John Daumeyer

Our dad, John B. Daumeyer, went on to eternal rest on April 27, 2026. He is survived by his wife – our mom, Jean – his four children, and his sixteen grandchildren. Since the Reds had the day off on Monday, I suppose he felt it was time to watch the rest of the season from a seat with a better view. He was 87 years old when he began cheering from heaven. You may have noticed that evening, around the moment he died, there was a great clap of thunder and then the world seemed a little quieter, a little less exciting, and a little less fun.

Dad was born in Cincinnati on November 18, 1938, to George and Elsie Daumeyer. He grew up in the Greenhills neighborhood, north of the city. He was a scrappy athlete in a crowded home, growing up as the third child of seven, born after “Clipper” (George Jr.) and Mary Ann, and before Bobby, Billy, Betty Jane, and Barbara Jo. He worked from the time he was ten years old as a caddy, hitchhiking home from Wyoming Country Club to contribute his day’s wages to the family till. Dad was a committed and lifelong Catholic – on vacations, his first order of business was to find out Mass times in whatever town the family stayed. He attended Our Lady of the Rosary grade school and graduated in 1956 from St. Gabriel’s High School in Glendale, along with 12 other classmates, some of whom remained his friends throughout his life. That was how it worked with Dad: once you became his friend, you never forgot him and he never forgot you.

Dad was an Army Reservist for several years, before joining the workforce full time as a salesman. The sales world would never be the same. He was not just a salesman by profession; Dad was a salesman by philosophy. Given enough time, he could win over anyone with his undeniable mix of energy, confidence, candor, and caring. His greatest sales job though, was convincing Mom to marry him. More on that later.

While he loved Gatlinburg, had a deep and complex love-hate relationships with Cincinnati sports teams, and wiped down his John Deere lawnmower with a cloth handkerchief almost daily, Dad had no hobbies other than of his family. He had a gun he never hunted with; he had a fishing pole he never fished with. He would much rather be at a little league baseball game or track meet. He was a tough but loving father of four and he always made sure his children knew he would do anything for them. If you were out of line, you were disciplined – but never excessively and never for very long. He just didn’t have it in him to be upset with his family. He was generous to a fault, and he encouraged his kids to be generous also. Today, his four kids – his son John, his daughters Jill and Jodi, and his son Jason – remain close friends with each other, his sixteen grandchildren all get along, and spouses are treated like siblings (for better or for worse). That is a special part of Dad’s legacy: to be in the family meant you were expected to be loyal and generous with each other, without exception. Dad was especially gifted around helping his kids understand what was worth worrying about (family) and what was not (everything else). He never missed an event that was special in the life of one of his children…and that included science fairs and the pinewood derby, which were distinctly not his particular forte. He was also the greatest cheerleader you could hope for. Anytime anything special happened in the life of one of his kids or grandkids, we couldn’t wait to share it with Dad. He made every event – no matter how small – seem so much better. To him, it was always worthy of celebration. He would write down the moment, memorializing it on a post-it note, and tuck it away in his shirt pocket. He had thousands of notes. Going through his belongings, you realize he must have kept them all.

Dad was perhaps the proudest grandfather in the history of the state of Ohio. And maybe in the history of grandfathers. He was happiest when his grandchildren were around him. He had an endless repository of stories (and some of them were actually true!) and a way of telling them that made it impossible to walk away. The punchlines might change, but he had a way of making you believe two different versions of a story could be simultaneously true. And that was what it was like to truly know Dad: you were part of a different world where unbelievable things could be true; where everything was interesting; where bad jokes if told right were hilarious; where life was absurd but also funny; where you could be disciplined and loved and taken care of all at the same time. No matter how grumpy you were – or he was – you always looked forward to seeing him and he always took the time to make you feel important. If you had something on your mind, he would listen. Problem solving did not usually include a long discussion about feelings; it included a joke, a personal story, ice cream, a strong expression of support, and a clear reminder of what was truly important in life. His approach worked remarkably well.

If you were his child or grandchild, you felt he believed you could do anything. He made you feel happier and more talented than you deserved. Dad taught his family that hard work paid off; that the world was not fair, but it was still full of opportunity; that carrying a few dollars in cash allowed you to treat someone you were with or to generously tip a service worker; that carrying a cloth handkerchief was the responsible thing to do; that chivalry and blue-collar sensibilities went well together; that you should always wear socks; that you should try to be cleanshaven; that you should always keep your lawn cut; that outside of family, you really didn’t need much to be happy. He adhered faithfully to a wardrobe of Kohl’s slacks, plaid button-downs (long sleeve in winter; short sleeve in summer), and comfortable brown shoes. He taught his kids that all you really needed to make yourself presentable to any audience was a tan corduroy blazer and a black comb.

If Dad was on your side, he cared about you and you had a reliable friend for life. But if you were Evelyn Jean Augsburger (known affectionately as “Mean Jean”), you knew above all else that the man you married would be with you until the end. Once Dad stopped working and no longer traveled overnight, he never spent a single day or night away from our mom. When kids or grandkids called the house, Mom and Dad usually answered the phone together. Dad didn’t even like to go to the grocery store without Mom, or drive to a football game separately. No matter the inconvenience or impracticality, Dad made sure Mom was always with him. Our dad met our mom in 1961 and proposed to her as soon as he felt reasonably sure she would say “yes”. We’re not sure how long that took. But we know they were married for 63 years. Their commitment to each other was a study in love and partnership. Dad was intensely loyal to Mom, and very protective of her. Growing up in the Daumeyer household, you simply did not disrespect your mother and get away with it. That was how Dad meant it to be. Mom and Dad made each other laugh often. They talked to each other all the time, like each other’s personal therapist and advisor. They held hands. They wrote little love letters to each other. As intense, passionate, and spirited as Dad could be, the way he cared for his wife showed how truly unique he was as a man. He cared for Mom in a way that was selfless, almost spiritual, and deeply special. Over the last several weeks of his life, when he had to be taken to the hospital overnight and when it was clear he would not be leaving hospice, his chief concern was his wife. When he could only move with great pain and could only speak in a whisper, he was still thinking first about the love of his life. The last thing he ever wrote expressed regret that he couldn’t be with her for longer. In shaky letters, he wrote a note to her saying, “I am sorry I’ll be saying goodbye now. I love you very much. Don’t forget to say your prayers.”

All we can hope for is to remember the lessons Dad taught us. There were so many. We will miss him deeply every day.