21, 2025 from 4:00 - 7:00 at the KREER - FAIRCHILD FUNERAL HOME, 4061 NORTH FEDERAL HIGHWAY, FORT LAUDERDALE. Michael's funeral service will commence on Saturday, February 22, 2025 at 11:00 at St. Pius X Catholic Church where his Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated. Inurnment will take place at a later date.

In lieu of flowers donations may be made to the made to the Michael J. Fox Foundation or the Franciscan Friar Charities by clicking the links below.