Until perhaps the last four or so years of his life, my dad never - not once - acted or appeared his age. At least, he never did to me; a child who entered his life when thoughts of retirement, frequent vacations, and grandchildren were surely swirling through the minds of his peers.
Donald Kellermeyer could keep up with the best of them, of course. The man learned the intricacies of Super Mario Brothers 3 when some men would ponder its existence (and God help him if he beat me in NES Baseball). He spent hours playing basketball with a short little girl who was convinced she was very good. He drove me around on a old (read: retro) snowmobile and played in the snow when other men his age were probably content to huddle under blankets with a cup of coffee. We sat together into the night, he on his Packard Bell computer and me on my Dell, playing our respective computer games while my mom probably shook her head. For a very long time, the man knew more about computers than I - and that is saying something of someone born in 1931.
Into his seventies he strapped on water-skis and let his heavily hairsprayed hair flap in the wind as he flew over the water. He could ride back there for ages before he finally decided to give someone else a turn and helm the speed boat himself. He built houses and churches and knew more than any five men I've ever met (even if sometimes his brand of construction included duct-tape, scraps from the garage, and a lot of Kellermeyer-resourcefulness) and he'll always be the smartest, most patient, and kindest man I've ever known.
So to you, Daddy, I raise a (Dairy Queen) chocolate malt on what would have been your 84th birthday. Never did you act those 80+ years, and that made you perfect to me.
Donald Kellermeyer could keep up with the best of them, of course. The man learned the intricacies of Super Mario Brothers 3 when some men would ponder its existence (and God help him if he beat me in NES Baseball). He spent hours playing basketball with a short little girl who was convinced she was very good. He drove me around on a old (read: retro) snowmobile and played in the snow when other men his age were probably content to huddle under blankets with a cup of coffee. We sat together into the night, he on his Packard Bell computer and me on my Dell, playing our respective computer games while my mom probably shook her head. For a very long time, the man knew more about computers than I - and that is saying something of someone born in 1931.
Into his seventies he strapped on water-skis and let his heavily hairsprayed hair flap in the wind as he flew over the water. He could ride back there for ages before he finally decided to give someone else a turn and helm the speed boat himself. He built houses and churches and knew more than any five men I've ever met (even if sometimes his brand of construction included duct-tape, scraps from the garage, and a lot of Kellermeyer-resourcefulness) and he'll always be the smartest, most patient, and kindest man I've ever known.
So to you, Daddy, I raise a (Dairy Queen) chocolate malt on what would have been your 84th birthday. Never did you act those 80+ years, and that made you perfect to me.
