About my Dad

Darwin Dayne Flucht was my father.

He was born on April 14, 1936, in Lincoln Park, MI.

He lived 88 years until his death on January 13, 2025 in Wyandotte, MI.

He was a father to three:  JoAnn, me, and Phillip.

He was grandfather to six:  Gary, Ryan, Kathryn, Samantha, Andrew, and Morgan.

He was great-grandfather to four:  Jared, Aiden, Jaxon, and Madelyn.

He was husband to Carol Ann Freeland for 57 years, and to Romona Freeland for 10.

Those are the facts.  But facts aren’t really the story.

I’d like to tell you a bit of the story of his life.

If you ask anyone about my dad, they’ll tell you a couple of things:

1. He was a funny guy.  And if like Joe Pesci you wonder “Funny how?”, let me tell you.  Not jokes or punch lines.  Funny with a dry, sardonic wit.  Some might even say sarcastic.  Quick-witted, with a great ad lib to make a story better or to make the group laugh.  Sharp with a quip and a comment.  Truly funny.
2. He was a devout Christian. And if you wonder “Christian how?”, let me tell you. Not in holier than thou.  Not in “I’m better than you.”  But by living his beliefs every day of his life, by practicing charity at every opportunity.  My dad was a giver, both to his church and to help individuals.  He was famous for shaking hands and sliding off money to a person in need.  You never saw him do it, unless you knew because you’d seen it before.  He served as deacon in a few churches and gave a significant portion of his life in service to his God.

How did he get to that?  

Let’s start at the beginning.

The Fluchts come from a proud and overlooked ethnic background: Appalachian-Americans.  

For those of you who haven’t studied Anthropology, that means we’re hillbillies.  

Grandpa Flucht lived in the bootheel of Missouri; Grandma Flucht lived just across the river in Arkansas.

Grandpa moved to Detroit because Henry Ford was paying the princely sum of $5 a day to autoworkers.  He moved to Detroit/Highland Park, and Grandpa became a shop rat at Ford, working the line.

It wasn’t for him.  He quit.

His family had owned a gas station in Arkansas, so he bought one here.

He bought a Sunoco gas station on the corner of Telegraph and Wick Roads in Taylor.  As fate would have it, the business next door was Bowmer & Poff Truck Repair (The owners of Bowmer & Poff later became my in-laws, when I married Patty Bowmer in 1993.  It is indeed a small world).

Dad, and I believe his older brother Robert, went to work at the gas station, where he learned to repair cars. He could fix darn near anything that had wheels. He did tow runs for years, even decades, because I remember him getting up in the middle of the night to answer the phone and leave for a run.

It was a full-service station, so he was also pumping gas, checking oil, cleaning windshields.  I laugh every time I see the movie The Blues Brothers, the scene where they’re racing to the Tax Assessor’s Office in downtown Chicago, but are out of gas, stuck in a gas station, waiting for the gas truck to arrive.  The model Twiggy drive in with a Jaguar convertible, and Elwood gives her full service, even asking, “You want I should scrape the dead bugs off da windshield?”  

I picture my dad, smiling and asking something similar of all the pretty girls that drove in to the gas station on that busy corner.

Dad’s pretty girl drove into his life in 1956.  

He met Carol Ann Freeland at church.  I believe it was Highland Park Baptist (I wasn’t around to know for sure).  But they were each other’s first (and only) dates, and they married in 1957.  

Isn’t it great to see a love that unique and solitary – the one person for me?  

I’m blessed that I get to see it twice, as my oldest daughter, Kathryn, and her fiancée, Olivia, are living the same – each other’s first and only dates, and they’re getting married in 2026.  

I wish my dad could be there to see it happen for one of his grandkids as it did for him.

My parents were married for 57 years, until Mom passed in 2014.

As the 60s dawned on America, the world was in disarray.  The Vietnam war was was raging.  The counter-culture movement was beginning, as teenagers rebelled against their parents’ world. Russia was saber rattling, peaking with the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Dad had volunteered for the Air National Guard, and he was called up in 1960.

He worked as a cook, so the family joke was always that when called to serve his country, my dad really served his country.  He was honorably discharged on October 28, 1964, and we thank him for his service.

He went to college at the Detroit College of Business.  DCB eventually morphed into Davenport University.  Dad graduated with a degree in Business.

At the same time, he and Carol decided to start a family.  In 1961, they adopted a baby girl and named her JoAnne Leslie Flucht (she will always be the oldest).  They later added two additional adoptions, Darwin Timothy Flucht (Hi!), and Phillip Andrew Flucht, forever to be known as “The Baby”.

All three kids were adopted as babies, days old, from different Childrens’ Homes.  For us, Mom and Dad were the only parents we ever knew.

After honorable discharge from the service, and after starting a family, my dad felt a calling.  Missionary Acres was a new retirement community in Missouri, run by Baptist Mid-Missions.  And when I say it was new I mean it had land, and some gravel roads.

Dad has always had a soft heart for missionaries, supporting them in many ways.

At this time, his support became a firm commitment. 

He uprooted his newly formed family, and relocated to just outside Clubb, Missouri, a tiny town in the foothills of the Ozarks.  We lived in a 48-ft. house trailer, a tiny living space with one air conditioner, located in my parent’s bedroom.  Why in their bedroom? Because my mother DEMANDED it.

Dad served as caretaker of the community, meaning he built houses for the retiring missionaries that were moving there, and repaired those that were already occupied.  It was a 7 day a week job. If something went wrong, or broke, from the kitchen fridge to the water system (fed by a well), they called my dad.

Think about that – the person who left their life (and business) in Michigan, moved to Missouri, had a trailer to live in with his family of five, while he built houses for couples or even singles returning from the mission field.  True service there . . .

I remember Missouri fondly.

We lived in the foothills of the Ozarks.  And because I didn’t know any better, I had no idea how poor we were. We had literally no money.

We grew a lot of our own food – I hate weeding gardens to this day! -- and got eggs and milk from our neighbors. I remember I had one pair of shoes, and those were for church on Sunday.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t wear shoes to school, and neither did most of my classmates.  Maybe the Rainwaters, the rich family who owned most of Greenville, the city where the school was (population 282 . . . Saaaaaaloot! For all you Hee Haw fans).

For a young boy, I had worlds to explore.  I was fortunately too young to be of any help to my dad, so I was a free-range kid. I remember Mom making me a cheese sandwich (2 slices of white bread and a single slice of surplus cheese, maybe a spot of mustard), sticking it in my pocket, kicking me out the door, and telling me to be home by dark.  My friends and I would run wild through the woods, sliding down old-growth hills, running through old foundations, fishing and swimming in creeks, real “Stand by Me” stuff.

Dad worked all the time, and all his efforts were to help others.  He had a dog, a German Shepherd named Shadow, who followed him everywhere.  Dad would drive the tractor to the latest job/construction site, and Shadow would run alongside.  One time, Dad was up on the roof of a two-story home, putting on shingles.  Shadow climbed up the extension ladder to be on the roof with Dad.

Unfortunately, dogs can’t climb down ladders.  At least Dad’s couldn’t.

He ended up having me get Mr. McKittrick, who raised the bucket of the loader to the roof edge.  Shadow wouldn’t get in, so Dad had to sit in the bucket.  Shadow then laid across his lap, and they were lowered to the ground.

We didn’t have any money because Dad wasn’t paid for his work. Grandma and Grandpa, and probably Brother Bob, would send money once in a while, but times were tough.  

While I had one pair of shoes, Mom had none.  I remember once coming home and Mom was on her knees, crying and praying.  She was crying that she didn’t have any clothes, or even shoes, and was begging God to provide.

Our phone, which was a party line, rang.  Mrs. McCrumb was calling to tell us a Missionary Barrel shipment had come in, and she wanted us to get there quick to pick. Missionary Barrels were big barrels that churches would put out in their lobby, and families would throw in their old clothes and shoes.  Once filled with stuff, they’d seal up the barrel and send it off to a missionary location.  Not because they knew there was someone there who could use the clothes, or that ANYTHING in the barrel would fit anyone, they’d just send off a shipment of their castoff clothing.

Mom was so excited I think she took the car to make the mile trip over to the McCrums.  I remember watching her searching through the clothes spread across the floor, crying when she found a few pairs of shoes in her size.  As much as I think this didn’t affect me, Imelda Marcos once looked in my closet and said “WOW!  That’s a lotta shoes!”

One day, there was an accident.

Dad hurt his back, badly.  

Missionary Acres didn’t have a PPO.

Or an HMO.

Or anything.

I’ll be polite and say the available medical service in that region was . . . rudimentary?

Their suggested solution was to fuse Dad’s spine into a single straight bone, which would have largely immobilized him for life.

He didn’t want to do this, so he left the hospital.  I remember him crawling down the hallway of the trailer, sobbing from the pain. 

It didn’t get any better.

Grandpa and Grandma Flucht insisted he come home to Michigan, to see what options were available here.

We moved back to Michigan, never to return to Missionary Acres.

Dad found a chiropractor that worked miracles.  Although his back would sometimes flare up for the rest of his life, he didn’t have the spinal fusion.  He was able to lead a “normal” life.

He went back to the gas station and began working his side hustles.  That’s right, my dad had side hustles before they were even a phrase.  He borrowed money and bought a house, which he rented out. He did this again, buying another house.

And again.

And again.

He got a partner or two, and they bought more.

I think his theory was that Labor was free (and by “Labor” I mean Jo, Phillip and me), so the rentals were all profit.  He had a bunch of houses, and a bunch of mortgages, balancing on the edge of success, or bankruptcy.  Every time a renter moved out, we had to repair, repaint, and refurbish the house.  Most of my summer vacations were spent doing this.  Jo, Phil and I were the only kids in our classes that were THRILLED when school started in September.  We got a trip to Cedar Point each year, and a bunch of life lessons in painting, plumbing, wiring and drywall.

Spurred by the rising energy prices that started with the ’73 oil embargo, he started a business selling wood stoves.  He converted our family home to wood heat, since lumberjacks and log splitters (and by “Log Splitters” I mean Phillip and me). I spent a good piece of my childhood splitting wood, developing the skillset and muscles that would eventually pay off in winning giant stuffed animals for my children at Cedar Point and other amusement parks.

Seeing the gentrification of Downriver, he opened a storage lot on Racho Road, anticipating cities would pass ordinances banning storage of RVs and boats in driveways.  They did, and the lot filled. 

He went into business with Phillip, and a family friend, Jim.  They built and sold houses.

I remember my Dad as a hard worker, at least 6 days a week.  His down time was usually spent with friends – the Chipmans, the Bergmans, the Carneys, among others.  By my calculation, they played approximately 4,732,568 games of Uno together.  Most Saturday nights in our house were two married couples sitting at the dining room table, screaming and hollering “Draw Four!” or “UNO!!!!”

He always had something for sale—a car, a boat, a trailer.  He would always buy and sell things, picking up extra money to keep the family afloat.

And he always supported his church.  We were there at least three times a week, for Sunday school and church, for Sunday night service, and for Wednesday night prayer meeting.  In addition to his giving to his church, he supported missionaries across the world.  If the missionaries planted the seeds for new churches across the globe, my dad provided a lot of the water and fertilizer to help them grow. 

Dad was a true entrepreneur.  He also worked for Taylor Public Schools, working as a bus driver.  Eventually, he became a building manager for a particular school, spending his working hours doing very little for a nice union wage.  He eventually retired from this role.

Mom was in declining health.  She had some mental issues, and rapidly advancing dementia.  Mom and Dad had promised each other they would never put one another in a nursing home, under any circumstances.

And no matter how much mom declined, how difficult her dementia made life, Dad would never allow her to be moved to a home.  He loved his kids, and grandkids, and loved to hear of their successes.  I remember calling him once because I was getting ready to go into a meeting on the 9th floor of the Glass House. He broke down crying when I told him, happy the family had gone from factory floor to the Executive Floor of Ford World HQ.  

But he missed a lot of events:  birthdays, recitals, holidays.  Mom’s dementia meant they couldn’t go to many of these things.

Dad cared for her until her passing.

Dad always kept his word.

After Mom’s death, he was reminded of another promise he had made.

Mom had a sister, Romona, who was married to Mel Gordon.  They also had three children:  Mel Jr., Diana, and Doreen.

The two couples were close, sometimes vacationing together.  During one such trip in Palm Springs, they took a vow that whoever survived to the end would ensure whoever was left was taken care of.

Mel went first.

Then my mom.

Shortly thereafter, Dad and Mona were married, and that marriage lasted until his death.

Dad always kept his word.

As we honor him here today, I hope you’ll remember him as I do:  a man of deep religious convictions, who put them into action in every facet of his life.  

A man who always had a $20 for someone in need, or an odd job for someone who needed one.  A man who gave to others first.

A generous, hardworking man, who loved his family and always looked for the best in everyone.  

A quick-witted funny man who loved to negotiate, a man with the heart and soul of a dealmaker.

My father, Darwin Dayne Flucht.