I went to Stan and Charlotte Sevaldson’s house last year to interview Skateboard Stan for an article in the Tribune. When I was leaving, he handed me a small bottle full of clear liquid with a pale blue label.

&uot;Genuine water from history’s famous Fountain of Youth,&uot; it read. It looked like a tourist item from Florida, where the mythical fountain was supposed to be.

Stan must have downed a few of those bottles himself, and they must have worked, because he was the youngest 84 year old I’ve ever met. He was full of innocence, good intentions and youthful dedication to the causes he chose.

A couple years ago, he noticed a few kids skateboarding in a parking lot and approached them. He knew they were not always wanted in public places. He chatted with them, asked them if they wouldn’t like to have a place of their own to skate. Of course, they said, they would.

By the time that happened, Stan had already been diagnosed with cancer. When we talked for the newspaper story last year, he told me the doctors had instructed him to throw away his medicine and take a vacation before his time was up. But none of that got him down; Stan kept right on living and over the next few years, borrowed years, he dedicated untold time and effort to getting a skate park built in Albert Lea.

He helped organize the Albert Lea Skate Park Association. He recruited others to help. He solicited donations all over town, and if you helped out, you’d get a nice little postcard in the mail with a picture of Stan, perched precariously on top of an old skateboard, his arms outstretched like he was hanging ten. Printed in the little cartoon voice-bubble drawn over his head was something like, &uot;Just skating by to say thanks.&uot;

He went to city council meetings, met with Paul Sparks, stopped by the newspaper regularly to tell us what was new or say thanks for an article we did. Every time he came in, without fail, he’d end up talking about how much the kids needed place of their own.

&uot;These are good kids,&uot; he’d invariably say. He’d tell stories about how a younger one would see him and light up. &uot;Hey, Skateboard!&uot; they would sometimes yell. He would want to see the newest tricks they’d learned on their skateboards, but he’d also ask them how school was going and tell them to stay out of trouble. He tried to be a mentor to as many kids as he could.

But he’d also note they were often kids who needed help. Some had trouble in school. He saw some of their home situations &045; broken families, uninvolved parents &045; and he wore his disapproval on his sleeve. He wanted to help the kids, but he wasn’t always comfortable with it. &uot;This is the kind of stuff their parents should be doing,&uot; he’d say.

And he never had patience for those who opposed the skate park. When the tennis teams or the housing developers complained about the site near the city beach, or about taking away a tennis court to use for skaters, he thought it was baloney, and he wasn’t shy about saying it.

But the skate park crusade gave him purpose. He told me it helped keep him going. He succeeded in the end, and Albert Lea will always have the skate park to remember him by.

When I visited the Sevaldson house last year, we got to talking about personal stuff. I told him about our 3-year-old son, Jimmy, and our two cats, and he told me a little about his kids and his trips to Florida.

A few days later, there was a letter in our mail from Stan. It contained a few dollars, which an enclosed note said was a gift for Jimmy. Also enclosed was a page from small calendar with a picture of a furry white cat. The cat, according to the caption, was named &uot;Dylan.&uot; Stan and Charlotte had noticed it after I left, he wrote. They got a kick out of it. I still have it somewhere.

Stan was that kind of guy. I only visited his house one time, and we talked for a couple of hours, but he remembered things about me and did a little something generous and thoughtful.

I’ll always remember Skateboard Stan, who died on New Year’s Eve. I’m going to hang onto that little bottle of water he gave me as a reminder that if you’re young in spirit you’ll never really grow old.

Dylan Belden is the Tribune’s managing editor. His column appears Sundays. E-mail him at dylan.belden@albertleatribune.com.