John "Jack" Grehoski

Jack Grehoski December 8, 1945 – February 25, 2025

From the moment my sister and I were born, my Uncle Jack showed up for us like a second father. He and my aunt took us in for weekends so often when we were little that their home, “the big house,” became our personal playground. We’d roam, explore, and inevitably get into all kinds of innocent trouble. “Don’t sit on the swan,” he’d warn us—the antique wooden swan that just looked too fun to resist. But we weren’t the only troublemakers. Uncle Jack had his own mischievous streak. He’d chase us around with plastic fangs, hissing, “I vant to drink your blood!”—scaring the life out of this former chicken.

Every weekend ritual included a trip to Blockbuster, where we checked out Hocus Pocus every. Single. Time. If he minded, I never heard him say so.

Uncle Jack was an icon. A gas company man by week, a skydiving instructor on weekends, an occasional extra in an aerobics video, and an Olympic-level chainsaw thrower (at least in family lore). He taught me invaluable lessons: how to merge onto I-290 without dying, the genius of Mel Brooks, an appreciation for country rock, and all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody.

He showed up—always. Every school concert, birthday party, soccer game, and graduation. But Uncle Jack wasn’t just a warm and fuzzy presence; he was also the guy who guarded his crab rangoons with his life and wouldn’t share even if it meant saving yours. I was never allowed to so much as look at his Firebird.

A true Jack-of-all-trades, he was also a killer bartender. He loved his vodka straight, but he could entertain a crowd with his frozen margaritas straight from Margaritaville, mix a mean pitcher of mimosas, and carefully layer a B-52 shot like an artist.

As time passed and my sister and I grew up, Uncle Jack slowed down, and our adventures evolved. Tubing trips turned into long drives to Arizona’s desert museums. Ice skating gave way to movie marathons on holidays. Speedboats in the Newport harbor were replaced with happy hour rituals on a Florida veranda, where he and my aunt taught us the simple joys of slowing down and soaking in the moment.

Uncle Jack recognized that I wasn’t someone who could be confined to just one interest. For my 12th birthday, he and my aunt gave me both a cookbook and a tool kit—encouraging me to explore anything and everything that sparked my curiosity.

Jack was many things to many people, but to me, he was Uncle Jack—the man who patiently let my sister and me put his hair in pigtails and who affectionately called me by the nickname he gave me: “Pesty.”

Uncle Jack was born on December 8, 1945, in North Providence, Rhode Island, to John and Alice (Fors). He is preceded in death by his parents, his eldest son Scott, his sister Alice, and his nephew Christopher. He leaves behind his incredible and devoted wife, Carol, with whom he shared 44 wonderful years of marriage, celebrating their anniversary this past February 8th.

Jack is survived by his son Brian and wife Linda, his beloved grandchildren Jason and Jocelyn, and his niece and nephew, Leigh Anne and John. He also leaves behind this author, Casandra; her sister Tracy and Tracy’s husband, Casey; and Jack’s great-nephew, Jimmy. His brother-in-law Jim and his wife Joanne, as well as close family friend Susan DiPilato, were also constants in his life.

Susan, Jim, and Joanne’s unwavering support and presence at Notre Dame brought comfort and light to Jack’s time in the nursing home, ensuring he was surrounded by love until the very end. His legacy of warmth, humor, and adventure will live on in all of us who were lucky enough to know him.

Get on your bikes and ride!

Per Jack’s wishes, there will be no services.