LARRY DEAN HUNTER

Larry Dean Hunter was Born August 31st, 1947, in Windom, Minnesota. After seeing the scowl on his mother’s face, he waved off the teat and latched onto a beer. By the second grade, he was a full-fledged alcoholic, his hands taking the shape of two perfect C’s—Parenthesis—ideal for holding binoculars up to bloodshot eyes, assembling potato guns while eating the ammo, and dragging potential mates by their ankles.

In 1960, his family moved to a farm in Long Prairie, where he used his beer-holders to milk cows, butcher pets, and turn a wrench. Larry could fix anything and everything: motorcycles, tractors, combines, manure spreaders, kitchen stoves, electrical appliances, water heaters, washing machines, and plumbing. He fixed it all. And had to. Because everything Larry owned was junk.

In 1967, Larry married Carol Lindberg, and in the early seventies, they settled in Little Falls with their three disappointed children. From an early age, his kids worked on an assembly line. The genius, the one that knew left from right stood next to the TV, adjusted rabbit ears and changed channels; the second child, the alcoholic in training, stared at wood panels, contemplated life, and wondered where it all went wrong; while the third, the coolest of the bunch, stood at the fridge confused as a dog learning math, and awaited the command—BEER! 

In addition to teaching his kids a strong work ethic, Larry taught them three undeniable truths: All-Star wrestling is fake, clowns are deviants, and Santa Claus forgot where they live. 

But who needs Santa Claus when you have Larry? One Christmas, he surprised the kids with toys from the West Side Bar: wine corks he called "G.I. Joes," bottle caps he called "checkers," a rubber coin purse he called a "pocket pussy," and a book of matches he called an air "freshener." The boys were content to share the coin purse, and the daughter was very much pleased with the matches. She couldn’t wait for Larry to burp and make a play for the can, so she could wait outside the door and strike a match when he came out.

To suggest Larry was cheap would be unfair. He was so much more—he was also an asshole. Yet, who could blame him? He worked over thirty backbreaking years at Larson Boats, and wasting his measly paycheck on kids wasn't as satisfying as wasting it on three things he loved: beer, bullets, and bass.  

Yet, when the kids were old enough to start driving, he broke down and bought a bike they could fight over. The bike was a state-of-the-art piece of shit that came equipped with a rusty chain, bubbling paint, ass-bruising seat, and fifteen gears—fourteen too many if you asked Larry. Larry left the price tag on the handlebars: One hundred and twenty-five bucks. He wanted the whole wide world to know how much he suffered to make that purchase. Because for Larry to part with one hundred and twenty-five bucks, he had to quit drinking for an entire day. 

Away from the kids' whining and emotional needs, Larry put his beer-holders to good use, jigging a fishing pole at the local hotspots: Beauty, Peppin, Nokasippi, and Platt. Larry caught everything. In the summer, you could find him swilling beer, scaling a basket of pan fish, filleting a pike, and burying heads and guts in his garden—the garden his kids weeded—the garden where, after a good bender, he’d find his truck parked on the tomatoes. 

More than anything, he loved hunting and shooting stuff. If you were missing a dog or cat between 1960 and 2015, or found a hole in your ornamental deer, it was probably Larry. In 2016, Larry was diagnosed with Lewy body dementia. He took to the woods and left his mark, erecting deer stands on his hunting land, some sturdy, some not. Each stand he built had swivel seats that offered three-sixty views of the flora and fauna he would soon forget. Every deer stand overlooked a promising buck trail—each trail was marked by an empty beer—each beer can had been shot. 

Near the end, Larry refused to die, lasting eleven grueling days without food or beer. On his final breath, his eyes popped open. What did he see? God? His mother? All the things he killed? 

Larry’s son turned to Carol and said, “Wow. Larry was tough.”

And she said, “Yes. Tough to live with.”

Larry passed away on May 9, 2026, at the age of seventy-eight. He’s preceded in death by his father, Russell, his mother, Loraine, and his son, Russ. Larry will be remembered for his great sense of humor, his smile, his laughter, his itching finger, and his disdain for foreign beer (the kind that gave him shits-ola). He leaves behind a singing bass, fillet knives, buck knives, mounted antlers, mysterious wiring diagrams, unfinished electrical projects, dead batteries, everything to build a bomb, nine quarts of used oil, and a burn barrel full of wet garbage and bullet holes… oh, yeah, and his wife Carol, daughter Holly, son Larry Lee and wife, Kristine; grandson Drake, granddaughter Hailey and husband, Kurtis; great-grandchildren Bo and Miley; and three sisters, Ruthanne, Linda, and Lorna.