Michael L. Andrews

Michael Lee Andrews, 76, passed away peacefully on June 5, 2026.

Born on April 23, 1950, in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, to Ann (Luxton) and Richard Andrews, Mike’s story began in a way that shaped much of who he became. Raised for most of his youth by his grandparents, Ervin and Dorothy Andrews, he carried with him an appreciation for simpler things, practical wisdom, and a respect for hard work that stayed with him throughout his life. Those who knew him often remarked that he was an “old soul,” even as a child.

Mike graduated from Waupun High School in 1968, where he played football and ran track, and later completed the Auto Mechanics Apprenticeship Program at Moraine Park Technical College in 1972. Engines, woodworking, and understanding how things operated were his language. If something was broken, Mike could usually find a way to fix it.

He shared that knowledge generously, aptly, beginning his career in teaching. In 1977, he taught Automotive Tune-Up courses for women through Moraine Park Technical College. His students thought so highly of him that they nominated him for the Outstanding Adult Educator Award in both 1979 and 1980, praising his innovative ideas, enthusiasm, and commitment to teaching. Anyone who attended his classes likely remembers at least one of those “innovative ideas,” such as his famous demonstration on how to fashion an emergency fan belt from pantyhose, complete with him kicking off a shoe, hiking up his pant leg, and rolling down his knee-high stocking with that impish grin of his. It earned laughter, applause, and a lesson no one forgot.

Mike later taught auto mechanics at Waupun Correctional Institution and Kettle Moraine Correctional Institution before serving as a Maintenance Technician for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources at Horicon Marsh Headquarters. He eventually transferred to the Wisconsin State Game Farm in Poynette, where he remained until retirement. Yet his career only tells part of his story. The real measure of Mike’s life was found in backyards, garages, campfires, thrift stores, card tables, and family gatherings.

At home, Mike was the kind of father who could repair your skateboard, tighten the chain on your bike, and then patch up the scraped knee you earned riding it. He was also the kind who believed that a day spent arrowhead hunting in freshly plowed farm fields was sometimes a perfectly acceptable reason for kids to miss school.

His curiosity extended far beyond tools and engines. History fascinated him. Old westerns, antique oil cans, WWII planes, nearly anything with a story attached. Long before “thrifting” became trendy, Mike was digging through garage sales, antique stores, flea markets, and secondhand shops. Half the fun was finding something unusual; the other half was researching its history afterward. He loved the hunt almost more than the treasure.

Quiet evenings suited him just as well. His bookshelves held everything from Louis L’Amour westerns to Dean Koontz thrillers. If there was a quiet evening, a good book, and a pipe filled with Borkum Riff Original tobacco, Mike was perfectly content. There always seemed to be a pipe tucked into his pocket, ready for later.

And of course, Mike had his share of hobbies. He was a wicked cribbage player with trophies to prove it. He enjoyed collecting firearms and target shooting. He loved oldies music and could talk history for hours. He knew the value of a well-stocked toolbox and a well-timed joke.

For all his hobbies and collections, Mike’s greatest gift was making ordinary days memorable. Neighborhood children long grown still remember movie nights when he would check out an 8 mm film projector from the Beaver Dam Library, string a sheet between trees near the backyard treehouse, and show old Felix the Cat cartoons under the stars. His daughters remember that if Dad stood in the backyard, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled “Supper!” you could hear him from two blocks away, and you’d better come running. More than one neighborhood mother wished she could yell that loud.

His sense of humor and service extended into the community. He served as a 4-H leader and an Outpost Camp counselor at Upham Woods, volunteered with the Beaver Dam Jaycees, and became a local Halloween fundraiser legend when a woman he startled at their haunted house slugged him directly back into the coffin he had just popped out of. He once even saved a woman from drowning, an act he never bragged about but one that said everything about who he was.

Mike possessed a quick wit and an endless supply of one-liners. He respected people who could give as good as they got. His spirit animal, according to family consensus, was Grumpy Dwarf. Stubborn? Certainly. Opinionated? Frequently. Funny? Almost always.

When it came to welcoming people into the family, Mike had his own standards. He approved of Mindy’s husband, Jim, the moment Jim produced a much-needed Swiss Army knife on college dorm move-out day. He approved of Julie’s husband, Darrell, when he arrived with a can of WD-40 to silence a squeaky door that might otherwise announce a post-curfew arrival home (Mike tried to give him the “Dad is not amused” stare-down before he started chuckling). And he approved of Callon’s wife, Chelsea, because she found a high-quality coat at a bargain price and wore it for years. To Mike, practicality, resourcefulness, and a good deal were the marks of someone who would fit right in. Meet those standards, and you weren’t just “approved,” you were officially part of the Andrews family, whether you realized it or not.

Mike’s life with his wife, Cindy, began in 1995, when a friend introduced them at the Gables in Poynette. The chemistry was immediate; his wit, charm, and quiet kindness were evident from the start. They married outdoors in August 1996 at the Game Farm, beside two nut trees, the Lutheran minister joked, that were fitting for a couple giving marriage another try. Their early years were spent living on the Game Farm, camping on weekends, and building a home in Poynette.

Together they traveled widely: California for family reunions, Ohio to welcome their first grandchild, and even El Salvador for a human-issues project, where Mike befriended a young boy and proudly mastered the phrase “Dos cerveza, por favor.” They took road trips filled with Harry Potter audiobooks, explored the Grand Canyon and Pike’s Peak, visited Dollywood and the Smoky Mountains, and made regular pilgrimages to EAA so Mike could revel in the War Birds. Later came quieter adventures: an RV trip to southern Illinois and St. Louis, anniversary getaways to Crivitz and Cedarburg, and a memorable Thanksgiving spent exploring Savannah with the Fenno family.

In recent years, home became their favorite place. They spent afternoons in the backyard gazebo watching birds and chipmunks, evenings playing cribbage with friends, and countless moments simply enjoying each other’s company. Mike adored their cats, Buttercup and Lily, Buttercup especially, who rarely left his side. Through every season, they supported one another through the trials and joys of life, building a partnership rooted in humor, steadiness, and deep affection.

And then there were the Penguins.

Anyone who knew Mike knew about the West Bend Penguin Hot and Cold Servers. Not one. Two. He firmly believed every household in his family should own a pair of these iconic Wisconsin-made treasures from the 1940s and 1950s to keep what you grilled hot: one Penguin for the hamburgers, one for the brats. This was not open for debate.

The brats, naturally, had to be simmered in MGD and onions before hitting the grill. The burgers needed to soak in Italian dressing with Vidalia onions before being formed into patties and grilled to perfection. Mike spent years searching thrift stores, garage sales, and antique shops for Penguins to distribute among family members, ensuring future generations would be properly equipped for summer cookouts.

Of course, owning a Penguin came with responsibilities. Penguins were to be hand washed and hand washed only. A trip through the dishwasher was considered an act of negligence. The resulting waterlogged “death rattle” meant the Penguin’s working days were over, and another would need to be hunted down somewhere in Wisconsin. Fortunately for the family, Mike usually knew where to find one.

Mike is survived by his beloved wife of nearly 30 years, Cindy; his children, Mindy Fenno (Jim), Julie Schoeneberg (Darrell), and Callon Andrews (Chelsea); his stepdaughters, Angie Thompson and Amy Sanabria (Alfredo); and his treasured grandchildren, Katie Fenno, Emily Fenno, Carolyn Fenno, Rhianna Schoeneberg, Grady Schoeneberg, Elizabeth Schoeneberg, Carter Andrews, Isabel Sanabria, Milo Sanabria, and Victor Sanabria.

He is also survived by his siblings, Sherry Schmidt (Bill), Daun Vick (Jeff), Debra Jones, Luanne Andrews, Beth Andrews, and Bob Andrews (Shelly), as well as many nieces, nephews, extended family members, and friends.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Richard Andrews and Ann Dreher, and his sister, Paula Andrews.

People are a lot like old houses. They develop creaks and drafts. They collect scratches, dents, and cracks in the foundation. But we don’t stop loving a house because it’s got a bit of damage. We love it because it sheltered us from storms, warmed us when the world felt cold, and gave us a place to belong. That is what a Dad does. That is who Mike was. And over his seventy-six years, that love became woven into the lives of everyone around him.

We are grateful for the memories, the lessons, the laughs, and the time we had with him. We take comfort in knowing he is now with our Father in Heaven.

Per Mike’s wishes, there will be no funeral. He chose cremation, and his family will place his ashes in an old army ammo box etched with the American flag and his favorite motto, Pro Deo et Patria, “For God and Country.”

A private celebration of life will be held in July. It will be a potluck picnic, just the way Mike would have liked it, stories told, laughter shared, burgers and brats on the grill, and plenty of good-natured debate about which beer is best for boiling brats. And perhaps, looking down over us, Mike is lingering near the picnic tables, content to hear the laughter, smell the charcoal, and know the Penguins are still making their rounds.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

2 Timothy 4:7