Thank you for coming to celebrate the life of Eric Davis—my Daddy, my father, a man whose laughter arrived before he did and somehow stayed even after he left the room.

Eric was born on February 11, 1959, in Cleveland, to Ruby Davis and Clarence Davis Jr. He grew up on the east side, where he attended and graduated from John F. Kennedy High School, and then to Tri-C—where he did what he did best his whole life: he found exactly the right person to love. He met my mom, Frances. They married and built 30 years of partnership that looked like everyday teamwork—shared jokes in the kitchen, quick glances across a room that said, “I’m with you,” and the long patience it takes to raise one very talkative only child. Me.

He worked hard—at Chase Brass and Copper, and later at the City of Cleveland, where he earned commendations for leadership and performance. That word, leadership, fit him. He led by rolling up his sleeves and making people feel capable. He didn’t give speeches; he made room for you, made you laugh, and then—without saying it—made you want to do your best.

Daddy loved sports: basketball trash talk, boxing on TV, and golf that was equal parts swing and commentary. He shot a mean game of pool, the kind that drew an audience and ended with a grin and a handshake. And when he needed quiet, he’d lace up his shoes and head to the Metroparks. He liked spending time with nature. The outdoors felt right to him. Fresh air, long trails, a good sweat, and a mind that calmed down.

He believed in the Lord, and that belief showed up the way steady light does—no big announcements, just a compass that kept him kind, honest, and grateful.

My favorite memory is not noble, but it is perfectly him. One summer day, he decided to wage war on a hornets’ nest in the front yard. He went at it with a bravery I’d like to call wisdom, but it wasn’t. The nest went up, the hornets came out, and there was my strong, unshakeable father sprinting across the grass, yelling and swatting, zigzagging like he’d invented a new sport. We laughed until we cried, and once he caught his breath—so did he. That was his gift: he could turn a sting into a story, a mishap into a shared joke, and a bad day into something you could carry.

If you knew him, you remember the music. He didn’t just like songs—he kept a whole soundtrack for a life well-lived. James Brown when the kitchen needed energy. Parliament-Funkadelic for the groove that made chores move faster. Mary J. Blige for those moments he wanted to feel it, not just hear it. He could talk about any genre and would try to convert you in one car ride. And he loved comedy—some of my earliest memories are of him and Daddy Clankie watching Saturday Night Live or Eddy Murphy both of them laughing so hard it made the walls shake. Daddy Clankie, would call Biggie smalls fatty blacks and then another fit of laughter would start. They were always laughing, drinking and joking.

He liked to joke—a lot. The kind of jokes that lit up a room without dimming anyone in it. That’s what people will miss most: his warm smile, that rolling laugh, and the way you could feel better just by standing next to him. He was upbeat, funny, outgoing, the life of the party who somehow still made you the star when you spoke.

He was a devoted husband to Frances, a loving brother to Lonald, Val, Donna, Anita, and Robyn, and a proud father to me Lauren Davis. I was his only child, but he made our world feel crowded—with cousins, with friends who called him “Unc,” with neighbors he remembered by name, and with the kind of community that gets built one smile at a time.

Today is a Celebration of Life, and that fits. Daddy would hate a gloomy room. He’d want a story, a song, a joke that starts too early and finishes too late. He wouldn’t want us to be sad, not because loss isn’t real, but because he believed joy is stubborn. He carried it, even when the day was heavy. He’d say, “Turn the music up. Find something to laugh about. Keep moving.”

So, let’s tell the stories that make us grin. Let’s walk the Metroparks. Let’s play a little pool and let the trash talk be friendly. Let’s listen to James Brown, Parliament, and Mary J. like the house might lift off its foundation. And let’s love one another like he did—simply, generously, without keeping score.

Daddy, thank you. For every hike, every time you let me win at pool—until you didn’t. For the rides with the radio loud. For believing in the Lord and in your people. For working hard, laughing loud, and leading softly.

We carry your smile. We carry your music. We carry your light.

And in your honor, we celebrate your life—fully, joyfully, together