Michael Isaac Kerr

Michael Isaac "Zeke" Kerr, 69, of Robinson, IL, passed away on February 14, 2026, at the Linda E. White Hospice House in Evansville, IN. He was born on June 17, 1956, in Robinson, and from early on, he carried himself like someone from another era. He used to say he should've been born a couple of hundred years ago, and it wasn't just a line, it was a clue. Mike was an old soul who held old-fashioned convictions and a pace of life that never seemed to be in a hurry.

That slow-and-steady way about him shaped the friendships he formed as a boy. His core group of friends came together early, growing up on the same street, and those bonds held for more than six decades. Mike didn't need a long list of friends; a few close ones did him just fine. And even if you weren't in that inner circle, you still felt his kindness. He was friendly to everyone, and he had a way of forming real connections in every season of his life.

That consistency followed him into adulthood, especially in the place he spent most of his working life. Over the course of 42 years, Mike stayed through the transitions from L.S. Heath to Leaf to Hershey, a career that lasted longer than the name on the building. He worked mostly on the grind line for the Heath Bar, and his co-workers came to know him as someone who was meticulous and committed to excellence. Mike didn't do much halfway. If he cared about it, he cared about it all the way.

And when he clocked out, he returned to what always seemed to restore him: the outdoors. The Wabash River was one of his favorite places to be. For years, he fried the fish for family fish fries, and the food was only part of the point. The real gift was the gathering, the simple joy of being together without needing much more than a good meal and a little time. He also loved the woods, mostly because he could lose himself in them, the way you do when you're taken in by something bigger than yourself. In nature, Mike found a quiet kind of purpose, whether he was moving through the woods on a squirrel hunt or practicing the steady discipline it takes to hit a mark. It was the kind of rhythm an old soul understands.

But the outdoors wasn't just scenery to him. It was company. Mike loved birds, and he watched them the way some people watch a fire: quietly, patiently, like there was something worth learning if you stayed still long enough. When he was young, he even had a hawk in his room. Later, he helped raise two owls, Psycho and Bomber, and you could tell he carried a kind of respect for wild things that can't be faked.

Over time, that respect eventually turned into something a little closer to tenderness. Mike didn't start out as a "cat person," but over time, cats found their way into his little world, and he let them stay. He took in strays, especially the tough tomcats, the ones that looked like they'd seen some things. And once he claimed them, he cared for them with a kind of careful intention. He was picky about what they ate and cautious about what they were given, because Mike didn't trust just anything with a body, human or animal. That old-school instinct ran deep in him, and it showed up everywhere, especially in the way he grew his own food and learned the world of herbs, trusting what came from the earth long before he trusted what came from a bottle.

And for all that care and attentiveness, he had a still simpler way of showing affection. If you sat with him long enough, you learned that his love language was teasing. It was how he welcomed you in, how he kept things light, and how he let you know you were one of his. His sister, Lisa, was one of his favorite "victims" and she was quick to give it right back to him! That same kind of teasing became one of the ways he bonded with his nieces and nephews. Mike never had children of his own, but he poured something fatherly into those relationships anyway: the steady presence, the playful "Dutch rubs," and a style of teaching that was as interesting as it was educational.

And that gift for teaching didn't stop with the kids in the family. It showed up in his partnership with Ada Correll, too. Over 46 years as partners, he taught her a lot, from cooking and canning to the small, practical ways of doing life that Mike had spent years perfecting. And that may be one of the gifts he leaves behind. For as quiet as Mike was, his life spoke volumes, teaching us to live more slowly, more intentionally, and with more joy in the simple things we take for granted. He didn't leave behind a lot of words. He left behind a way of living, and it will keep showing up in the people who loved him.

Mike is survived by his companion, Ada Correll, as well as several nieces and nephews. He was preceded in death by his parents, George & Katherine (Kreisch) Kerr; by his sisters, Judy King, Jane Dunn, Kathy Correll, Lisa Kerr, and Susan Parish; and by his brother, Steve Kerr.

Mike is to be cremated, and services will be held at the Goodwine Funeral Home in Robinson at a later date.