Gerald Wayne Daugherty

Gerald Wayne Daugherty, 82, passed away on February 9, 2026, in Springfield, Missouri. Born March 24, 1943, in Boonville, Missouri, Gerry lived a long, hands-on, talkative, and stubbornly determined life surrounded by the people, animals, and cars he loved most. In short: if there was a conversation happening or an engine running, Gerry was probably at the center of it.

From second grade onward, report cards warned that "Gerry talks too much, he bothers others, and he won't sit still." Decades later, those same "issues" turned out to be marketable skills. That relentless sociability made him a genuinely gifted teacher who connected with kids in ways few others could. The boy who couldn't be quiet grew into the man wearing out his seat partners on many transatlantic flights. His wife Kae and daughter Erin always felt a little sorry for the poor soul who'd be treated to Gerry's full life story somewhere between boarding and beverage service-often before the seatbelt sign even went off. By landing, they were practically family.

Gerry was the devoted husband of Kae for a lifetime of partnership and gentle (and not-so-gentle) negotiation. Early in their marriage he was genuinely puzzled why Kae didn't iron his underwear the way his mother always had. He learned. He never did convince her to let him buy a Harley-Davidson, though-he spent decades casting longing looks at Harleys while Kae held the line with a single, iron-clad "no," proving that while Gerry could fix almost anything, even he couldn't find the fuse box for Kae's "absolutely not" setting.

His greatest pride and joy were his daughter Erin and his grandsons Max and Sam, whom he liked to tease and loved without reservation. He shared lifelong closeness with his sister Carol. Gerry was preceded in death by his parents, James and Janie, and his brother Jim. If family was the engine of his life, they were the ones who kept it running, tuned, and occasionally reminded him to slow down.

Gerry marked time not in years, but in cars. While some people referenced 1967 or 1992, Gerry would say "when I owned the green Ford Galaxy" or "the black Ford pickup." Every story came with its vehicle, including year, color, and whatever he had to fix on it. He loved to drive-fast and far. He tore down the Autobahn in Germany, crossed the Rub' al Khali in Saudi Arabia, and dreamed of Ireland's Ring of Kerry (until Erin got sick). He once thought staying on a houseboat in India sounded like a grand adventure-until Erin got sick again. It was sort of a theme when Erin grew up.

He had an unshakable determination to get any job done, no matter how much destruction it required along the way. When changing a headlight on a Jeep Grand Cherokee proved impossible, his solution was simple: remove the entire front fender and half the engine. His son-in-law had to intervene to save the vehicle from becoming a very expensive monument to persistence. Gerry believed firmly that if you took enough parts off, eventually you'd find the problem-and possibly a few new ones.

Gerry never threw anything away. His shed is a museum of possibility-bags of saved string, odd pieces of wood, random buttons, pins, and parts of every description. "You never know what you'll need," he'd say, and eventually, he usually found a reason. He could teach almost anyone anything, with one famous exception: he never quite managed to teach Erin how to drive a stick shift. Even master teachers have their limits.

Cars held a special place in his heart. He bought a brand-new 1979 Corvette straight off the showroom floor, sold it after a couple of years, then years later bought the exact same car back when the next owner decided to sell. To the future great chagrin of his son-in-law and grandsons, he eventually sold it again.

In Saudi Arabia he once took up a very illegal hobby: making wine in the spare bedroom. One night the family awoke to the sound of muffled explosions-several bottles had decided they'd had enough fermentation and exploded all over the ceiling. Even his hobbies, it seemed, had strong personalities.

Above all, Gerry was a man who connected-with neighbors, with strangers on airplanes, with kids in classrooms, with family around the table. His laughter was quick, his stories long, and his love steady. He leaves behind a garage full of projects, a shed full of "just in case" treasures, and a family full of memories that still make us smile through the ache. If heaven has a garage and someone willing to listen, Gerry is already there, telling a story.

May his stories, his stubborn spark, his endless curiosity, and that unmistakable laugh live on in all of us who were lucky enough to know him-and fortunate enough to hear the whole story.