Mark Edward Horan

[Note: this obituary is best served with cold beer, good company, and easy smiles]

Independent, stubborn, tough, disciplined, strong, "blue collar," yet humble, fun, optimistic, and energetic, with a soft-spot for his grandkids and a Molson on ice. He had a gift for conversation, great friendships, and a penchant for good cooking, cold beer, classic rock, old jeans, and an almost-endless supply of Harley tees and flannel shirts. He was equally comfortable in boat shoes or cowboy boots and, later, fresh New Balance sneakers. He was a great neighbor who never forgot a name. He kept his fridge doors clean, countertops uncluttered, deck stained, hedges trimmed, and floors buffed to sock-sliding perfection (much to the joy of his children and grand-children). He was a cancer survivor who'd never let you know it; he'd take you up on a drink only to insist on paying; he'd show up at your place with a cooler of beer, offer to cook, and stay up talking as long as you wanted. He was the type of guy who'd make everyone smile even as he lay dying, and he did.

Mark Edward Horan; Grampy; Brutus; Mark-E; Dad passed away peacefully at home in Hardy, VA, on February 21, 2026, following an 18-year battle with cancer. He was 70 years old.

Born May 6, 1955 to Kathleen and William Horan, he was a strong father and dedicated friend who led a life filled with sailing, projects, Harley rides, camping, hikes, cooking, reading, keeping watch on the neighborhood, music, trips to the lake, beer, wine, and, later, gardening and sitting in the sun listening to birdsongs.

He could do it all and he knew it all, but never needed everyone to know it. He served in the U.S. Air Force in the 1970s as a jet engine mechanic and parlayed that into a 40-year career with Pratt & Whitney. While there, he contributed to some of the most impactful engines of the 21st century, such as the F119, the engine that powers the F-22 "Raptor," the U.S. Air Force's premier air superiority fighter. He earned both Bachelors and Masters degrees, eventually working in management, but never stopped using his hands: he built home additions and helped those he loved with house projects up until last year.

Despite his accomplishments, he lit up the room by deflecting the spotlight on everyone but himself. He was understated, averse to being the center of attention, and humble yet proud of his service, both public and private. He quietly contributed to veterans' charities and continued working through Stage 4 colon cancer, chemotherapy, and radiation. He was an inspiration who gave us our work ethic, independence, self-sufficiency, humility, and discipline, but our hearts too – he had endless nicknames for those he loved, and so do we; he always sang, and we do too.

He was our hero with twin superpowers: a gift of gab and boundless positivity. Never at a loss for words, he possessed a natural ability to fill space with classic combinations of transitional phrases – "that's how it goes, so you know, but yeah…" – and memorable mantras – "just getting through it; taking care of business; it's all good." (Note: it was not, in fact, "all good.") He repeated those until the day he died, never out of discomfort or awkwardness, but for the joy of conversation and support for those he loved. When we drove home stunned by a terminal prognosis from his Oncologist, he broke the silence with "well, it could be worse. Let's do a beer." F-ing legend. Talks with him were effortless and unrushed, and the ease with which he wove positivity into our time was the greatest panacea for the stresses of a hurried world. We'll all miss those calls.

He taught us how to live but showed us how to die. After 18 years battling cancer, he faced the final chapter of his life with poise, respect, and encouragement for those around him: friends, family, hospital staff, and the wonderful hospice nurses who offered patience, humor, prayers, and support (we cannot thank you enough). He pushed himself, but accepted help; he hoped for the best, but planned for the worst; he was determined but not in denial; he lived these last few months with neither resignation nor defiance, but a dignified resolve to live his final days on his terms, as best he could, with a clean house and a cold Molson, surrounded by those he loved and who loved him.

In his last lucid moments he asked for three things: 1) beer, 2) blondes, and 3) margaritas. We got him the first and know by now he's found the other two on some beach, some where. Cheers, Dad – it's all good. We'll keep taking care of business down here.

Mark is survived by four brothers: Kevin, Gary, Chris, and Matt; three sisters: Karen, Laura, and Paula; two sons: Keith and Tyler; and three grandchildren: Caroline, Jameson, and Annabelle.

Services will be held on February 28th, 2026 from 10:30 AM, at Rader Funeral Home in Daleville, VA, with visitation beginning 1 hour prior.

In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to Disabled American Veterans (DAV), an organization Mark supported frequently.