Frederick J. Werner came into the world not as a legend, but as a man who would become one to those who loved him—through grit, through laughter, and through a life that refused to be small. When his journey in this world came to its quiet close on a Sunday in May, the story he left behind was not one of endings, but of roots that run deep and will not loosen.
In his early years, he sailed under the banner of the United States Navy, learning the rhythms of discipline and the strength found in steady service. The sea shaped him, but it did not contain him. For Frederick was meant to build something lasting.
And so, in the year 1979, he and his great partner in life and mischief, Laurie, claimed a piece of land in Hingham. It was no palace—just an old farm—but in the way of all great tales, it became something more. It became their kingdom. Their anchor. Their proving ground. For 47 years, they built it side by side, never asking life to be easy—only meaningful.
Frederick was a father to five: Allen, Michael, Steven, Danielle, and Stephanie. His sons Michael and Steven were, as young boys, given a heavy burden to carry—one that would shape the entire family. And so Frederick did what only certain men can do: he did not step back. He leaned in. With two boys in wheelchairs, two young daughters, and a farm that demanded everything, he worked with a force that seemed almost otherworldly.
By day, he journeyed to the city of Milwaukee as an Electrical Designer, bending light and structure to his will. By night, he returned to the land—splitting wood, tending gardens, building a homestead from the ground up. In 1987, he carved a pond into the earth itself, as if to prove that even land could be persuaded to become something greater.
That farm became a place of gathering, of laughter, of story. Summers rang with swimming, fishing, and bonfires that danced against the night sky. Winters brought ice skating and quiet mornings where breath turned to mist in the cold. The kitchen transformed with the seasons—into a cannery in the fall, and a workshop of warmth and creation in the winter, where kilns burned and ceramics took shape.
His dry brushed Thanksgiving turkey painted so fine it earned a blue ribbon at the Sheboygan County Fair—a small but perfect victory, retold with pride year after year.
But no fairytale is without sorrow.
Michael and Steven passed on before him, and the weight of that grief would have broken many. Not Frederick. He carried it—he carried it all—and kept moving forward, because that is what he believed life demanded.
He raised his daughters not as delicate things, but as capable, resilient forces of their own—teaching them to work, to endure, to laugh, and above all, to follow through. Each fall, he gathered the family to split wood for winter, building not just warmth, but togetherness—stack by perfect stack.
At the center of it all was the soapstone fireplace, the heartbeat of the home. Each morning before dawn, Frederick would rise, stoke the fire, and leave for work—ensuring that when his family woke, they would wake to warmth.
He coached youth boys in soccer with an unconventional spirit that somehow worked its magic, helping shape a team that would one day rise to a state championship. He was a teacher always—not of easy truths, but of real ones: save your money, stand your ground, and never forget your people.
He was part of a group called The Mill Road Gang—a fellowship that, over forty years, became something closer to legend than friendship. Stories from those days are too many to count, and perhaps too good to fully tell. He enjoyed taking in concerts and events with his son-in-law Hank, spending countless hours working on projects and trading barbs with his dear friend Loren, and talking politics and sharing extra dry humor with his son-in-law Sean.
In later years, his faithful chariot was a Gator, carrying him where his legs once did, though his spirit never slowed. He could command a tractor like a magician, making it do what it had no business doing. And on quiet mornings, his voice would rise across the farm—singing songs of Mario Lanza or Elvis, as if the land itself needed music to wake.
He loved film from the golden age, stories within stories, perhaps recognizing something of himself in them.
And then, as all great tales allow, came renewal.
In 2013, his grandsons Ty and Owen arrived, and with them, a new chapter. With Ty, being a collector and student of coins, passing down knowledge piece by piece. With Owen, he became a devoted spectator—cheering from the stands, listening closely to every retelling of every game he could not attend.
And always, always, there was Laurie—his partner in all things. They did not walk separate paths; they built one together.
Frederick was at his finest when life was at its hardest. His humor—sharp, brilliant, and perfectly timed—became legend in its own right, a collection of one-liners that will echo for generations.
And so, the man known as The Iron Horse is remembered not as someone who simply lived, but as someone who endured, built, and loved with a force that changed everything around him.
Some will say he is gone.
But those who know better understand:
Men like Frederick do not disappear.
They become the fire that is still warm in the morning.
The stories told when work is done.
The strength you didn’t know you had—until you needed it.
A mountain of a man.
And mountains, after all, never truly fall.
With all the pieces of our hearts,
Laurie, Danielle and Stephanie
Wenig Funeral Home – Sheboygan Falls (920-467-3431) is assisting the family with arrangements. Please visit wenigfh.com for online condolences.
Comments