Son of a Portland shipyard worker who was laid off after World War II, he lived for a time in a converted chicken coop. When he was 13, his father died and he became the man of the house.
Keenan will retire after leading the Archdiocese of Portland's social service arm for 22 years and overseeing a major expansion of services.
"I learned to rely on God a lot and have empathy for people without a lot of money," he says of his past.
Keenan, a 65-year-old member of Our Lady of Sorrows Parish in Portland, says his work at Catholic Charities has been a blessing.
"It gives me an opportunity to live my faith and my belief in the social mission of the church," he explains.
In Keenan's years as head of Catholic Charities, the annual operating budget surged from $100,000 to $10 million. In 2008, Keenan led the organization in its first capital campaign, which raised $12.5 million for the construction of the Clark Family Center, Catholic Charities' new headquarters.
Keenan has not taken the Catholic identity of the organization lightly. He cites scripture and church teaching when giving major talks. The new building has a statue of Christ and crucifixes. The mission statement, he knows in his bones, is based on the dignity and sanctity of human life and the social teaching of the church. In 1997, he withdrew Catholic Charities from United Way, which included Planned Parenthood.
He attended Central Catholic High School and the University of Portland, working summers to pay off tuition. Keenan was a philosophy and theology undergraduate at UP who was impressed with the social mission of the church as voiced in the documents of the Second Vatican Council.
"I felt we all had a role in the life of the church and a duty to create a more just society," he says.
While a student at UP, he volunteered with low-income kids in at a nearby housing project as a tutor and coach. He helped a group of single mothers organize themselves to assert their rights before the Housing Authority of Portland.
He then earned a master's in social work from Portland State University, serving for part of that time with a human rights commission in Portland.
In 1979, he became director of family life for the Archdiocese of Portland. He planned fairs, workshops, speakers, parent classes and marriage training. He formed an association for people who were widowed and divorced.
During the 1980s, Archbishop William Levada began to revise Catholic Charities, which then had only a handful of workers. The archbishop wanted a stronger presence of the church in social work and Keenan got the call.
Now, 200 workers help serve 39,000 people each year. A decade ago, Keenan listened to his case workers and brought Catholic Charities into affordable housing, with 600 units being tended.
Services, Keenan says, cannot simply fill in needs. They must advance human development by helping poor people further financial stability, strengthen marriages and other family relationships and form links to the community.
He hopes Catholic Charities will continue to grow in ways that respond to the changing needs of people who are poor. Now, for example, Catholic Charities serves the newest immigrants to America — Latinos, Africans and others. Recently, Catholic Charities has earned a national reputation for work with victims of human trafficking.
"Dennis is a true servant leader, who has the ability to inspire and who is passionate about the social mission of the church," says Doug Alles, longtime social services director for Catholic Charities. "Dennis has made it possible for us to improve our care for the poor and has helped the staff of Catholic Charities grow as persons."
Keenan has a high reputation even outside Catholic circles.
"I've learned a lot watching how Dennis has helped lead and guide Catholic Charities through a lot of changes," says David Leslie, executive director of Ecumenical Ministries of Oregon for 14 years. "Programs don't grow out of bottom lines, they grow out of need, vision and compassion."
Keenan and wife Diana, whom he lauds for her encouragement and support, have been married for 41 years. They have five children and six grandchildren. Keenan says he looks forward to spending time with them all.
2011年8月3日星期三
2011年6月26日星期日
John Moffitt's mystery millions
He spent 60 years in Castle Rock, delivering mail for three decades and quietly amassing a timber fortune that benefits numerous charities and local schools — but John Moffitt remains a mystery millionaire.
Moffitt, who died in 1989, lived a frugal but eccentric life, caring for a pack of dogs, hoarding food at times and never throwing anything out. He loved gardening, playing the piano, collecting antiques and writing poetry. He lived in "a shack" for decades, rarely spending anything on himself.
If you were poor, or sick, Moffitt would help. In return, he wanted anonymity. Charities sometimes lost his support after asking for more money or disclosing his involvement.
His John Moffitt Foundation now contributes to 13 charities or organizations annually, including all Cowlitz County public schools. In just two examples, his money helps Castle Rock children read and provides emergency money for dialysis patients throughout Washington and Oregon. In the past decade, the foundation has distributed more than $1.3 million.
Yet few people know much about Moffitt. Even relatives only knew part of his story, never hearing of the abusive, poverty-stricken childhood that led to his life of quiet philanthropy.
"He was just a shy man," said attorney Chris Roubicek, who worked with Moffitt before his death and now represents his estate. "He didn’t wear his philanthropy on his sleeve."
"We were shocked at how much he had," said nephew Don Parham of Portland, recalling how the family reacted after learning Moffitt was worth close to $8 million at his death. "But him creating a foundation? That didn’t surprise me any. He was a good man."
John Hardy Moffitt was born Feb. 5, 1897, in Portland, the second child and only son of John H. and Mary E. (Gentry) Moffitt, according to a short biography the late Castle Rock lawyer Frank Hallett wrote for the foundation.
Moffitt’s father, a railroad conductor and candy merchant, died when Moffitt was two. His mother remarried twice, having three more children.
Relatives said that while Moffitt loved to tell jokes and stories, he didn’t talk much about his youth.
They weren’t happy memories, according to Hallett’s biography.
One of Moffitt’s stepfathers was a "drunkard" who squandered his wages and whipped young Moffitt, Hallett wrote. Moffitt was teased at school, where he was "ill-clothed, often hungry and barefoot," Hallett wrote. At times he lived with relatives or in foster homes.
Moffitt never forgot several acts of kindness from those hard times, including Christmas gifts from the Salvation Army and shoes from one of his teachers, Hallett wrote.
Moffitt spent much of his teen and early adult years helping support his mother and siblings. Eventually, the strain and long hours caused him to have a nervous breakdown, Hallett wrote. He later served in the Army medical corps in stateside hospitals during World War I.
News of the hardships detailed in Hallett’s biography shocked some of Moffitt’s relatives when they were told of them last week.
"Not having shoes? My goodness," Moffitt’s great-niece Nancy Pagaduan exclaimed from her Aloha, Ore., home. "We have a picture of his mother and her sisters and they’re beautiful, little Victorian girls. It’s hard to think about her being married and not being able to make ends meet."
In 1926, then his late 20s, Moffitt moved to Castle Rock and started buying logged-off and second-growth timberland, sometimes for just $5 an acre.
"I think it was just a way for him to accumulate property for his retirement," Roubicek said. "And he always held on to it. (Frank Hallett) would say sometimes he’d pay the taxes on the tree farm before he’d eat."
Moffitt ran a farm on his land and also worked 30 years as a postal carrier, bringing home every stray dog he found, Parham said. At one point he had as many as 27 dogs, Parham said.
During the Great Depression, Moffitt worked for the Works Progress Administration and in California shipyards. He also was a "very caring and effective" social worker in Cowlitz County, Hallett wrote. He retired from the post office in 1966.
He had enough to still help relatives from time to time, but Moffitt himself lived in a small home on his Delameter Road tree farm that everyone who knew him describes as a "shack." When Roubicek first saw the overgrown, abandoned building in the 1980s he thought it was an old chicken coop.
"He lived a pauper’s existence out there on Delameter Road," Roubicek said. "(The shack) was the God-awfulest thing." His long-time friends and caretakers Harold and Virginia Brown helped out on the tree farm as Moffitt got older.
Some people called him a hermit, but Moffitt visited and vacationed with family and friends through the years, including trips to Hawaii and the Ozarks.
In the 1970s, Moffitt’s life changed dramatically. Friends convinced him to log 183 acres along Woodside Drive. He made a windfall during the log export boom and socked most of it away in treasury bonds. He’d moved to a cottage in the 1960s and moved into a house in Castle Rock in 1979.
He splurged on a Cadillac and a motor home, but even then he wasn’t flashy. He owned the motor home 15 years but only put 80 miles on it, Roubicek said.
Haunted by "an innate fear of hunger and poverty," Moffitt remained notoriously frugal, Hallett wrote.
Roubicek remembers as a young lawyer mistakenly charging Moffitt postage on some legal documents. It was just a few stamps, but Moffitt never let him forget about it, Roubicek said.
"He had a long memory and he rarely forgot a slight," Roubicek said. "And that helped to make him a little bit of a character ... a little eccentric."
Moffitt gave money to others throughout his life, but kept it quiet.
Moffitt, who died in 1989, lived a frugal but eccentric life, caring for a pack of dogs, hoarding food at times and never throwing anything out. He loved gardening, playing the piano, collecting antiques and writing poetry. He lived in "a shack" for decades, rarely spending anything on himself.
If you were poor, or sick, Moffitt would help. In return, he wanted anonymity. Charities sometimes lost his support after asking for more money or disclosing his involvement.
His John Moffitt Foundation now contributes to 13 charities or organizations annually, including all Cowlitz County public schools. In just two examples, his money helps Castle Rock children read and provides emergency money for dialysis patients throughout Washington and Oregon. In the past decade, the foundation has distributed more than $1.3 million.
Yet few people know much about Moffitt. Even relatives only knew part of his story, never hearing of the abusive, poverty-stricken childhood that led to his life of quiet philanthropy.
"He was just a shy man," said attorney Chris Roubicek, who worked with Moffitt before his death and now represents his estate. "He didn’t wear his philanthropy on his sleeve."
"We were shocked at how much he had," said nephew Don Parham of Portland, recalling how the family reacted after learning Moffitt was worth close to $8 million at his death. "But him creating a foundation? That didn’t surprise me any. He was a good man."
John Hardy Moffitt was born Feb. 5, 1897, in Portland, the second child and only son of John H. and Mary E. (Gentry) Moffitt, according to a short biography the late Castle Rock lawyer Frank Hallett wrote for the foundation.
Moffitt’s father, a railroad conductor and candy merchant, died when Moffitt was two. His mother remarried twice, having three more children.
Relatives said that while Moffitt loved to tell jokes and stories, he didn’t talk much about his youth.
They weren’t happy memories, according to Hallett’s biography.
One of Moffitt’s stepfathers was a "drunkard" who squandered his wages and whipped young Moffitt, Hallett wrote. Moffitt was teased at school, where he was "ill-clothed, often hungry and barefoot," Hallett wrote. At times he lived with relatives or in foster homes.
Moffitt never forgot several acts of kindness from those hard times, including Christmas gifts from the Salvation Army and shoes from one of his teachers, Hallett wrote.
Moffitt spent much of his teen and early adult years helping support his mother and siblings. Eventually, the strain and long hours caused him to have a nervous breakdown, Hallett wrote. He later served in the Army medical corps in stateside hospitals during World War I.
News of the hardships detailed in Hallett’s biography shocked some of Moffitt’s relatives when they were told of them last week.
"Not having shoes? My goodness," Moffitt’s great-niece Nancy Pagaduan exclaimed from her Aloha, Ore., home. "We have a picture of his mother and her sisters and they’re beautiful, little Victorian girls. It’s hard to think about her being married and not being able to make ends meet."
In 1926, then his late 20s, Moffitt moved to Castle Rock and started buying logged-off and second-growth timberland, sometimes for just $5 an acre.
"I think it was just a way for him to accumulate property for his retirement," Roubicek said. "And he always held on to it. (Frank Hallett) would say sometimes he’d pay the taxes on the tree farm before he’d eat."
Moffitt ran a farm on his land and also worked 30 years as a postal carrier, bringing home every stray dog he found, Parham said. At one point he had as many as 27 dogs, Parham said.
During the Great Depression, Moffitt worked for the Works Progress Administration and in California shipyards. He also was a "very caring and effective" social worker in Cowlitz County, Hallett wrote. He retired from the post office in 1966.
He had enough to still help relatives from time to time, but Moffitt himself lived in a small home on his Delameter Road tree farm that everyone who knew him describes as a "shack." When Roubicek first saw the overgrown, abandoned building in the 1980s he thought it was an old chicken coop.
"He lived a pauper’s existence out there on Delameter Road," Roubicek said. "(The shack) was the God-awfulest thing." His long-time friends and caretakers Harold and Virginia Brown helped out on the tree farm as Moffitt got older.
Some people called him a hermit, but Moffitt visited and vacationed with family and friends through the years, including trips to Hawaii and the Ozarks.
In the 1970s, Moffitt’s life changed dramatically. Friends convinced him to log 183 acres along Woodside Drive. He made a windfall during the log export boom and socked most of it away in treasury bonds. He’d moved to a cottage in the 1960s and moved into a house in Castle Rock in 1979.
He splurged on a Cadillac and a motor home, but even then he wasn’t flashy. He owned the motor home 15 years but only put 80 miles on it, Roubicek said.
Haunted by "an innate fear of hunger and poverty," Moffitt remained notoriously frugal, Hallett wrote.
Roubicek remembers as a young lawyer mistakenly charging Moffitt postage on some legal documents. It was just a few stamps, but Moffitt never let him forget about it, Roubicek said.
"He had a long memory and he rarely forgot a slight," Roubicek said. "And that helped to make him a little bit of a character ... a little eccentric."
Moffitt gave money to others throughout his life, but kept it quiet.
2011年5月15日星期日
Despite the fog, officer’s wife clearly sees community’s support
Shortly before I show up for the interview at her rural home north of Springfield, Kristie Kilcullen finds the words scrawled a few pages into a blank notepad:
“I love you, sweetie.”
They were, of course, from him: her husband, Chris Kilcullen, the 43-year-old Eugene police officer who was shot and killed April 22 by a motorist he’d pulled over on Highway 126 in Springfield.
Not far away sits a box of hundreds of letters and sympathy cards that have poured in from strangers. From widows of other officers killed in the line of duty. From school kids — “my favorites,” Kristie says. From “sweet little old ladies” who might include a $10 check for her two kids’ scholarship fund.
So, on the notepad: a reminder of the man she’s lost. In the box of mail: a reminder of the support she never knew she had.
Grief and gratitude amid what she calls the “fog” of instant widowhood.
“I’m not sure ‘comforting’ is the right word regarding the outpouring because my heart is so broken right now,” says Kilcullen, 40. “I’m not sure anything can comfort me. But it’s touched me. Deeply.”
In some ways, even overwhelmed her: learning, for example, that the University of Oregon had donated Matthew Knight Arena for her husband’s memorial service.
On the night before the memorial service, walking into a room at EPD’s command center to see dozens of law enforcement officers who’d arrived from around the state to help organize the procession and service. “All these people who gave up a week of their lives and kids’ baseball games,” she says. “I wanted to hug every one of them.”
Seeing, from inside the limo during the procession, a throng of people lined up on the Mohawk Boulevard overpass across Highway 126. Then, after fearing less community support in Eugene, finding herself pleasantly surprised. Among those paying their respects: a man in the Whiteaker neighborhood whom her husband had arrested before, hoisting a beer in his honor.
Opening a bill from McKenzie Disposal. “Our heartfelt condolences,” it said. No payment needed.
Hearing the sound of a car outside and realizing it’s another daily meal being brought to the family by Lane County law enforcement families; the schedule runs through early July.
Realizing that the May 6 Dutch Bros. coffee fundraiser brought in $61,000 to fund scholarships for her two children. And that more than 3,200 people have stamped their approval on a Facebook site to have that stretch of Highway 126 named in her husband’s honor.
Being surrounded by an entourage of family and friends and Chris’ co-workers, there to serve and protect.
All of which feels good, she says, until she sees the Rock Band drum set in the corner of the family room and remembers her husband. “He said he was never going to grow up. He was a little kid in a big-boy uniform.”
Until she sees the custom chicken coop he built out back or the Duck football jersey with Chris’ badge number, 248, on it, given to her at halftime of the UO spring game at Autzen Stadium eight days after his death; “he’d be over the moon with that.”
Until she flips through what she thought was an empty notebook and sees his handwriting.
“I’m still in shock, completely,” says Kilcullen, a wad of Kleenex in her hand. “Breathing is my goal.”
The hardest moments? “Telling (4-year-old) Katie her dad was not coming home. Or every time she picks a wishing flower and blows on it and says, ‘I wish daddy would come home.’”
And how, as an adult, she tries to say something comforting but, deep down, feels just as Katie does. “People say I’m strong,” says Kilcullen, who is taking a break from her job as a State Farm claims adjustor in Springfield. “I don’t feel strong. I feel heartbroken.”
But appreciative. And cautiously hopeful.
That her husband’s death will awaken some people to the respect police officers deserve, she says, but don’t always get. Say, when officers use force in a situation and some immediately assume it’s a case of police overreaction.
“Too many people play armchair quarterback and think we should Kumbaya situations that can’t be Kumbaya-ed,” she says.
She said as much in a letter that was read on her behalf at the memorial service, a letter that was forthright but, she tells you, actually toned down from the original.
“He goes to work everyday to protect people, puts his life on the line and we sacrifice and miss birthday parties and pagers go off while you’re leaving for vacation and he’s 100 percent gone during football season and after a while, yes, resentment builds up when you don’t feel people appreciate that,” she says.
But after his death, she saw another side to the community. Now, she wonders if she misjudged the amount of support there is for the police. Or if Chris’ death has inspired such support.
At any rate, she says, Chris would have loved to see the respect paid for a fallen officer.
“Everyone is hurting and coming together and it’s mind-boggling,” she says. “I’m cautiously optimistic things might be different now. I want families of cops to realize something: If, God forbid, anything like this should happen to your family, this community has your backs.”
No, it won’t ease her grieving, but she’s sensed it in every letter she opens. Every blue ribbon she still sees flying. And in her walk up the Autzen Stadium aisle after the halftime presentation. Applause from adjacent fans followed her up like a vertical wave. But what she remembers most was one older man whose respect, she’d like to believe, wasn’t intended so much for her as for Chris and for every man and woman in blue. He stood at full attention, hand on brow in full salute.
“I love you, sweetie.”
They were, of course, from him: her husband, Chris Kilcullen, the 43-year-old Eugene police officer who was shot and killed April 22 by a motorist he’d pulled over on Highway 126 in Springfield.
Not far away sits a box of hundreds of letters and sympathy cards that have poured in from strangers. From widows of other officers killed in the line of duty. From school kids — “my favorites,” Kristie says. From “sweet little old ladies” who might include a $10 check for her two kids’ scholarship fund.
So, on the notepad: a reminder of the man she’s lost. In the box of mail: a reminder of the support she never knew she had.
Grief and gratitude amid what she calls the “fog” of instant widowhood.
“I’m not sure ‘comforting’ is the right word regarding the outpouring because my heart is so broken right now,” says Kilcullen, 40. “I’m not sure anything can comfort me. But it’s touched me. Deeply.”
In some ways, even overwhelmed her: learning, for example, that the University of Oregon had donated Matthew Knight Arena for her husband’s memorial service.
On the night before the memorial service, walking into a room at EPD’s command center to see dozens of law enforcement officers who’d arrived from around the state to help organize the procession and service. “All these people who gave up a week of their lives and kids’ baseball games,” she says. “I wanted to hug every one of them.”
Seeing, from inside the limo during the procession, a throng of people lined up on the Mohawk Boulevard overpass across Highway 126. Then, after fearing less community support in Eugene, finding herself pleasantly surprised. Among those paying their respects: a man in the Whiteaker neighborhood whom her husband had arrested before, hoisting a beer in his honor.
Opening a bill from McKenzie Disposal. “Our heartfelt condolences,” it said. No payment needed.
Hearing the sound of a car outside and realizing it’s another daily meal being brought to the family by Lane County law enforcement families; the schedule runs through early July.
Realizing that the May 6 Dutch Bros. coffee fundraiser brought in $61,000 to fund scholarships for her two children. And that more than 3,200 people have stamped their approval on a Facebook site to have that stretch of Highway 126 named in her husband’s honor.
Being surrounded by an entourage of family and friends and Chris’ co-workers, there to serve and protect.
All of which feels good, she says, until she sees the Rock Band drum set in the corner of the family room and remembers her husband. “He said he was never going to grow up. He was a little kid in a big-boy uniform.”
Until she sees the custom chicken coop he built out back or the Duck football jersey with Chris’ badge number, 248, on it, given to her at halftime of the UO spring game at Autzen Stadium eight days after his death; “he’d be over the moon with that.”
Until she flips through what she thought was an empty notebook and sees his handwriting.
“I’m still in shock, completely,” says Kilcullen, a wad of Kleenex in her hand. “Breathing is my goal.”
The hardest moments? “Telling (4-year-old) Katie her dad was not coming home. Or every time she picks a wishing flower and blows on it and says, ‘I wish daddy would come home.’”
And how, as an adult, she tries to say something comforting but, deep down, feels just as Katie does. “People say I’m strong,” says Kilcullen, who is taking a break from her job as a State Farm claims adjustor in Springfield. “I don’t feel strong. I feel heartbroken.”
But appreciative. And cautiously hopeful.
That her husband’s death will awaken some people to the respect police officers deserve, she says, but don’t always get. Say, when officers use force in a situation and some immediately assume it’s a case of police overreaction.
“Too many people play armchair quarterback and think we should Kumbaya situations that can’t be Kumbaya-ed,” she says.
She said as much in a letter that was read on her behalf at the memorial service, a letter that was forthright but, she tells you, actually toned down from the original.
“He goes to work everyday to protect people, puts his life on the line and we sacrifice and miss birthday parties and pagers go off while you’re leaving for vacation and he’s 100 percent gone during football season and after a while, yes, resentment builds up when you don’t feel people appreciate that,” she says.
But after his death, she saw another side to the community. Now, she wonders if she misjudged the amount of support there is for the police. Or if Chris’ death has inspired such support.
At any rate, she says, Chris would have loved to see the respect paid for a fallen officer.
“Everyone is hurting and coming together and it’s mind-boggling,” she says. “I’m cautiously optimistic things might be different now. I want families of cops to realize something: If, God forbid, anything like this should happen to your family, this community has your backs.”
No, it won’t ease her grieving, but she’s sensed it in every letter she opens. Every blue ribbon she still sees flying. And in her walk up the Autzen Stadium aisle after the halftime presentation. Applause from adjacent fans followed her up like a vertical wave. But what she remembers most was one older man whose respect, she’d like to believe, wasn’t intended so much for her as for Chris and for every man and woman in blue. He stood at full attention, hand on brow in full salute.
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