John M. Phelan, Esq., "The Great One", age 82, passed away on July 29, 2021.  The last of his siblings, he was predeceased by James, Francis, Albert, Thomas and Mary Lou Barton. He returned to God at his home in Gladwyne, PA. with his devoted wife of 54 years, Joan (nee D'Arcy) by his side and his daughter D'Arcy L. (Chris) Glanzmann, his sons John M. Jr. (Heather) and Sean L. (Laura) and 6 grandchildren close by.

Private burial services will be performed at Calvary Cemetery August 3, 2021.

Eulogy for John M. Phelan, Esquire

By: Sean L. Phelan, Esquire

To forego all the, albeit impressive, biographical stuff about my dad for a moment, I just wanted to share a few instances which really comprised and composed the "Great One" that he was.

The first is a little activity called raking the stones . To those of you who never had the benefit of witnessing this truly transformative spectacle – I understand Marilu Smith is at least one such individual, who is still a mix of awestruck and/or dumbfounded from having seen it – whenever we'd arrive down as a family to the shore at our old place on 9 ^th Street in Avalon, and after having unpacked the car and made sure everyone was settled in, my dad would grab a rake and shovel from the shed and head back outside to the little rectangular cut-outs of tiny pebbles which constituted our yard.

Now it could be any time of day, mind you – from rosiest dawn to deepest midnight – dad would still rake the stones. But I think he honestly preferred doing it really late at night – especially after a nice dinner on the way down at Macs (in Somers Point) or The Tuckahoe Inn, and a lowball or two of Dewar's and Water Scotch. He'd proceed, most systematically, to rake virtually every square inch of the yard, smoothing even the most aberrant pebbly divot or footprint, so the stones would almost resemble a placid pool when he was finally done a few hours later, under the silver moonlight.

Why weren't the cops or some other such authorities called by the neighbors, you might ask? Surely, seeing and/or hearing this seemingly well-to-do-man, out raking his stones in the middle of the night, would be cause for concern to even the least suspicious of onlookers. Well, that could be because dad's raking the stones was one of the most aesthetically pleasing activities one could possibly even imagine. The tiny white pebbles soughing like a Yeatsean stream under the clear stars – some stray brown pine needles or, heaven forbid, doggy poo, raked into neat little piles for subsequent collection with a shovel. I fell asleep many a night with my bedroom window ajar to the yard, attending to the rhythmic dissipation of a small mound of sea stones being smoothed down and then over, of all unruly feature and disequilibrium. Truly, all was right with the universe!

It was also one of those few working activities we family members simply left dad be, by himself, to partake by his lonesome in this admittedly, let's say "eccentric" activity, which for some perhaps now understandable reason, soothed his most quintessentially type-A of souls. 'Always take pride in the work you do,' Great One would instill – 'so when you're all finished up, you can look back and be happy about what you've done, knowing you've given it your best.'

Another activity (or activities) I'll share is how my dad would somehow find a way from his busiest of work and trial schedules, to catch virtually every single one of his children's sports games and contests. From little league T-ball to Club Championships. While always accoutered in the once trial lawyer's chic of monogrammed suit shirt, horn-rimmed glasses and tasseled loafers, his battered 90-pound (though equally monogrammed) briefcase sometimes at his feet, and invariably among the most boisterous of spectators (or, let's face it, by far the MOST BOISTEROUS SPECTATOR, PERIOD), dad would pridefully embarrass the heck out of D'Arcy, John and I – that is, until – much like our embattled Avalon neighbors, we simply got used to it and embraced his SPECIAL ways.

In his later years, he'd even bring a little folding chair with him to sit and observe the action. Always encouraging, always positive, always, ALWAYS being heard in support of his daughter, sons or, later, grandchildren – even during the most etiquette-driven tennis matches at country clubs and public parks across the state. Not to stop there, he would immemorially regale others with his always factually enhanced stories of our "successes", making his children's even most pedestrian athletic accomplishments sound interesting, if not noteworthy, oftentimes decades down the road!

My nickname, "Seany Baby", is one still bestowed upon me by childhood and even adult friends who'd had the genuine blessing of hearing the Great One's stentorian litigator's voice referring to me as such, echoing over a playing field or even dinner table or cocktail hour. I will never forget, and now marvel at how selflessly supportive our Old Man was to always be there for us, physically as well as, and especially, VOCALLY, whenever we needed him there. And even when we didn't really need him there! 'FAMILY comes first', his actions always explained a thousandfold.

The third occurrence which I think sums up John Murphy Phelan, is how unbelievably positive of a role model he was, filled with a LOVE OF GOD over pretty much anything else, a competitive spirit, and being someone who would do (and did) anything for his family, friends and loved ones. He was a man who made enduring friends with elementary school nuns, Philadelphia Country Club waiters and maintenance personnel, and Fortune 500 CEOs, alike – treating everyone with the same no-B.S. dignity, vitality and respect. I can still hear his voice saying "Praise the Lord" as he'd rally the troops on a Saturday evening or Sunday morning for Church – every bit as boisterously as his "Gooo, Seany Baby!" while watching his son get intercepted for a fourth time, or better yet, "We got a T-E-A-M" during those athletic endeavors in which he'd stirringly participate with others. Aside from quite a few plaintiff's attorneys in the Greater Philadelphia area, pretty much everyone who crossed the Great One's path was better for the experience. And I can honestly say I thank God pretty much every day of my life, and often multiple times a day, for having had the supreme blessing to have called this most unbelievable man my father.

I try not to be sad in this moment – and laughter and gratitude are the best medicines for this after all – countenancing this not as a hardship, but as a celebration, instead. Especially in light of the awful disease which is Alzheimers and how dad is now in a much better place! I aim with every fiber in my being to make him proud and to justify all the things he said, did and was – the greatest man I've ever known.

I'll leave you with a poem, written several years ago, envisioning this very moment where we say so long, but not goodbye, to my personal hero and earthly father, John Phelan. That's Feeeeee-lin , as in it's better to be Feel-in than Failin', people!:

When My Father Takes Off His Glasses

When my father takes off his glasses,

His face is old, but his eyes are young,

Revealing the innocently mischievous man he was (and still is)

When my father takes off his glasses,

He looks worn from the past, but still in love with the present.

When my father takes off his glasses,

He is no longer a lawyer, millionaire or even my father,

But a vulnerable stranger – a countenance startlingly unfamiliar.

When my father takes off his glasses,

He can be my best friend, even more so than he was before.

When my father takes off his glasses,

I see his triumphs and trials

From a life he conquered with tenacious faith and hard work.

When my father takes off his glasses,

I see Ireland, our ancestors and the greenness that lives on.

When my father takes off his glasses,

I wonder if I've ever really seen him

Or if I've ever really known the magnificent, loving man that I call

'dad'?

When my father takes off his glasses,

I see the pride and repose that come from a job well done

When my father takes off his glasses,

I see a slightly maudlin, champagne twinkle in his eyes,

Reflecting perfectly off the clear ice in the rich scotch of his glass.

When my father takes off his glasses,

His smile is as broad and bright as that golden Florida sunset he

stares off into.

When my father takes off his glasses,

I remember how he shouted from the sidelines during nearly every

Sporting event I ever played in

And bought my sundaes and soda-pops in dream-like, neighborhood

Dairy Queens afterwards, (always), win or lose.

When my father takes off his glasses

I see my only hero who actually cared about me

When my father takes off his glasses

I remember our epic battles on the tennis and basketball courts of

Avalon, New Jersey,

Our catches, (of both the football and baseball varieties),

And the competitiveness he always instilled in me

When my father takes off his glasses

I know that I am truly blessed

When my father takes off his glasses,

I can see who he really is.

Any maybe it's all because

He can't see me.