More Than a Grumble: The Heart of Spike Sullivan

So, everyone has their own way of grieving. I obviously like to write.

I have the honor—and the heartache—of writing today about a man we all loved deeply: Michael Emerson “Spike” Sullivan.

If you knew Spike, you probably knew him as many things. A loyal friend. A hard worker. An honest father. A trusting son. A generous brother. A man who would do just about anything for anyone—and grumble about it while doing it. But more than anything, Spike was Grandpa. And he was damn proud of it.

Seeing him with his grandkids was nothing short of special. We used to joke that he was destined to be the classic grumpy old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn… and then Felix showed up. That little boy flipped the script. Suddenly, the man who could scare a telemarketer off the phone in two seconds flat was down on the floor playing, giggling, spoiling, and softening in ways we never thought possible.

His love for his grandkids ran deep—it brought out the very best in him. Felix, Margo, and Shephard were the highlight of this man’s world. He loved his kids—don’t get me wrong—but something about being a grandfather brought out a softer side I had never seen.

And speaking of his kids—Spike was an amazing father. That same quiet consistency, that deep sense of duty and love, showed up just as fiercely in how he raised and supported Morgan and Matthew. Whether it was late-night phone calls, life advice, or being there for first births—he showed up. He worked hard to be present: swim meets, soccer games, graduations. You name it—he was there. Common trend, if you haven’t noticed.

And through it all, his sense of humor was out of this world. Spike had this rare ability to laugh at life itself—and then keep on trucking. He didn’t just find humor in the big, obvious moments—he found it in the everyday stuff, the frustrating stuff, the human stuff. And when the grandkids were around? That man lit up. He’d joke about looking like Uncle Fester, bald head and all, and we'd laugh like it was the funniest thing we'd ever heard. And honestly? It kinda was. Spike didn’t mind being the punchline—especially if it meant getting a giggle out of the people he loved.

Spike was built on tough love, so you got nothing short of the same. But that’s just it—it was love. He was always a phone call away. Whether I just needed to vent or actually needed help, he was there.

I don’t know if it’s irony or just proof of how cruel the world can be—but time is never promised. So don’t waste it.

Spike had a work ethic that was unmatched. He showed up. Always. No matter the task, no matter how tough the job, he never quit and never let his team down. He didn’t need praise or applause—he just got it done. Quietly. Consistently. That was his way.

He was also an old soul in the best sense. The kind of man who’d give you the shirt off his back—even if he’d pretend to grumble about it first. He didn’t care about status or flash. He cared about people. About showing up when it mattered. About being there, even when it was hard.

And now here we are—without him. Trying to imagine a world without his presence. Without that steady, dry humor. Without the warmth he tried to keep hidden behind a tough shell.

But if Spike taught us anything, it’s that love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s in the showing up. The quiet sacrifices. The long days. The small joys—like holding your grandson’s hand, cracking a joke, or just watching your family grow.

Sunday, July 20th, we said goodbye to a man who never asked for the spotlight but made a lasting impression on every life he touched. Spike may not have been the type to gush or get sentimental—but I think he’d smile knowing we’re all here, thinking of him, maybe even hearing his voice telling us not to make a fuss.

We’ll miss you, Spike. More than words can say. But we’ll carry your stories, your strength, and your love with us—always.

Love, your favorite niece.