Cornelius John Mahoney

Cornelius (Connie) John Mahoney left this planet on April 11, 2025. Born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1931 to Cornelius Patrick Mahoney and Mary E Mahoney. (Stone)
Connie is survived by his wife Muriel Mahoney (Stevens) and her children Marjorie MacLaughlin and husband Terry, Arthur Stevens and Katherine Weizbicki, and Brian Stevens.
He is additionally survived by his sons Cornelius John Mahoney Jr. and wife Kym Mahoney, Paul Mahoney and wife Patti Mahoney, and their children John Mahoney and Kelly Mahoney.
It's hard to know where you begin with a life that lasted ninety-three years. Do I start at the beginning in December of 1931, or should I move past the years in Cornelius Patrick's house where he was raised without a mother to his Air Force years in the 50s?
Surely this is where his adult life began. He met Betty Mae Perkins in Valdosta, Georgia while serving in the USAF and decided to bring her home to Boston. She was a no-nonsense southern girl who was raised mostly without a father.
I think the best choice is just to talk about the man. The tall handsome Connie Mahoney who was Paul's and my own Dad.
It's strange to say when you've seen one of us you've seen us all but it's true. Maybe I have a bit more Perkins maybe Paul does. In the end it doesn't matter.
Dad was first and foremost the epitome of the ideal that men stand up and do what's right. He kept his hair short, his cigarettes in his shirt pocket, and drove a Ford. He voted Democrat because Boston.
His byword was "always tell me the truth. Just don't lie to me and your mother." His Mantra was "stick up for each other." He reminded us he'd never had a brother, and we were lucky to have each other. I can safely say Paul and I have always had each other's back.
The Red Sox, the Bruins and the Patriots got prime consideration for television time. Paul was pressed into servitude frequently on Saturdays as TV 38 faded in and out on our tv. Paul would stand next to it holding the foil wrapped rabbit ears so Dad could yell "shoot" at Phil Esposito just in time for him to score.
The Red Sox were a source of frustration for dad in those days. All I remember was the megaphone of popcorn and the Sports Bar ice cream that melted all over our shirts.
He put us in St Catherine of Sienna parish school after kindergarten and told us to do as we were told. I remember having some issues with that. I still have the report cards upon which he told the nuns to "push me harder."
Paul and I were raised in a house that was filled with love as well as a gallon of milk he brought home every night and the Bergson's vanilla ice cream we all loved. We weren't supposed to touch it but how do you not?
I still remember the immense steaks he cooked on the grill. As a special treat you'd get to spray lighter fluid on the charcoal briquettes before he'd toss in a match so the whole pile would burst into flames.
Evey fall we'd rake the leaves into a pile on the space between sidewalk and street. Every dad would light those piles at the same time. Mom and Paul by stood with the hose just in case. The smell and sight of those fires is burned into my memory. It's a fading dream of how life was.
Connie Mahoney was just a man. One who had faced a motherless childhood and a father who had no real words for anyone. Connie found his path and walked down it straight and tall to a future he couldn't have imagined. It was filled with more love than he felt he deserved.
Connie and Betty were two fractured children of the depression who created a life for themselves and their kids that was the envy of many. Good friends, good times and years spent in retirement enjoying grandchildren and beautiful Florida sunsets.
When Betty passed dad was a bit less jovial and a bit more solemn. Muriel Stevens asked him out to breakfast after mass at St Johns in Naples one Sunday and he found his happiness again. I think the time they spent together was a blessing. Finding that you don't have to face the rest of your future alone is a blessing.
I wear his face. It's a lot like the one I share with Paul. We wouldn't have it any other way. We already miss him.