Larry "Moose" Manion

Larry James Manion’s legal first name was in fact just Larry, not the more dignified and proper Lawrence, as one would assume, but of course Dad was neither dignified nor proper so the more informal name fit–and anyway, since high school, his friends had always called him Moose. Curious, passionate, profane, irreverent, funny as heck and the life of the party, Moose Manion died May 18, 2024, after a long, vibrant, rich life.

Dad was born September 22, 1935, in Houston, Texas. He was the second son of Mabel and Clarence Manion, his mom from Raton, New Mexico, an intelligent, lively auto-didact who was reared in a dirt-floor homestead, and his dad from South Dakota, the descendent of a storied mining family that included his Uncle John Manion, a beloved rake and owner of the Totum Saloon in Deadwood.

Larry grew up in Denver and attended East High School, where he won not only the state championships in hurdles, but also the heart of the most beautiful girl at East, Jean Altendorf. She was much better looking and a much better student than Dad and could’ve had her pick of the fellas but, as these things happen, she chose the funny, mischievous guy, this one with lean track-star legs and a fondness for Coors.

Larry then attended the University of Kansas, where, let’s be honest, he might have spent more time having fun than studying. According to Dad, he didn’t flunk out; rather, he would claim, KU simply “didn’t ask me to return.” He then enlisted in the Army, serving two years at Camp Hale, an unforgettable, very meaningful chapter of his life, where he trained on skis and camped in snow-caves throughout the beautiful, dramatic Eagle River Valley.

After the Army Dad finished his Geology degree at the University of Wyoming, where he also attended graduate school, earning an MS in Geology. Another of the happiest times of his life involved the summer he and Jean, now his wife, camped on Vermillion Creek in northwest Colorado so Dad could complete his master’s thesis involving the geological mapping of Irish Canyon.

Larry and Jean lived in Casper, where they had their first child, Kathleen, then moved to Lafayette, Louisiana, where they had their second child, Mary, and then to Denver, where they moved into their York Street house and had their third child, Sarah. Dad worked in the oil industry his entire life, at first with various companies, and finally with his dad at a family-owned business, AEH Royalty.

Dad’s life passions ranged from the sophisticated to the sophomoric. He loved opera and served on the board of the Central City Opera House. He loved history and was an avid reader and cruciverbalist. He loved music and the University of Wyoming and was proud of starting a scholarship there for student musicians, a fund in effect still. He loved squash, for decades playing at the Denver Athletic Club, where he was also on the board and where, after a few sweaty games and a shower, he’d hang at the men’s bar with his cronies drinking bourbon and shooting the bull. He was a vibrant member of the Denver Gyros Club, a group of men who, as far as we could tell, had zero purpose besides getting together for lunch at the DAC, drinking martinis, and telling filthy jokes. The Gyros would have regular “joke-offs,” and Dad, a natural raconteur, would often share the winning jokes with us at the dinner table, much to my mom’s exasperation and his kids’ laughter.

For years he played in a summer softball league with his middle-aged friends, the Time Park Panthers, where he was, probably by default, the team’s catcher. Of course, even with their one ringer, a guy who apparently played a season in the minors, they weren’t any good, but they sure had fun. He enjoyed fly fishing and duck hunting and elk hunting with his mates, though one questions whether those elk hunting trips were anything besides backcountry boondoggles, as nobody at our house ever ate any fresh elk meat. He loved to scuba dive, and he and my mom would go on diving trips all over the world, often with Ports of Call, the old Denver travel club, and often with close friends, the Ramseys. When he traveled with his family to Mexico, he would befriend and crack up the locals with his limited Spanish, telling them he was having dinner that noche with “el Presidente Lopez Portillo.” By the end of these trips, everybody was slapping his back and calling him Lorenzo.

He was a huge Broncos fan and for more than four decades, along with his best friend Tom Baker, enjoyed coveted season tickets on the fifty-yard line, seventh row.

Although he married a Catholic and sent us all to Catholic school, Dad couldn’t be bothered to believe in any gods. Once, when he and my mom were traveling to Mexico, the customs form included a question on religion, one of the choices being “ninguna,” Spanish for “none,” the box he of course ticked. From then on, when anyone asked, he claimed to be a proud and devout Ninguna. He was a card-carrying Republican, the old-school type, and had to “plug his nose” to vote for Trump. He enjoyed watching Fox News, but mostly because he liked looking at the network’s female anchors, whom he called the “blonde babes.”

He didn’t suffer fools, could be brutally honest, and found humor in just about every situation. When one of us would be taking too long in the bathroom, he’d yell, “Push it out, wipe it, flush it, and forget it!” He’d regale his grandkids at the dinner table with dirty limericks–eg “There once was a man from Alsace….” According to my mom, he laughed aloud in his sleep.

Dad lived a darn good life. He and Jean shared a grounded, vital, happy marriage for sixty-six years. They loved each other through life’s joys and life’s tragedies, all the way to the end. He reared three daughters who grew up skiing and traveling and laughing and loving the mountains. He had many, many friends–people just liked being around him. His grandkids thought he was hysterical–his grandson Gunnar once literally fell over in laughter at one of Dad’s jokes. Yes, Parkinson’s hit him hard his last few years, but he still found joy and still made inappropriate jokes, often to the staff at Holly Creek Retirement Community, a place he called, for whatever absurd reason, "Skunk Hollow."

If you want to channel his prodigious spirit, look for the inimitable Moose Manion on the high mountains surrounding Camp Hale, the DAC squash courts, the Edward Manion courtyard next to the Central City Opera House, or in the sparkle in the eyes of his three grandsons, now young men all.

Dad is preceded in death by his parents, Mabel and Clarence Manion, and his brother Robert Manion. He is survived by his beloved wife Jean; daughters Kathleen (Kerry) Manion and Mary FitzSimons; son-in-law Dan FitzSimons; and three grandsons, Jack FitzSimons, Ben Weissman, and Gunnar Holmes. His youngest daughter Sarah died eight days after he did. A celebration of life will be held June 21 at Holly Creek Retirement Community in Centennial at 1:00.