Hi folks,
One of my dearest
friends, writer Bob Stewart, passed away last Thursday. I’ve spent the past two
days struggling with how I could best pay my respects to him and keep finding
myself without the right words. So, instead of writing some kind of effort at
great prose, I thought I’d just talk about what he meant to me.
Author Grant Blackwood and Bob at the WRW event at the Purple Sage Dude Ranch (I was taking the picture)
There are people we
meet along the way that make an immense impression on us. People that are truly
bigger than life. Such a person was Bob. A hugely gifted writer, he befriended
me several years ago and we became instant friends on the spot. A fellow Texan,
it was immediately evident when you first spoke to Bob that he was a man who
had a heart as big as his home state. And, although possessed of a huge talent,
he was totally without an ego. I can’t even begin to list his accomplishments—he
wrote bestselling true crime books, wonderful novels, even wrote award-winning
scripts for the television show that was a staple of my childhood—Gunsmoke. He wrote for national
magazines such as People, Time, Life
and Latina. There wasn’t a single
thing he couldn’t do and do well in the writing world. He even invented a new
genre—“feline noir.” At is passing, he had just finished cowriting a new novel
with our mutual friend, Carl Brush, titled The
Yellow Rose of Texas.
This past spring, I was
asked to be a presenter at two Texas events, the DFW Writer’s Conference and
the nine-day retreat at the Purple Sage Dude Ranch outside of San Antonio,
presented by Writers Retreat Workshop, with whom I’ve worked before, led by
Jason Sitze and Gail Provost (widow of Gary Provost who began the retreats). I
asked if Bob could join me in presenting and both directors gladly agreed. We
spent the days in between at Bob’s home in San Antonio. Later, I found out that
he had planned to sell the house months previously, but decided not to until
after I left Texas so we could stay there and hang out together. I only found
that out by accident when a neighbor of Bob’s told me what he’d done. Typical
of Bob, when he did something for someone he never sought out any credit.
We had an absolutely
wonderful time. I went through a really bad bout with my health. Texas was at
the height of their allergy season and that, plus the intense heat, sapped all
of my energy. When I got back home, my doctor told me if he’d seen me there he
would have immediately put me into the hospital. I lost over 20 pounds in a
week and could barely walk. Bob got me through it. Although suffering himself
from diabetes and heart problems, he wouldn’t let me lift even my luggage,
would drop me off at the entrances of places we went to and found parking
places and walked back rather than allow me to. I didn’t really know how bad of
shape he was in himself, as he never complained with a single word, but just
went out of his way to assist me.
At the DFW Conference,
Bob was a huge hit with his own presentations with a completely-filled up
meeting room. After the conference, we went to his home and just hung out,
telling each other war stories. Mostly, Bob talked about his late wife Martha,
his son Bob III, his daughter-in-law Kim and his grandkids, and his current
girlfriend Dixie. He wasn’t a guy to ever talk about himself, but I learned so
much about Bob just from listening to him talk about his family. And his
religion. He was an intensely religious, God-fearing man and he gave testimony
to that faith in his every utterance as well as his very example of how he
lived his life. Myself, I don’t know if I believe in the same God as Bob did,
but if He exists as Bob firmly believed He did, Bob’s in a good place and where
he deserves to be.
We talked often on the
phone before my Texas trip and about every week thereafter. And then, he didn’t
call for a few days. Now I know why. He’d passed away in his hotel room doing
what he loved doing—attending a writer’s conference in Massachusetts. A mutual
writer friend of ours, Scott Morales, emailed me that he had passed away. I
called up Carl to see if he’d heard anything and he hadn’t either. We
eventually were able to get in touch with Bob’s son, Bob III, and found out that
it sadly was true.
That was one of the
darkest days of my life. But, I started remembering Bob’s indomitable spirit
and knew what he’d say to me if he saw me grieving for him—I could hear his
booming laugh as he’d grin at me and tell me to get off my butt and start
writing. That he was fine and in the home he’d planned all of his life to be in
when his days ended and to simply celebrate life. After all, that’s what he’d
done all of his life—celebrated being alive and on earth and at work in the
grandest calling of all—being a writer.
So, here’s to you, old
friend—you may be temporarily gone from the physical plane, but you’re alive in
our memories—your family and your many, many friends--and always will be. You
made the world a much, much better place because of your presence and I’m a
very lucky man to have been blessed to have known you as my friend.
Rest in peace—you’ve
earned it.
Blue skies,
Les
Me sitting on a rock, Mr. Spender, and... Bob! At the dude ranch just before we went in to chow down.
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