William H. Whitmill Sr.

William Harold Whitmill Sr. of Sebring, FL was born on July 8, 1944, in Battle Creek, Michigan. He was adopted at eight days old by Harold and Marolyn Whitmill. Raised in a loving Seventh-day Adventist home, he graduated from Adelphian Academy in 1962, he gave Andrews University and Southern Adventist University a shot before realizing his true calling was under a hood, with grease on his hands and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He grew up with good values, strong faith, and probably not the slightest clue just how far he'd drift from all of that in the years to come.

He left us on April 9, 2025, not-so-coincidentally on his mother, Marolyn's birthday, which feels fitting for a man who never forgot a birthday. He was probably greeted with a hug... and then a long conversation.

Known as Bill (to most), Dad (to six), and "that stubborn son of a..." to just about everyone at one time or another, a master mechanic, and car dealer, a "larger than life legend" in the Central Florida car scene. If you didn't know him personally, you probably heard him across a dealership lot making a donkey noise or saying one of his go-to lines like, "Fine as frog fur." He could fix anything on four wheels and sell it twice, often while handing out nicknames to everyone he met along the way.

Bill lived unapologetically, often stubborn and opinionated, sometimes reckless, always colorful, and entirely himself, every damn day. He made his fair share of bad decisions (he'd probably argue they were fun decisions). A diehard Reagan Republican, NASCAR fan, and self declared expert on... everything. He loved fast cars, GM trucks, filter-less cigarettes, Jack Daniels, AM talk radio, and a good bargain. But above all, he loved golf. He played nearly every day, carried a 6 handicap, won countless tournaments, and once shot six under par in a single round. He had two hole-in-ones to his name and even played a round with the legendary Fuzzy Zoeller. His dream was to play on the Senior PGA Tour, and he often joked that the only thing standing between him and being a scratch golfer was the four-letter word: work. Even after back surgery, his greatest wish was to play one more round, and dammit, he tried.

He was sharp as a tack until the very end, a man with the knowledge of an encyclopedia, a memory like a steel trap, and an opinion on absolutely everything. He may have drifted from his roots, but he never lost the quick wit, work ethic, or charm that defined him.

Bill is survived by his six children: Annette MacConnell, Wayne (Noreen), Brian (Maggie), Melissa Moncrief (Hugh), William Jr., and Jennifer Strickland (Jonathan); 11 grandkids: Lola, Ella, James, Mark, David, Emily, Sydney, Nicholas, Wyatt, AJ, and Konnor; and one great-grandchild. All of whom probably inherited at least a little of his stubbornness. Traditional fatherhood may not have come naturally to him, but he loved his kids immensely. He always said if they needed something, he'd do anything- no questions asked. He was always just a phone call away, ready with advice, a strong opinion, or just to listen. Despite his tough exterior, he never missed a chance to brag about his kids. He doted on them with pride that ran deep and showed up in the stories he told, the nicknames he gave, and the way he lit up when talking about them. He was very proud of each and every one of his kids. He is also survived by his loving wife of 14 years, Ineta, and is remembered by his ex-wives, Jeanette and Sandi.

Bill fought hard against pneumonia for nearly five weeks, finally leaving this world on a perfect spring day, a day made for golf. At his request, no formal funeral will be held. His ashes will be spread over his favorite golf course. Where the grass is green, the sun is shining, and the next round is always just beginning.

In his final act of generosity, Bill was an organ donor. In his honor, register as a donor yourself. Or, to make a greater impact, consider becoming a living kidney donor. His son, Will, is currently on the transplant list.

For now, Bill is "off like a dirty shirt," probably with a rare steak, a stiff drink, a pack of Camels, and a front-row seat to the Daytona 500. Hopefully Heaven has a golf course, a used car lot, and the coffee brewing, because Bill Whitmill is on his way.