In Loving Memory

Ronald B. McCune
July 11, 1951 – January 10, 2026

Ronald B. McCune

Let me tell you about my dad—the most selfless and caring person I have ever known.

I created this page to honor his memory, because he deserves to be remembered for who he truly was.

My dad’s life began with hardship. He was born in Chicago, Illinois, the middle child of three boys. From what he shared with me, his father struggled with alcoholism and was not a kind man. His mother was no better. When my dad was around five years old, all three boys were given up to an orphanage called Maryville Academy. His older brother was eight; his younger brother was only three.

Despite everything, he tried to make the best of his childhood as an orphan. I believe his mother spoke to him only once after he was placed there. Later, she remarried and started a new family—one she did not give up. Somewhere out there, my dad had half-siblings he never met.

His father contacted him only a handful of times after the orphanage. The last time was when my dad was around fifteen or sixteen years old. Years later, his father died of cirrhosis of the liver from years of drinking.

Given the circumstances, my dad was a remarkably normal kid. He didn’t get into more trouble than any other boy his age. When he was around seventeen, he, his older brother, and a few other boys ran away from the orphanage. After growing up so sheltered, they wanted to see what the real world was like.

Around the age of twenty-one, he met my mom. They moved around for a while—living in places like Arizona and California—before eventually returning to Chicago. He worked a series of labor jobs, including plumbing and construction, before settling into work as a printing press operator. This was before modern computer printers and the internet made the job obsolete, and he worked in that industry for many years.

After my parents had been married for some time, they wanted to have children, but learned that my dad was sterile. He never knew exactly why, though he often mentioned a football injury from his youth as a possible cause.

My mom still wanted a child, so I was born through IVF. Even though we were not biologically related, he was my dad in every sense of the word. When I was five years old, my parents divorced, and I lived with my dad for nearly my entire childhood, aside from extended visits with my mom.

My dad would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the smartest guy in the world—but who could blame him, given the childhood he had? He was never given a real chance early in life. Everything he had, he earned through hard work.

When the printing industry faded away, he had to start over yet again—this time as a restaurant manager. As a single parent, we were poor, but we always had food on the table. And more than anything, my dad wanted me to have a better life than the one he had been given.

To make that happen, he worked about seventy hours a week, seven days a week, for over twelve years. This was the 1990s—there were no benefits, no health insurance. The only way he knew how to provide was to work himself to exhaustion. He didn’t do it for himself. He did it for me.

He constantly told me to work hard and get an education so I wouldn’t have to struggle the way he did. I eventually earned a Bachelor of Science in engineering and became a software engineer. I truly don’t think I would be where I am today without learning the value of hard work from him.

Later in life, I had a daughter, and my dad was overjoyed to become a grandfather. Since I had to go into the office for work, he would come over and babysit—nearly every day—for years. Watching him with my daughter, I realized that becoming a grandfather was, in many ways, his chance to start over and raise a child again, just as he had done with me.

When work required me to move out of state, he moved with us so he could continue helping and stay close to us. Fifteen months later, when we moved again—this time to California—he came along once more. That was just who he was. My daughter and I were the most important things in his life.

As time went on, I noticed his health declining. He began walking more slowly, then needed a cane, then eventually a walker. Even so, he continued to babysit and would still take my daughter to the park—using his walker the entire time.

Eventually, I separated from my girlfriend, and we shared custody of our daughter. When she moved out of state, I only saw my daughter during summers and school breaks. My dad, meanwhile, had always been someone who wanted to make the world a better place. Even before I was born, he wrote letters to political figures with ideas on how to improve society. He even ran for president several times—not because he expected to win, but because he wanted his ideas to be heard.

With more free time later in life, he became deeply concerned about climate change. He didn’t want the world to become a worse place for his granddaughter than it had been for him. Knowing his health was declining, he moved from Orange County to Los Angeles so he could reach more people with his ideas. He even created a website dedicated to solutions for climate change.

Living in Southern California is expensive, and despite working seventy-hour weeks for so many years, he never made much money. His Social Security payments weren’t enough to live comfortably, and he often needed roommates. I encouraged him to move somewhere more affordable, but he refused—he wanted to be where he felt he could make an impact.

Eventually, he told me he wanted to live out of his car to save money. I told him it was insane. He didn’t listen. Later, I learned he was spending much of what he saved on posters and materials to spread awareness about climate change—and on generous gifts for my daughter.

His health continued to worsen. He eventually suffered what doctors called a "mini-stroke," which partially paralyzed the left side of his body and put him into a nursing home for about six months. He regained most of his movement, though I don’t think he ever fully recovered.

In the months that followed, he casually mentioned needing a heart stent, then later undergoing what he called "widowmaker surgery." Afterward, he seemed stable. Then came news of a leaky heart valve, and I was hopeful that surgery to repair it would finally be the answer to his constant fatigue.

Three months later, during my daughter’s Christmas break, we visited him at the nursing home. He told me how much he enjoyed raising both me and my daughter. Once again, he asked me to help send his remaining savings to her.

When I visited him the following weekend, he looked drastically worse. His hands and feet were swollen, and he was out of breath just from standing up. I took him straight to the hospital instead.

On a Saturday morning, I received the call that changed everything. He had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. As I drove sixty miles to the hospital, his heart stopped.

My dad was gone.

Most people are surrounded by family and friends at the end of their lives. All my dad had was me and my daughter.

For someone so caring and selfless, I couldn’t let him be forgotten. That’s why I wrote this.

There are so many things I wish I had said. I thought I would have more time. I hope he knew how deeply grateful I was—for everything he sacrificed, and for every ounce of love he gave.