William Henry Bohrer

Bill was born in 1933 to his loving and devoted parents, Theodore and Christine (Boewe) Bohrer. He was raised in Olney, Illinois, alongside his well-behaved older brother, James Robert. Christine repeatedly said that every white hair on her head was caused by Billy, a sentiment that would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him.

From an early age, Bill had a mischievous streak and seemed to have a full-time guardian angel. As a young boy, he fell onto a glass milk bottle, severely cutting his wrists and nearly bleeding to death. Ironically, his mother had always fainted at the sight of blood, until that day. In another childhood escapade, he dragged a chair over to the cabinet where his mother kept her paddle and placed a mousetrap in front of it. Little Billy found the result hysterical. His mother was less amused, and he received a more serious paddling for his efforts. At twelve, Bill delivered newspapers and rode a rudimentary motorized bicycle that he had attempted to repair himself. Unfortunately, his repair work caused a gasoline leak, and he caught fire. Miraculously, his father stepped outside at just the right moment and extinguished the flames. The close calls continued throughout his life. After high school, he totaled several cars and motorcycles but somehow always walked away. In his later years, he often wondered aloud whether the Grim Reaper had simply forgotten him.

Bill fondly remembered visiting his grandfather, Uncle Fred, Aunt Susie, and cousins in nearby West Salem, Illinois. Among his favorite childhood memories were sneaking into the basement with his grandfather, his brother Jim, and his cousin John to sample his grandfather’s homemade “cider,” and spending time at his grandfather’s mill. These memories remained dear to him throughout his life.

During high school, Bill sometimes worked in the oil fields of Southern Illinois. Directly after high school he completed his first two years of college. He chose to take a hiatus from college to enlist in the Army and serve his country during the Korean War. Following his military service, he completed his bachelor’s degree in business administration and accounting from Eastern Illinois University. After graduation Bill couldn’t imagine working in an office. A chance meeting at the American Legion, in Olney, prompted his entrance into construction, and life as an ironworker commenced. Bill began traveling, while working on a crew, building radio telescopes and towers throughout the United States and Australia.

In August 1964, while working near Montauk, New York, Bill met Susan Hertzberg, who was visiting Montauk with friends for the weekend. Four weeks later, while working in Georgia, he sent Sue an engagement ring, and they were married in New York City within two months of meeting. Sue was refined, well-educated, and proper; Bill thoroughly enjoyed keeping her on her toes. He often said, “Every day is a new day for Susie,” because he could repeat the same prank over and over. One favorite was announcing, “Uh-oh, Sue, I forgot my wallet,” which sent her digging through her purse to pay. She never checked, and he always had his wallet. Sue preferred her steak rare and enjoyed steak tartare. Whenever she ordered beef and the waitress asked how she wanted it cooked, Bill would interject, “Just knock off its horns, wipe its ass, and send it on through.”

Sue joined Bill in traveling the country, and in 1968 they settled in Fairfield, New Jersey. Bill was a devoted father who gave Debbie and Michael wonderful childhood memories. He transformed their backyard into a neighborhood playground, complete with a giant rope swing hanging from an enormous beech tree, monkey bars, large sandboxes and swinging gates. In winter, he even created an ice rink. The backyard became a favorite gathering place for the neighborhood children.

Bill loved his daughter and was fiercely protective of his little girl, often to Debbie’s frustration. When she asked why her curfew was earlier than her younger brother’s, she was met with a declarative “Dammit, Debbie, because Michael can’t get pregnant!” He refused to teach her how to weld, despite her begging, because “I don’t want you associating with the type of men I work with.”
A union ironworker in New Jersey, Bill started his own company in 1981, Bilwel Steel Corporation, which specialized in industrial, chemical and oil plant modification and construction. To friends in Fairfield, he became known as Bilwel.

Bill attempted to enjoy tennis, skiing, bridge and the jersey shore for Sue. When Sue’s health declined, Bill put his business on hold and became her devoted, full-time caregiver until her death in 1992. Bill, Debbie and Michael were grateful to the many families and friends they were close to in Fairfield at that difficult time. The strong familial bond with, and support from the Colannino family was of the utmost importance. After retiring, Bill became active in New Jersey square dancing, a pastime his children had no idea existed in the state.

In 1997, Bill moved to Warren County, New Jersey. He was immensely happy to leave suburbia for his 20-acre, former dairy farm, with its farmhouse, barn and outbuildings. There, he spent his days working on the buildings, chopping wood for his wood stove, mowing the lawn, and tackling endless projects. Although he longed to return to Southern Illinois, he could never quite bring himself to leave his children and grandchildren.

May through October, the farm became a favorite gathering place for family and neighbors. Bill loved hosting barbecues, birthdays, and holidays, and he created ATV trails throughout his fields and forests for the family to enjoy.

He strongly preferred to do things on his own terms and was reluctant to attend events away from the farm. When his children insisted on throwing him an 85th birthday party, he put up quite a fight, mainly because, if they absolutely had to have a party, “Why couldn’t it be at the farm?”

Bill loved beer, dogs, hunting, trees, old country music, antiques, and tools. He was exceptionally capable and resourceful, regularly taking on projects others would never consider attempting, including climbing and removing large trees for neighbors.

Bill adored his grandchildren and was extremely proud of each of them. His oldest grandson, Colin, was allowed to spend extended periods alone with Grandpa starting at age ten. Bill’s explanation was characteristically straightforward: “He does what he’s told, works hard, and he cooks for me.” Colin’s willingness to follow orders, combined with the age difference between him and the younger grandchildren, meant he enjoyed more one-on-one time at “Camp Grandpa.” Lauren, the youngest and only granddaughter, summed up her visits to Grandpa’s farm this way: as a little girl, she would run straight into his arms to be swept up in the biggest, strongest hug and spun around. His entire face would light up with a smile that reached his eyes as he greeted her with a warm “Hi, sweetie” in his unmistakable drawl, a greeting no one else could ever quite replicate. To Lauren, those moments remain some of the simplest and sweetest memories of being his granddaughter, a welcome she never outgrew and a feeling she will always treasure.

Despite his impatience with nonsense and his insistence on doing things his own way, Bill could be remarkably patient when teaching something he knew well. He enjoyed explaining how things worked and, more importantly, why they worked. He taught his children to be excellent, safe drivers, and he taught his grandchildren to ride ATVs, operate a backhoe, use a chainsaw, shoot, and handle a wide variety of tools. On drives, he would explain how bridges were constructed, identify the materials used, and point out bridges throughout New Jersey that he had helped build or repair. In these ways, he passed along his knowledge, resourcefulness and confidence to the generations that followed him. He took particular pride in seeing those same qualities reflected in his son Michael, whose mechanical aptitude he deeply admired and whose success in building his own company was a tremendous source of pride for Bill.

Bill was a man of few words, but the words he chose were always precise and perfectly suited to the situation. He never lost his Southern Illinois drawl, with its elongated vowels, relaxed pacing, and melodic rise and fall. That drawl was particularly effective when delivering two of his favorite expressions: “bull shit” and “my ass.”

He was also known for a number of signature sayings, including “You gotta know your man,” “Busy hands are happy hands,” “What’s a mother to do?” “Shit or get off the pot,” “Nobody likes a complainer”, “mother works from 10-2, but fathers work is never through”, “it all works out in the end” and “ in a hundred years we’ll laugh about it”. Bill took immense pleasure in surprising or shocking people with his remarks, and he never seemed to run out of material. Once, while he was in the hospital awaiting shoulder replacement surgery, a high blood pressure reading prompted a nurse to ask if he was nervous. Without missing a beat, Bill replied, “As nervous as a whore in church on Sunday.” He delivered such comments completely straight-faced, much to his family’s frequent dismay.

In 2020, Bill relocated to Southern New Jersey to live with his daughter, Debbie, and son-in-law, Jeff. There he was doted on and entertained by the dogs, his grandsons and his granddaughter-in-law. He spent his final two years at Wiley Mission Healthcare Center, where he received excellent care and kept the staff entertained with his unexpected comments.

Bill leaves behind a heartbroken family who miss him immensely. He will be remembered for his sharp wit, mischievous humor, remarkable resourcefulness, independence, and unmistakable Southern Illinois drawl. He created a childhood full of adventure for his children, a farm full of memories for his grandchildren, and a lifetime of stories that will continue to be told for years to come. He lived on his own terms, loved his family, and left behind memories as extraordinary, entertaining, and unforgettable as the man himself.

Bill is survived by his children, Debbie (Jeff) Larkin and Michael (Marianne) Bohrer; grandchildren, Colin (Caroline) and Robert Mattox, and Michael, Jack and Lauren Bohrer; and great-granddaughter, Rosalie Mattox. He is also survived by his nephew Robert Bohrer, niece, Cindy (Ron) Jaudon; sister-in-law, Lois Hertzberg (Lou Schulze); and farm neighbors, Tucker and Alison Harrison.

Bill will be laid to rest at the Moravian Cemetery in West Salem, Illinois.