Kenny Mangan dreamed of opening a lavender farm in the Southold area. He saw the potential for big business, but it wasn’t about that, at least not entirely.
With every wild plan came a dream worthy of Ralph Kramden’s imagination — and, in this case, it was to get underprivileged kids from shelters out there to learn how to farm and plant and sell lavender products, as strange as that may sound, to hone their business skills, to improve their lot in life.
As far as local angles go, that’ll have to do. Because Kenny, a Sayville resident whose death last week from surgery complications stunned, angered and saddened a lot of people he left in his wake, is someone you have to know about, even if it’s too late to know him personally.
So you can picture it: He was just 64 but looked about 50, maybe, with a shock of wavy hair so blond it was almost white, usually worn shoulder-length, and a strong jaw that made him look somewhat like a better-looking surfer version of George Washington, with better teeth. (I clearly wasn’t the only one who saw it: An invitation for a party or fundraiser or something for Kenny years back featured a picture of our first president … wearing a Hawaiian shirt.)
Years ago, Kenny and Karen — a couple forever, eternal, really, completely in sync — invited us to their getaway in Vermont to ski. I had watched the Olympics and they made it look pretty easy, so I scoffed at taking a lesson before my wife put me on the double secret upside down twisted diamond of death trail (or so it seemed; it may have been the bunny hill). A hundred yards down, I would’ve called 911 if I could figure out how. My wife was unable to help, as something about seeing me tied up in a knot of skis, snow, pain and humiliation had her doubled over, laughing.
At dinner, I told Kenny the whole story. The look on his face said everything: a mix of amazement, wild-eyed humor and, of course, empathy.
What’s leaving a hole in my heart right now is thinking about how big his heart was, and to everyone he encountered.
Karen: “He always had a smile on his face, he was always an optimist. The girls” — that would be Brittany, McKenna, Chloe and Izzy, all blond, high-achieving, confident and imbued with their dad’s humanity — “when they talk about Kenny, it’s about how he was overflowing with love. Every morning, when he woke up, no matter where he started his day or ended his day, his vision was always grounded in love.
“You talk about unconditional love? He had that on steroids. And that’s why they are what they are, and why their grief is so profound.”
About that vision? It could be a little chaotic. His best friend, Charlie Russo, knows all about that. Charlie nailed his eulogy in front of hundreds in Port Jefferson last week — from the heart, no notes — but felt like I do now: How do you encapsulate Kenny’s life in a handful of words?
But it comes down to something like this, as Charlie put it: “The one thing I wish I had said, that I tried to interweave into what I said, was that Kenny’s spiritualness is that he would have this beautiful dream, surround it with all this chaos and drive people crazy, but somehow, through all this chaos, the end product is beautiful.
“That’s Kenny.”
We are talking serious dreams, serious chaos and serious end product. The Mangans were heavily involved with a soup kitchen, and one day Kenny suggested doing a Christmas dinner for the homeless. That innocent enough idea sprouted to serving prime rib, baked brie and some kind of fancy potatoes I’ve never heard of (Kenny was a chef and baker) to hundreds of homeless people from all over Suffolk County, more every year, with Charlie rounding up gifts for hundreds of needy kids. Then there were coats and shoes. It was all logistical insanity, with people pitching in all over the place.
“It would be total pandemonium,” Charlie said, “and then I’d find out that he’d invited 100 people he hadn’t told me about. I’d have to go back to the office and find toys for another 100 kids.”
It’s now in its 15th year.
As is Backpack Pirates. There are different versions of how this came about, but everyone can agree that Kenny wanted to do something during the summer for kids living in shelters as they got ready for school. Kenny being Kenny, it ended being not only an event that provided the kids with a backpack full of school supplies but also a cookout and pirate adventure on Fire Island (it’s since moved inland). Many of these kids — hundreds participate every year — had never seen a beach.
And, Kenny being Kenny, it also ended up with Charlie wanting to kill him and a legal entanglement. Because pirates, even fake ones from Patchogue, have cannons. And firing pirate cannons does not mix well with conservation officers. Or event permits.
“He was all excited about them having a cannon, despite the fact that I told him that they couldn’t shoot it off. In times like these, Karen would always see the tortured look on my face and say, ‘It’s Kenny, right? Kenny did this?’”
Here’s something else he did: He made the kids sign an official pirate contract at the end of the day promising to respect their parents, do their homework and donate their time to benefit others before they could get their backpacks.
What tears you up is what might have been, because Kenny had recently turned his charitable bent and baking talents toward helping Hope House, which provides comprehensive care primarily to young people with substance abuse issues.
He had thrown his energy into helping them design and build a kitchen, even somehow talking someone into selling them an oven for about a tenth of the price, so they’d be able to use Kenny’s recipes to make and sell baked goods, with the money going to help those with addictions. And it now has a name: Grateful Bread.
Father Francis Pizzarelli, who presided over Kenny’s funeral and also leads Hope House Ministries, told the gathering that though the kids had a way to go toward making edible baking products, one product, the cinnamon raisin bread, is coming out great.
It has been renamed Mangan bread — so order it by name if you call over there.
I was nursing a Guinness at the after party at the Irish Coffee Pub in East Islip, trying to make sense out of all, or even any, of this, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. It was next to a table and looked like a platinum-colored mop made of the finest material. But it was bouncing up and down.
“What the hell? …”
The mop turned around, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was a little kid, maybe 20 inches from the ground. He had a shock of shoulder-length hair, so blond it was almost white, red cheeks, bright white teeth and a look of pure exhilaration in his eyes. He even had the requisite Irish knit sweater. Finn Kenneally, I was told. Kenny’s grandson.
He tore around the room in circles, smiling, looking for adventure. His mom, Brittany, and aunt, McKenna, took turns trying to reel him in, but he wanted no part of it.
I thought of something Charlie had said that Kenny said after those extra 100 kids Kenny had invited to the Christmas Party at the last minute had been taken care of: “See? I told you it’d be all right!”
And then, for probably the 10th time that week, I just started crying and laughing at the same time.
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