Albert Charron had blue eyes. They always danced a little– like he was about to let you in on a joke or declare some long-hidden secret to happiness.

Albert (or "Mike", as he was more often called) was born in Middlebury, Vermont, on February 11, 1930. His family (his parents and thirteen siblings) ran a chicken farm in a windswept valley of the Green Mountains. Mike learned to operate a tractor and a truck when he was a freckle-faced nine year old. He could drive a team of horses before then.

By the time he graduated from Middlebury High School in 1950 Mike had played and lettered in all sports. It was then he met his lifelong sweetheart, Marion Sunderland. They married in Augusta, Georgia, while he was training to be a radio operator  in the United States Airforce.

Mike leaped from a plane during a blizzard in 1952 over Sydney, Nova Scotia - he landed in a tree. Years later his parachute became a tent for his children to play under. He was still fluent in Morse code in his nineties and always laughed when he recalled turning to a crewmate during the evacuation, telling him to jump first.

Mike became an air traffic controller in 1958, working for the Federal Aviation Association for 32 years. He was known as "Big Al, the Pilot's Pal".

He retired early to go on adventures with Marion. They especially loved their trips to Branson, Missouri; Prince Edward Island; and summers in their home state.

He continued to travel after Marion passed away in 2016. He spent road trips singing along to Frank Sinatra and Billie Holliday on the car radio. He always knew all of the words.

Mike liked black coffee, French Almond toast, and had ice cream every day. He loved working in the sunshine of his garden among his beloved Monarch Butterflies. One of the things that gave Mike the most joy was sharing his many skills with his grandchildren. He spent afternoons with them, explaining the secrets of swinging a golf club, throwing a football, or doing carpentry— with a patient smile and homemade snacks. It was so heartwarming for his own children to see these close bonds.

His patient wait to see Marion again ended on November 8, 2023. He was also reunited with their son, David; twelve of his siblings; and Roman, a horse of an English Mastiff who loved rides in the bed of his Mazda pickup truck. (There are certainly battered pickup trucks, dogs, and compost bins in Heaven.)

A piece of Mike survives in everyone who loved him— who number more than he ever knew. He had a habit of making friends wherever he went, with a laughing wink and a cheerful, "How's it going, guy?"

His happiness came from making other people happy, especially by making them smile.

We all miss that. We meaning Mike's daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews, neighbors, friends, barber, landscapers, gardenias, caterpillars, co-workers, and countless others.

But as he always said (with a characteristic shake of the head), "You know, you say that. But that's life."

We all hope to have a life as "Beautiful" with kindness as his was.