Danny Kent Beus

Some men look at the world - the stars, the air, the water - with wonder. Danny Kent Beus had the audacity, the sheer stubbornness, to conquer them. Or, at the very least, to take them apart, improve them, and put them back together with more horsepower and a better paint job.

If it had four wheels, traveled under water, flew through the air, or hitched a ride to the International Space Station, Danny Kent Beus knew how to make it and probably did.

Danny lived at full volume. He had a presence - a booming voice that traveled before he did. It could be heard arguing with the transmission of his latest project in the garage or filling out the entire baritone part of his church choir. It was loud, distinct, and penetrating - unmistakably him. He believed torque is a love language, grease is a sacrament, and a well tuned engine is a hymn. Ironically (and perfectly Danny), his mechanical obsession sprouted from a 4.0 in botany at Weber State - because only Danny could look at germination and photosynthesis and think, you know what this needs? A lathe or transmission.

And he didn't just fix machines - he repaired the machines that built machines. He worked on equipment the size of warehouses, the kind of industrial giants that could turn a solid block of metal into parts for planes, trains, automobiles, and even spacecraft. He understood torque and tolerance the way some men understand scripture - by feel, by instinct, by reverence.

He Engineered Everything (and Then He Engineered More)

Danny worked in and around aerospace and heavy industry, the kind of shops where machines build other machines that go on to power submarines, missiles, and projects touching JPL and orbit. If it moved, he wanted to know how. If it didn't move, he wanted to know why not - and he usually fixed that problem before lunch.

On surface streets, he was an unofficial roadside ministry. If your car died, Danny would pull over to help - and by "help," we mean he came to save the car. (You could tag along.) Danny believed cars had souls and feelings. In winter he'd plow steep mountain driveways so vehicles wouldn't get stuck. He jump started strangers, tuned neighbors' engines, and kept half the county mobile out of sheer mechanical charity. His love for machines compelled him to serve people.

In retirement, he became a school bus driver (Davis County) - and he loved those kids. He also gave a decade to the Church welfare system, managing and upgrading the Spanish Fork meat packing plant, because even saints need working equipment.

Faith, Flag, and Full Throttle

A member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints, Danny was a baritone who sang with gusto (the high notes moved when he told them to). He taught in elders quorum and believed service counted whether it was on a program or with jumper cables at midnight.

He served four years in the United States Air Force, with time in Guam, South Korea, and stateside assignments, and his patriotism was contagious - inspiring others, including his son, to enlist in the military. He loved this country the way he loved engines: loudly.

Family (and the One Thing Greater Than Horsepower)

Danny was at his most alive when he was building or laughing with his kids - especially during the family classic "Least Expected," where he'd leap from a corner and jump scare them into shrieks and giggles. He was married to Kathryne Cheney, for 35 years. Together they raised six kids. He had gifted hands: he once crafted a decorative arbor from twisted steel, turning hard, rigid material into something elegant. That piece is more than metal; it's a parable.

The Final Turn (The Part That Matters Most)

In the last season of his life, Danny showed a different kind of strength - the strength to change. Not for recognition, and not to rewrite the past, but out of love. He took a quieter turn toward becoming a softer, truer version of himself. The courage it takes to begin that kind of transformation late in life is no small thing. His journey is not finished - it is only just beginning, on the other side of all the things that once weighed him down.

And of course, some parts of him will live on in the most unmistakably "Danny" ways: every time a kid holds a flashlight an inch off target, every time someone hands over the wrong 9/16 wrench, every time a lug nut is tightened in the wrong order - somewhere in the wind there will be that familiar bark, half gruff and half grin: "Don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth!"

Those Who Carry His Story Forward

Danny is survived by: children Brandon (Claudia), Desiree Rodriguez, DeLanie (Joshua) Heath, Isaac (Skylar) Beus, daughter-in-law Heather Beus, Gabrielle (Cole) Schaefer; grandchildren (15); sisters Judy (David) D'Holst and Bonnie Anderson; loyal companions Rinny (German Shepherd) and Mika (Bird). Preceded in death by: parents Lloyd and Helen Borup Beus; brother Blaine; and beloved son Tyler.

He is also survived by A 1955 Chevy Wagon, a 1971 Chevy Camaro, and a 1966 Ford Fastback Mustang. (They're fine. He made sure of it.)

A viewing will be held on Wednesday, October 29, 2025 from 12:00-1:30 p.m. at Myers Mortuary, 845 Washington Boulevard, Ogden, Utah. The graveside service will follow at 2 p.m. at Ben Lomond Cemetery, 526 East 2850 North, North Ogden, Utah.

In lieu of flowers, tune an engine. Clear a neighbor's driveway after a storm. Stop for a stranded car.