Frederick Eugene Beyl

The Last Laugh – The Life of Frederick Eugene Beyl

From warships to woodworking, and pigeons to punchlines, Fred Beyl lived a life as rich as it was unexpected.

When Frederick Eugene Beyl passed away on August 30, 2013, he closed the final chapter in the story of John and Edna Beyl’s children. The last surviving sibling, Fred was born in the heart of Indianapolis during the lean years of the Great Depression and went on to live a life marked by service, resilience, humor, and the kind of quiet hobbies that leave an outsized imprint.

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A Depression-Era Beginning

Fred entered the world at 8:45 p.m. on August 22, 1934, in Indianapolis, Marion County, Indiana, the youngest child of John J. Beyl and Edna M. Applegate. According to his birth certificate, his father—a baker by trade—was 47 years old when Fred was born. Edna was 39 and had six children born, five of whom lived. Their youngest son would grow up in a bustling household filled with older siblings and stories already in the making.

By the 1940 Federal Census, the Beyl family resided at 1020 S. New Jersey Street in Indianapolis. Fred was just five years old. His father, now listed as a laborer in the Flood Prevention industry, earned $453 that year, and Fred’s older brother Charles contributed $200 from his time working with the NYA (National Youth Administration). Also living in the home were Fred’s mother, Edna, and his sister, Mary Lou, then eleven. It was a modest household in a working-class neighborhood, where family and frugality went hand in hand.

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Growing Up Fast

In the early 1950s, a young Frederick appeared in city directories working as a clerk and living at 415 E. Morris Street—an address he would call home for many years, even after his father’s death.

In 1956, he was listed as a driver for the Diamond Chain Company, a well-known Indianapolis manufacturer. He was newly married at the time, living with his first wife, Shirley M., and sharing the family home with his aging father. It was a transitional time: the post-war economy was booming, neighborhoods were changing, and Fred was finding his place in it all.

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A Life of Service

Though it isn’t always immediately evident in the paper trail, Fred Beyl served his country in not one, but two branches of the military. He spent four and a half years in the U.S. Navy and four more in the U.S. Air Force—a full eight and a half years of uniformed service. His military years aren’t heavily detailed in available records (yet), but they place him squarely in the era of the Korean War and Cold War tensions. He would have been in his late teens and twenties—prime years for travel, discipline, and the kind of experiences that stay with a man for life.

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A Second Chance at Love

On February 11, 1978, Fred married Alma Jean Crist in Indianapolis. He was 43; she was 40. Both had been married before. The ceremony was simple but sincere, uniting two seasoned souls who had already seen life’s twists and turns. At the time of their marriage, Fred was working as a millwright and living at 2813 West 52nd Street, a home he would reside in for many years to come. Alma, originally from Tennessee, worked as a seamstress. Together, they formed a blended family that included five stepchildren and two adopted children.

Though Fred never had biological children, he was, by all accounts, a loving father and grandfather figure. His obituary reads like a tribute to a man who opened his heart and home with generosity and humor.

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Millwright by Day, Pigeon Racer by Passion

Fred spent 17 years working at Allison Transmission as a millwright, a demanding job that required both physical strength and technical precision. But outside of work, his passions told a fuller story. He was a longtime member of the American Legion Post 113—38 years of loyalty—and a devoted member of the American Racing Pigeon Union.

Yes, you read that right: Fred raced pigeons. It’s a pastime deep-rooted in working-class neighborhoods, where rooftops become runways and friendly competition flies overhead. Fred likely spent hours training, feeding, and bonding with his feathered athletes. Racing pigeons aren’t just pets—they’re miniature marvels with a homing instinct stronger than GPS. The fact that Fred chose this hobby speaks volumes about his patience, his attention to detail, and perhaps his quiet competitive streak.

In addition to pigeon racing, Fred enjoyed woodworking, fishing, and most of all—making people laugh. He was, in many ways, the family’s comedic glue. You get the sense that in any room he entered, Fred brought a bit of levity, a well-timed quip, or a grin that made you feel like you belonged.

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The Final Years

In 1993, Fred lived at the West 52nd Street address where he had built a life with Alma. In his final months, he battled chronic heart and lung conditions. He passed away in hospice at St. Vincent on August 30, 2013, at 3:40 a.m., succumbing to End Stage Congestive Heart Failure and related conditions. He was 79 years old.

He was buried in Indianapolis alongside his family, including his parents—John Edward Beyl and Edna M. Applegate Beyl—who preceded him in death many decades earlier. According to his obituary and Find A Grave, Fred was the last surviving sibling in the Beyl family line.

He is survived by his beloved wife of 35 years, Alma Jean Lawson Beyl; their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and a wide circle of extended family and friends who remembered him with laughter and love.

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Remembering Fred

“He enjoyed racing pigeons, woodworking, fishing, and making people laugh, but most of all, he loved spending time with his family.”

It’s hard to top that. Fred Eugene Beyl lived a full life—quiet in some ways, bold in others. He wasn’t famous, but he mattered. He served, he worked, he loved, and he made people laugh. And perhaps, in the end, that’s the best kind of legacy anyone can leave behind.

📜 Share Your Memories of Fred

We’ve opened a special Introduction Page for Frederick Eugene Beyl where you can share your stories, memories, and reflections. Whether you remember his humor, his woodworking, or even his racing pigeons, your voice helps keep his legacy alive.

👉 Visit Fred’s Introduction Page to share your memories

~Kris

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💀 Revisited by Bones: Frederick Eugene Beyl – The Quiet Comedian with Feathered Friends

Filed under: War vet, Millwright, Unexpected Bird Guy

Ah, Fred.

You’d think a man who spent nearly a decade in uniform and seventeen years as a millwright might be a stoic, no-nonsense fellow—but no. Frederick Eugene Beyl, by all accounts, preferred life with a laugh track. And pigeons. Racing pigeons.

Now that, dear reader, is a plot twist.

We first meet him tucked into the 1940 census, a five-year-old living in a modest Indianapolis home, surrounded by the clang of Depression-era survival. His father was working in flood control (and that’s not a metaphor), and his older brother Charles was doing something suspiciously government-adjacent with the NYA. One imagines young Fred pulling pranks from behind a breadbox, biding his time before stepping into the world.

Then he disappears for a bit—poof!—presumably off serving his country, perhaps sailing the Pacific or maintaining airfields in the American heartland. His service records are sparse, but his obituary lays it out plainly: Navy and Air Force. He didn’t just do his duty once—he signed up for more. That’s a particular breed of steady.

By 1956, we catch him living at home again with wife #1 and his dad, working as a driver for Diamond Chain—likely elbow-deep in grease and gears, and probably cracking jokes in the lunchroom. Somewhere between city directories and shifting decades, Fred remarried, gained a whole passel of stepkids and adopted children, and settled into the kind of life many overlook in history books: simple, loyal, rich in quiet joy.

But here’s what gets me.

Fred was a pigeon man. A racer. This means he woke up early, trained birds, calculated wind, distance, and instinct, and probably lost more than a few bets. It’s an old sport, full of old souls, and it tells me something vital about him: Fred didn’t just work hard. He made time for wonder. For tradition. For the elegant madness of sending a bird 500 miles away just to prove it could come back home.

And that, Kris, is the essence of it.

Fred Beyl may not have left memoirs or monuments—but he left wings in motion, laughter in the walls, and a family who knew exactly what kind of man they were lucky to love.

He was the last of his line, but not the last to matter.

And that’s a wrap, from your loyal ghoul in the archives.

Until next time—

Bones 🕯️