It’s difficult to memorialize an imperfect man. While you should never speak ill of the dead, writing a sappy dedication for a troubled soul seems disingenuous at best. Yet, I find myself here, wanting to find a truthful way to capture the essence of who the man was, or who he tried to be.
Geoffrey Fletcher was born Dec. 10, 1964, on the day his grandmother died, and from that moment of celestial crossing, his life was framed. A happy, blond-headed baby, Geoffrey Dean Fletcher got the nickname “Duffy” because he couldn’t pronounce his own name.
Among other things he had trouble pronouncing was the word “truck” because he loved to watch them go by. Two of his life-long habits were formed while in diapers—swearing and the love of cars.
He earned his GED in 1984, and in a fit of young adult angst, he joined the army. While he excelled at much of what the military could offer, Duffy was never made to take orders.
He was charismatic to a fault. Throughout his life, this superpower would be both his savior and his kryptonite. A man of few words when words mattered, he felt things intensely. It led him to seek solace in substances, and he spent much of his life in the throes of addiction. Fighting himself, trying his best, failing too often. He lost the battle on Jan. 13, 2026.
Despite living his entire life in Wisconsin, he was a diehard Vikings fan and an avid pool player. Music was a salve, and it was music that finally brought him to a tattoo shop, culminating in the marking of his obvious persona—a hard-partying, Harley-riding, rock-loving man.
A Celebration of Life will be held on Saturday, Jan. 31 at 2 p.m. at 5Js in Centuria, Wisconsin. In lieu of flowers, memorials to the family are preferred.
