Michael Ray “Mike” Dixon

Who he was

Twenty strangers, twenty friends

Mike Dixon could walk into a room of 20 strangers and leave with 20 friends. It wasn't a trick. He was simply interested in people, and they could feel it. When you talked with him, you never had to wonder where his mind was. You were the most important person in the world for as long as the conversation lasted.

He had his own way of talking, with a touch of a southern drawl he got from his mom, and a laugh that was contagious. He was a born storyteller. He never raised his voice in anger, but he raised it plenty telling a story, waving his hands and building to a crescendo when the good part arrived. You could always count on a hug and a smile from Mike, and he was the first to lend a helping hand, or to find someone who could.

Same clothes, different colors

Mike was born in Peoria on May 24, 1956, to Jack and Frances Dixon. His mom dressed him and his younger brother, Curt, like twins in different colors: matching Christmas pajamas, corduroy pants, terry cloth shirts, the same coats, even matching karate outfits. In the karate outfits, his was the white one.

The two brothers shared a room growing up. Mike, the older one, would sit on the edge of the bed after lights out and watch TV with the volume turned down as low as it would go, so their mom wouldn't catch him. As grown men they could finish each other's lines from Tombstone and Cat Balou, and if an Elvis movie came on, you cleared the room, because they were going to laugh, dance and sing along with every word. Friends he made in high school stayed friends for the rest of his life.

A union man at Caterpillar

Mike spent 34 years as a welder at Caterpillar, finishing his career in Building LL in East Peoria before he retired in 2011. He was a proud union man, and the men he worked beside called him their brother. Retirement gave him more time for the people he loved, and for the Chicago Cubs, whom he watched religiously through years of teasing from the Cardinals fans in his life. In the fall of 2016, he got to see them win the World Series.

The open road

Mike was happiest on his Harley-Davidson. In October 2000 he brought home a new 2001 Heritage Softail Classic he named Pearl, and wrote to his son at boot camp to share the news: “I got my Harley. Ta-da!” He made the ride to Sturgis several times, and with his lifelong fascination with Wild Bill Hickok, the Deadwood T-shirt he brought home was no accident: Deadwood is the town where Wild Bill played his last hand of poker. Friends who made those rides with him still remember the good times.

He passed the love of riding on, too. Curt and Shane both ride because of him, and his riding vest, chaps and leather jacket are now prized possessions in the family. Pearl is still in the family, too. Today Shane is the one riding her.

“I love ya”

Above everything else, Mike was a dad. He told his kids “I love ya” every time he saw them and every time they talked on the phone. If they didn't pick up, he left it on the voicemail. Sometimes, out of nowhere, a text would arrive that just said, “I love you very much.” His family still hugs and kisses hello and goodbye, even in the middle of the gym, because that's how he did it.

He never bought “just a card.” He'd spend 20 minutes picking one out, write a note inside that sometimes ran a whole paragraph, and then decorate the entire envelope. When his son was at Marine Corps boot camp, he wrote letter after letter and nearly always slipped a joke into the P.S.

He knew how to make a scared kid laugh. Once, when his daughter needed a shot at the doctor's office, he danced, whistled and sang “Don't Worry, Be Happy” at the top of his lungs while she squeezed his finger. When he caught her singing into the mirror with a hairbrush, he didn't tease her. He waited until she finished, then clapped and whistled like he was at a concert and told her she sounded great.

He walked his daughter Jamie down the aisle on her wedding day. Years later, when his kids told him stories about all the things he had done for them growing up, he laughed in genuine surprise: “I did all that?” He never did any of it for credit. It was just who he was.

Be kind

The lesson he taught most often was a simple one. “Be kind to everyone you meet,” he told his son, “because you never know what kind of day they are having.” It stuck because he didn't just say it. He lived it, with everyone he met. Nobody in his family can remember him saying a bad word about anyone. Ever.

On key, and on the dance floor

Mike could sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” on key. He sang “O Christmas Tree” every Christmas, loved “Copperhead Road” for the cowbell, and could tush push, two-step and boot scoot with the best of them. He loved John Wayne movies, and one friend summed him up in a way he might have liked best: just like John Wayne, a great man, and one who made you feel like family the first time you met him.

And, believe it or not, he loved to clean. He couldn't help himself. Spend the night at someone's house, and they'd wake up to a spotless kitchen and dining room.

“I hope you're happy”

He had a saying nobody could quite explain. Out of nowhere, laughing, he'd say, “Well, I hope you're happy.” People would ask, “About what, Mike?” And he'd smile that smile of his and say, “Nothing. I just hope you're happy.”

A friend to everyone

Mike was a lifetime member of Frank N. Nicol Lodge 1170 A.F. & A.M. and a member of the Mohammed Shriners of Peoria. Being a Mason was part of who he was, and his son Shane became a Mason because of him.

More than 2,000 people came to his visitation. The line ran out the door and wrapped around the building, and they stood in it anyway, some for more than two hours in the freezing January cold, to say goodbye to a man who had made each of them feel like the most important person in the room. Somewhere in that line were two women from the gas station where he used to stop. His family had never met them, but they knew Mike. Every time he came in, he smiled, he laughed, and he told them a funny story.

That was Mike Dixon. If we all lived the way he did, with a little more kindness, a little more humor and a lot more love, the world would be a better place. This foundation is our way of trying.