Below is what my older (middle in birth order) brother Jamie shared at the funeral. Again, whether you knew dad or not, some great writing that may very well inspire you to live life to the fullest.Funeral Tribute to
Kip Prenkert (July 4, 1943 – February 8, 2009)
By Jamie Prenkert
February 12, 2009
Contentment (or Why My Dad Didn’t Care What You Thought of Him)
In the fall of my 8th grade year, my dad bought me a new winter jacket. I saw it in the mall and just had to have it. It was classically 80s in style, a hint of Members Only crossed with a little of Michael Jackson’s shoulder padded badness. And it was giant black and red gingham. I thought it was
SO COOL.
I was tragically mistaken.
It didn’t take me long to realize that and I abandoned the jacket during that very same winter season.
I don’t remember how much that jacket cost, but I know it could not have been terribly expensive. You see, my mom was a master seamstress and she could not abide retail prices.
I vividly remember childhood shopping trips: “Those jeans cost $35!?! With a yard of denim and a few feet of yellow thread, I could make them for less than 5.” Or “The sewing machine at my store can put a horse on the front of your shirt for free.” (Take that Ralph Lauren.) Or “That full suit of chain mail armor costs how much?!?! If we go scavenging through the dump for surplus metal, I borrow a soldering iron, and put my heaviest duty needles on the sewing machine . . . .” Well, you get the picture. It was a bit like browsing Best Buy with MacGyver. As a result, we were frugal about clothes purchases.
Dad was nothing, if not a leader by example. So, you can imagine my mortification when, as a ninth grader attending a cold late-October NorthWood football game, I saw him saunter up the bleacher stairs in that very same red and black gingham coat.
We never spoke about why he was wearing that coat. But, I didn’t have to ask. His old winter coat had grown ragged and thin. Dad wasn’t about to let the investment in a perfectly serviceable coat go to waste. So, he proceeded to wear it for the next eight or so winters.
Sadly, at the time, all I could muster was embarrassment about how clueless I thought he was. Over the next several years, as I matured and viewed his actions more generously, my embarrassment gave way to bemusement. “Isn’t dad quirky?” I’d think and chuckle.
In my adulthood, though, I realized that this episode was not so much evidence of lovable quirkiness as an indicator of something deeper and more profound about the way my dad lived his life.
Kip Prenkert was no dummy. I’ve no doubt that he realized the jacket was a serious fashion faux pas. He just didn’t care, because comfort was the primary – if not sole – requirement he had in the clothes he wore.
For the most part, he couldn’t have cared less what you thought about him. At least not about silly material things, like the clothes he wore, the cars he drove, or that, for a few years in the mid-1990s, my mom cut his hair with that Flowbee contraption that connected to the end of their vacuum cleaner.
Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not saying he didn’t care for people. He cared a great deal. In fact, his capacity for caring could surprise you sometimes. Just ask my wife. In the fall of her junior year she was a student in his NorthWood World Lit class. At the time, Deb and I had dated for a couple of years. On November 16, 1988, he stopped class a bit early to present her with one of his infamous homemade yellow cakes with chocolate frosting and a hearty rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”
Yes, Dad cared FOR people. He just didn’t care whether people sat in silent or not so silent judgment of his choices. He was much too busy being utterly content in all the things of real value: a job at which he excelled; a home where he found solace, solitude, and peace; sons (and eventually daughters-in-law and grandchildren) in whom he was proud; and a wife he dearly and unconditionally loved.
Yesterday at the viewing hundreds of people filed through a line that passed uninterrupted for a full six hours, paying their respects to my dad. How is it that a man who cared so little about impressing people left such a profound impression on so many? Over the course of the past few days, one recurring comment a number of you have shared with me or my brothers or my mom is that Dad possessed a certain “silent strength” or “quiet confidence.” That despite his seemingly meek nature, he had a steadfastness of spirit -- a strength of character and integrity -- that was both unique and inspiring. I believe that grew out of his sense of contentment and the corresponding confidence that comes along with a life well and happily lived.
Because of that contentment, he lived “in the moment.” So he could find true joy in the snap of the net as a perfectly arched free throw swished through it. He could honestly say that there was no place in the world he would rather be than 64431 County Road 1. He could sit on the floor with one of his grandchildren, literally for hours, playing simple make believe games or telling them stories about adventures in far off lands, and never once give the slightest hint he was bored or impatient.
I don’t think my dad died with any major regrets. Sure, he might be able to come up with a time or two that he should have passed the ball down the lane instead of pulling up for the jumper in a church league game. I imagine he’d have preferred to be around when the Cubs finally win the World Series. If you could ask him, he’d probably also say he wishes he’d have clicked his seat belt across him last Friday as he drove out of downtown Wakarusa. Or that he’d have stopped just a bit longer at the intersection of County Roads 1 and 38 and looked just a little more carefully both ways before proceeding. And I’m sure he’d love to take away the pain and loss that we all feel – especially from my mom. But, I can tell you one thing with certainty: he wouldn’t give a second thought to the better part of a decade of wearing a hideous black and red gingham winter coat.
While dad lived exactly the life he wanted to live, he’d assuredly have loved to live more of it. Nevertheless, I hope he can serve as an example to you, as he has for me, of focusing on those things that are important to living contentedly, ignoring those things that are superfluous to a truly happy existence, and being wise enough to know the difference between the two.
