Allen Lee Jensen

Our Dad, Allen Lee Jensen of Farmington, Utah (also of Burley and Idaho Falls, Idaho), finally decided he’d fixed enough things on this side of eternity and officially clocked out for good on October 23, 2025.

Born June 7, 1941 to Alton and Lois Jensen of Burley, Idaho, Dad arrived on this earth with a wrench in one hand and strongly held opinions in the other — and he never let go of either… for 84 years.

Dad grew up on a small farm in the Springdale, Idaho, area where he learned that chores build character, blisters are educational, and fun was something that happened to other people. He attended school long enough to decide he didn’t need “Lady Shakespeare telling him how to tighten a bolt”. Nobody figured out who Lady Shakespeare was, but we all agreed she sounded overrated. Somehow he managed to finish all 12 years of school, but didn’t bother to grab his diploma on the way out.

After a series of jobs that mainly taught him how not to work for other people, Dad found his true calling at NuVu Glass. From there, he went on to start and own The Glass House in Paul, Idaho, later moving it to Burley — proof that even stubborn people can run successful businesses as long as they have access to duct tape, caffeine, a smart co-owner (mom, the bookkeeper), and unlicensed advice.

Dad became known as The Glass Man, and even had a CB radio handle, “Broken Glass”, that he used to communicate with his equally nerdy CB radio friends.

They sold the business years later when Dad joined Idaho Norland / Kodiak Northwest in Paul, Idaho, where he stayed loyal until retirement, despite what he described as “meager pay and management that didn’t know a hammer from a hole in the ground.”

For work, Dad got to travel to Norway and Barrow, Alaska, among other places. He was very proud of these opportunities, and he took immense pride in his job. To this day, we’re still unclear if his travels were for glass work or just to avoid church that Sunday.

He married Mom on September 8, 1967, and together they somehow managed to literally pick up a whole house from Burley and move it to the Pella area on the back of a truck — dropping it right between a beet dump and a train track. Realtors today would call that “great access to local transportation and agriculture.” We just called it “loud”.

Dad loved Christmases. He didn’t buy the gifts (Mom did), but every year he panicked on Christmas Eve that there “weren’t enough.” There were always enough. There were too many. Mom is still paying off the wrapping paper.

He was a proud member of the Idaho National Guard, where he once drove a tank, earned a noticeable chin scar from an accident within that tank, fired mortars, joked around with his fellow enlistee and brother-in-law Joe Beck, and stood ready to defend America during the Cuban Missile Crisis when he was forced to stand at attention for hours waiting for his deployment orders. Thankfully these orders never came. He told that story so often we started to wonder if he personally negotiated the end of the Cuban Missile Crisis with Khrushchev himself.

Mom and Dad had us kids along the way— Tonya, Wendie, Cade, and Lisa. Later, Rodney entered our family. Dad wasn’t exactly the “get down on the floor and play” type. His version of quality time involved handing you a wrench and a flashlight and saying, “Hold this.”

He also loved the outdoors. Every fall he’d disappear with his hunting buddies — mainly Owen Weedop, Darrell, Wendell, Randy, and Clyde Harper, and, of course, Ted Higley — returning two weeks later with stories of the elk that got away and a cooler full of drinks, jerky, and attitude. When the snow fell, they swapped rifles for snowmobiles, proving that Idaho men will risk frostbite for bragging rights.

Sometimes, the elk didn’t get away, and dad would ensure their impressive antlers were proudly displayed in his house.

Dad’s garages were nothing short of legendary. His latest contained an actual working 8-track player, a cassette deck, and a CD player all wired together like an early NASA experiment. Mountains of tools filled every shelf — many so specialized they probably hadn’t been used since the Carter Administration, but “you never know when you’ll need it.” If NASA had called him for a left handed Screwmonger 3000, he’d have shipped two of them overnight.

Every light switch, outlet, and storage bin in his house was hand-labeled in permanent marker — his handwriting described as somewhere between hieroglyphic and serial-killer chic. Everything had a label and its own unique spot on which to reside. He even screwed a hook into the dashboard of his new Ford Edge just to hang his scooter keys. Nobody told him you could use a cup holder, but that was usually occupied with a tall cold bottle of Diet Coke anyway.

Dad was not a pet person. Animals were for work, not snuggling. Still, he somehow ended up with horses (Betsy, Big Red, Smokey, Bandit, Pepsi), dozens of dogs, cats that came from somewhere, and at one time a small brood of chickens that, we sadly learned, mostly served as dog snacks. Smokey was his favorite, though, and on more than one occasion we caught Dad lovingly doting in him.

He was also an avid gun collector who refused to loan them out to anyone— even to his adult son. “You’re not old/big/aware enough,” he’d say. We assume he meant emotionally.

Sundays afternoons with his family were for Wild America, Bob Ross, and The Discovery Channel, which he forced everyone to watch. The rest of us spent those evenings plotting our overtake of the TV. We only had one, and he maintained a tight grip on the remote.

He was a Denver Broncos fan to the bitter end, which means he understood that disappointment was a spiritual discipline.

Later in life, Dad fought off bladder cancer with the same stubbornness he used on everything else. He didn’t “fight bravely” so much as refuse to die out of spite. He won that battle, technically, but it cost him his patience, his hair, and any tolerance for medical advice. His hair concern was easily overcome, though- he never went anywhere without a hat, even while sitting during weeks of chemotherapy or lying in surgical recovery. He even got an approval to wear a white hat into the temple one day.

Eventually, he and Mom moved to Utah — not because he wanted to, but because the kids “applied pressure” until he finally gave in. He spent his final years under the care of his devoted wife, who deserves a Nobel Prize for patience and long-suffering. He was eventually (and very temporarily) moved into the Whisper Cove assisted living home in Kaysville Utah, where the staff quickly learned never to touch his things. His stay at Whisper Cove was short- a week after checking in, he was checking out.

A special thank-you goes to Dad’s hospice nurse, Renalto of Enhabit Home Health, who somehow got through to him (and actually lived to tell the tale) when the rest of us couldn’t. We’re still not sure what his secret was — maybe patience, maybe a $20 bribe — but whatever it was, it worked, and we’re forever grateful. Renalto- you earned your angel wings, buddy.

Dad is preceded in death by a long list of people who are no doubt preparing for his arrival by hiding anything that can be fixed, labeled, or hung from a framing nail: his parents Alton and Lois Jensen from Burley Idaho; infant sister Jean whom dad will be meeting for the first time; in-laws Dean and Wilma Jensen; brothers-in-law Max Barney and Ron Jensen; sister-in-law Mary Lynn Jensen; a neice, and one great grandbaby. Also, his equally opinionated friends Owen Weedop, Betty Ann Higley, and Harold Bowers. We are certain there are many others.

He is survived by his wife Teresa; children Tonya (Gerald) Nelson of Kaysville, UT; Wendie (Kris) Davis of Queen Creek, AZ; Cade (Stephanie) Jensen of Salt Lake City, UT; Lisa (Brett) McBride of Wellsville, UT; his unofficially adopted son Rodney (Christen) Berry of Tampa, FL; 19 grandchildren, and 14 great-grandchildren. Also survived are his sisters- Deanne Barney of Salt Lake City, UT, and Gwen (Joseph) Beck of Burley, ID. We don’t want to forget his beloved Daschunds Augie and Penny, either. Oh, and a couple buckets of miscellaneous hardware that nobody dares throw away. Dad said they were “priceless”.

He will be remembered for his craftsmanship, his creativity, his inventiveness, his noise level, and his uncanny ability to make every project take twice as long, be way overbuilt, and yet somehow turn out perfect anyway.

If there’s a garage in heaven, it’s about to get reorganized.

Dad, we hope you know how much we love you — even when we rolled our eyes at the fifteenth retelling of the same story or the stubborn responses we heard on various topics. You taught us to work hard and keep every last bolt, screw, and scrap of wire “because you never know when you’ll need it.” We’ll do our best to carry on — just a little quieter with slightly fewer extension cords.

Dad’s funeral will be a private family service at Russon Mortuary in Farmington, Utah, on Thursday, October 30, at 11:00 a.m. A livestream will be available for those who would like to tune in remotely. For those attending via livestream, we suggest logging on 10–15 minutes early. Why this early? Because dad would alwaysshow up to work 10-15 minutes early just to make sure he didn’t clock in late, and we don’t want to disappoint him. Until we see you again — happy fishing, Dad. Catch the big one for us.