Frank P. Lalama

Frank Lalama died, ultimately of sudden cardiac arrest, with his wife Paulette, dutifully, faithfully, and lovingly by his side. Frank and Paulette have been married for 57 years, and inseparable long before, but I’ll come back to that. The story of Frank can be summarized entirely by love. Frank is a love story.

He loved his four sisters and his role as big brother. He loved his cousin Joey, and loved (if only in the way one comes to love their captor) their egg route - delivering in the wee hours for their Uncle Nick’s farm. He loved his students, and student-athletes as a teacher and coach at Blackhawk.

My god did Frank love my mother. Paulette is indisputably the love of his life. They’ve been together since they were twelve. You read that right. In storybook fashion, prior to driving, Frank would pick Paulette up on horseback. They are so stable and constant that most refer to the pair as a singularity. Speaking of one, is to speak of both. It is Frank and Paulette. I witnessed it, and its impacts, my entire life. My father doted on her into their seventies. He brought her hot cups of tea and would beam with pride - so excited to watch her open a gift he meticulously selected. He adored her. He loved loving her.

Their example shaped our entire upbringing. With age and perspective, I’ve realized that my sisters and I lived a utopian experience. A home where we were blanketed with support, stability, safety, and love for every moment of our existence. It hung in the air like a 4-dimensional curtain that occupied every inch of our home. The love was tangible in everything he did from rolling meatballs to rubbing our feet. He was gentle, somehow in complete control of his substantial brute strength. Frank was a powerful man, evident on athletic fields, but he never spoke of his own accomplishments. He was far more concerned with yours.

He loved family meals and especially Christmas Eve. On Spaghetti Sunday, he cooked enough to feed whoever might appear, family and friends alike. Everyone was welcome at Frank’s table. He never missed a game or recital, despite a 1.5 hour office commute. He loved us. He loved our friends, and continued to ask about you all, regularly. He loved you.

His love expanded to envelop our children. He loved his grandchildren, requiring daily updates of their feats, and would brag about them to whoever would listen.

He was a poet, scholar, philosopher, teacher, coach, cowboy, and comedian. He loved westerns. He loved the Steelers so much that he couldn’t bear to watch them. He was serious, stoic, noble, and exemplary, with an impeccable moral and ethical compass. He was rugged. He was handsome. He was strong, reliable, tolerant, patient, tender, and kind. He was good and goodness. He was also silly, and seriously funny. He was a firearm collector, a love inherited from his father and had a peculiar obsession with socks.

Frank gave us a love story that he wrote. A complete fairy tale. He was the knight in shining armor. The good over evil. The Prince Charming. The safe harbor in the storm. He was my hero. He loved. And whether it is Big Brother, Daddy, Papa, Uncle Frank, or simply Frank, we loved him back. I could not be more proud of him. He was beautiful.

- Brian, and on behalf of Erin, and Lauren.

Frank P. Lalama was born February 13, 1947 and died September 2, 2024. He was 77 years old. He is survived by his wife of 57 years, Paulette E. Lalama (Cavoulas), their three children, Brian Lalama (Vanessa), Erin McAndrew (Joe), and Lauren Eisenbraun (Kurt) and his five grandchildren, Ella, Leighton, Avery, Rylan and Camden. He was preceded in death by his father Richard and his mother Pauline (Galzerano). He is survived by his four sisters Marian Gregory (the late Burt), Carol Selkovits (Bernard), Rita Colallela (Pat), and Jeanne Lalama (Tracy LeBree).