Kenneth Brian Sundell of Thunder Bay, Ontario, passed away on June 15, 2025 — with his loving family by his side. He was 69 years old, and he’d tell you every one of those years was hard-earned, well-lived, and worth it.
Born on September 1, 1955, Ken was the kind of man who could fix your leaky faucet, build you a deck, catch your dinner, and still be the last one dancing at the party. And oh, how he loved a party. If there was music, laughter, and a cooler with something cold inside, Ken was already there — or on his way.
For years, he worked as a maintenance man at Lakehead University, keeping the place running with a screwdriver in one hand and a joke in the other. He was the guy who showed up when something broke — and when he left, it worked better than before.
When he wasn’t working, you’d find him doing what he loved: fishing (where he often caught more peace than perch), building things out of wood with that uncanny carpenter’s intuition, or just spending time surrounded by family — his true pride and joy.
Ken is survived by the love of his life, his wife of 44 years, Sirkka Sundell, with whom he shared decades of laughter, grit, and love that outlasts lifetimes. He lives on through his children; Helena Okoren (Joe Okoren) Samantha Sundell (John Hauth), Kheni-Lynn Sundell (Terrance Donio), and Brian Sundell (Melissa Sundell), who each carry a spark of his strength, his stubbornness, and his sense of humor.
His grandchildren — a lively, loving crew — will remember him for his silly banter, his infectious smile and the way he made them laugh with his quick quips and sarcastic humour.
Ken wasn’t a man of pretense. He was a man of action, of heart, and of many stories that would end in laughter or disbelief. He was a loyal friend, a steady hand, a family cornerstone, and the life of the gathering — especially if there was a roaring fire and a good stiff drink.
At his request, there won’t be a formal service — just a gathering of those who loved him, likely with a bonfire, a few fishing tales, and someone yelling “Remember when Ken…” followed by a pause for laughter or tears.
Raise a glass. Tell a story. Build something. Cast a line. That’s how he’d want to be remembered.
And wherever he is now — we hope the fish are biting, the wood is smooth, and the party never ends.
