I first met Frank W. Kroupa in 2014, when I joined the Scottish Rite in Omaha.
It was the 100th anniversary of the Scottish Rite Cathedral, and I was part of a reunion class of nearly eighty men. We were all going through the Scottish Rite degrees, and I was still trying to figure out what I’d gotten myself into.
Frank was already a fixture there.
He’d been involved with the Scottish Rite since 1971, served in nearly every capacity imaginable, and was one of those men who seemed to know everyone and everything about the place.
I didn’t know any of that when we first met.
I just knew he was friendly, funny, a little opinionated, and genuinely interested in getting to know me.
Over the next twelve years, I would come to know him as something much more.
A friend.
And one of the finest men I’ve ever known.
Frank was part of the Scottish Rite stage crew, affectionately known as the Ducks. These were the guys who made sure the elaborate degree productions went off without a hitch. Frank had directed the crew for years, and even after stepping away from that responsibility, he remained involved.
He was a commercial electrician by trade and had spent forty-six years working on major construction projects around Omaha. He knew how to build things, fix things, organize people, and get things done.
And he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
That was the Frank I remember. Not necessarily the man in a suit and tie, although he certainly wore those too. I remember the guy who was always working on something, usually while cracking a joke.
And that laugh.
You didn’t even have to be in the same room to know Frank was in the building. Sometimes you didn’t even have to be on the same floor.
You could hear him.
In 2015, I became Worshipful Master of Waterloo Lodge #102, my home Masonic lodge. I had been encouraged to enter the Scottish Rite officer line, but I figured running one lodge at a time was probably enough, especially since I had no idea what I was doing.
I eventually joined the Scottish Rite officer line in 2016.
Our Line Officer Guild met on the second Monday of each month, immediately after the Cathedral Board meeting. Frank was on the board, and he often stayed afterward to visit with us.
He always had something to say.
Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes a compliment. Sometimes advice, if you wanted it.
And somewhere along the way, he started greeting me the same way every time.
“Hey Johnny Boy!”
I can still hear him saying it.
Frank took a particular interest in what we were doing at Waterloo. We were trying to grow our membership, bring younger men into the fraternity, and get them involved in other Masonic organizations.
As a marketing guy, I had some ideas about how to make that happen. Whether I knew anything about running a Masonic lodge was another matter entirely.
But we were making progress.
Whenever I told Frank about another group of Waterloo brothers joining the Scottish Rite, he’d smile.
“You boys at Waterloo are doing the fraternity the right way.”
That meant a lot coming from him.
Frank understood that Masonry was facing challenges. Membership was declining, and finding men willing to commit their time and energy wasn’t getting any easier.
A few times, he became unusually serious with me.
He’d look me straight in the eye and tell me he believed I could help make a difference. He even trusted me to help guide men he’d met into the fraternity.
I was humbled by that.
Here’s a man who had devoted more than fifty years of his life to Masonry, encouraging someone who was still relatively new to it.
Frank had a way of making people feel important without making himself important.
And he did that for a lot of people.
Frank was also a legendary fundraiser.
If the Scottish Rite needed new theater seats, carpeting, bricks for the Mural Garden, or money for another improvement, Frank was probably somewhere in the building making it happen.
There’s an old expression about giving until it hurts.
When Frank was collecting money, it never hurt.
He was that smooth.
You’d reach into your pocket, hand him some money, and somehow feel better for having done it.
He made helping fun.
Our friendship eventually extended beyond the Scottish Rite. My wife, Laura, met Frank’s wife, Susie, at a Masonic event, and the two hit it off immediately.
Afterward, Laura told me, “I love that woman.”
Frank and Susie had been married for more than sixty years. Laura and I have been married thirty, and we could see a little of ourselves in them.
We enjoyed brunches together, listening to their stories and watching the subtle, lovey-dovey looks they still exchanged.
They were genuinely cute together.
You could tell that after all those years, they still adored each other.
We even attended a brother’s B’nai Mitzvah together. It was the first Jewish service for both Frank and me, and neither of us knew quite what to expect.
More than three hours into the service, I remember us looking at each other, then looking at our watches.
We didn’t have to say anything.
That was Frank, too.
A man who could find humor in almost anything.
The last time I saw Frank was at our Scottish Rite fall stag at a gun club in Papillion, just a few weeks before he passed away.
He was there with his son, Andy.
Frank had been undergoing cancer treatments, and I could tell they were taking a toll on him. He didn’t complain or draw attention to it. He was still Frank, enjoying the company of his brothers.
We talked about what we were doing at Waterloo and how much he appreciated the work.
Then he introduced me to his son.
“This is Johnny from Waterloo Lodge.”
I shook his son’s hand, and immediately recognized something familiar.
The sincerity. The confident handshake. That little sparkle in his eyes.
There was no mistaking whose son he was.
I didn’t know it would be the last time Frank and I would talk.
On October 11, 2026, Frank passed away at eighty-four.
When I heard the news, my first thought was simple.
Oh my God. No.
I’m never going to get to talk to Frank again.
And I cried.
I’m crying again as I write this.
Frank was a 33rd Degree Mason, a Past Potentate of Tangier Shrine, a longtime leader of the Scottish Rite Cathedral Board, and a man whose service to the fraternity spanned more than half a century.
He helped build and improve the places where generations of Masons have gathered. He organized events, raised money, solved problems, and mentored men who would eventually take his place.
His accomplishments could fill pages.
But when I think about Frank, those aren’t the things that come to mind first.
I think about his laugh carrying through the Cathedral.
I think about him working behind the scenes, making sure everything went right.
I think about Frank and Susie looking at each other across a table.
And I think about the way he made a younger Mason feel like the work he was doing mattered.
There are still a lot of great men at the Scottish Rite.
But there’s a big empty space in my heart today.
Frank spent his life building things. Some of those things will stand for generations.
Others were friendships, confidence, encouragement, and the belief that someone could make a difference.
Those are harder to see.
But they last, too.
And the next time I walk into the Scottish Rite Cathedral, I know there will be a part of me listening for that unmistakable laugh.
And three words I’ll never forget.
“Hey Johnny Boy!”
If this story resonated with you, you’re not alone.
