Ralph Edward Scheffler

When I think about my dad, the word that comes to mind first is creativity. Dad made things. He created with pencils, with wood, with metal, and with whatever happened to be in his hands. He was an artist from the time he was a teenager until well into his nineties. He filled sketchbooks with people, animals, cartoons, superheroes, fish, buildings, and beautiful landscapes. While he earned his living as a tool and die engineer, creating precision parts from metal, his heart never stopped creating art. Even into his eighties, he was in his workshop crafting beautiful wooden art pieces. Many of those pieces now hang in our homes, reminding us every day of his talent, his patience, and his love. Dad was also a devoted husband to our mom. Together they shared many adventures. For years they square danced together. Mom made beautiful costumes while Dad handcrafted belt buckles and bolo ties that he sold to other dancers. They were a wonderful team, each expressing their own creativity in different ways. He was also a devoted father. He never just watched us grow up, he participated. He supported our Girl Scout activities, attended sporting events, taught us to swim, and introduced us to archery, a sport that became a lifelong passion for our family. As a little girl, I loved spending time in his workshop. Dad, not always patiently, taught me the names of every tool and what each one did. I became “the tool girl,” proudly fetching whatever he needed while watching him bring another project to life. Looking back, those afternoons taught me far more than how a workshop worked. They showed me the satisfaction of making something with your own hands. Archery gave us some of our best memories together. We shot in tournaments throughout my life, and after the competitions our family would often head to a park or a lake to keep the fun going. Years later, when for a time it was just Dad and me playing archery golf, we created a tradition of our own. Afterward we’d stop for a beer and continue our endless search for the perfect French fry. Those afternoons became less about the score and more about the conversations. He would tell me stories about serving in the Navy, about growing up, and about the experiences that shaped his life. Looking back, those simple outings became some of the greatest gifts he ever gave me. Dad loved to teach. First he taught his own children archery, and later he proudly passed that love on to each of his grandchildren. He also shared his love of woodworking, patiently teaching my grandsons how to carve. Watching him work beside them, encouraging them as they learned to shape a simple piece of wood into something special, was a wonderful reminder that he wasn’t just making projects, he was making memories. He also had a playful sense of humor. The grandchildren still fondly remember the excitement he created by convincing them there was an alligator living in the basement. For a while, they approached those basement stairs with just the right mix of curiosity and caution. It’s one of those family stories that still makes us smile and reminds us how much he enjoyed sparking a child’s imagination. Dad also loved a good card game. Throughout his life he played with different groups of friends, and in recent years Mike and I had the privilege of playing cards with him every week after dinner. It wasn’t really about the cards. It was another excuse to spend time together, laugh together, and make one more memory. Ninety-three years is a long life, but it also meant Dad experienced more loss than most of us can imagine. He said goodbye to family members, lifelong friends, and so many people he loved. Loss became an increasingly regular part of his later years. What made me especially proud was that he never stopped reaching outward. He continued making new friends, trying new activities, and finding reasons to stay engaged with life. That resilience was inspiring. I know how fortunate I was to have so much time with him. We shared countless trips to parks, museums, restaurants, and so many ordinary afternoons that became extraordinary simply because we spent them together. Dad wasn’t perfect. Like all of us, he could be impatient now and then. But his love was steady. He taught by doing. He showed us the value of creating something beautiful, of learning new skills, of sharing your knowledge, and of making time for family. His creativity lives on in the artwork hanging on our walls, in the wooden pieces he lovingly crafted, in the drawings he left behind, and in every child and grandchild he taught. His influence lives on in our traditions, our stories, and even in the way we still appreciate a well-made tool—or stop to judge whether we’ve finally found the perfect French fry. Dad, thank you for teaching us, encouraging us, creating for us, and loving us. Thank you for lessons, stories, outings, and every memory. I am grateful beyond words that you were my father. I am grateful for the wonderful relationship you had with Mike, with my sons, and with all of our family. We will miss you deeply, but we will carry your creativity, your sense of adventure, and your love with us always.

Debbie, Donna, Dena and family, we send my condolences at the passing of your Dad. Over the years we have certainly enjoyed the association with both of your parents and the family history we have shared. We know how hard it is to loose both parents and hope that you find joy in the knowledge that they are reunited in our Heavenly Father's care, along with parents and siblings. Take care Kevin & Cindy Osieczanek

Please accept our deepest condolences for your family's loss.