Losing a Giant

I think you know you’ve lost a giant when you along with everyone you talk to feels like they’ve lost a dear friend. 

I’m certain that we recently lost a giant in our little community. He was a man who lived large, but was incredibly down to earth, kind and friendly to all, and a man who enjoyed countless adventures and friends throughout his very well lived life. I know that his beloved children and grandchildren know how special he was, I just hope that they appreciate what an impact he had on many people that they likely never knew. 

My dad mentioned more than once that he would have never graduated from UNR without  the help John gave him with senior English. John was a sophomore when he met my dad, a fifth year senior. He taught dad a concise way to organize his thoughts and writing, simple five sentence paragraphs and a five paragraph form for papers. He made clear that using this basic organizational structure, you could clearly and articulately write on any subject and at any length. When I was old enough to need my first help with school papers, dad taught me the same form. Little did I know that it had come from one of dad’s college friends who I’d get to know much later in life. I never knew that my dad even knew our giant until one of his annual weekends of duck hunting was moved from Yerington to Paradise Valley and John couldn’t understand how my dad (a So Cal resident) had gotten permission to hunt our ranch. John said that he about fell over when he learned that Fred Stewart was my dad’s son in law.

My own first contact with John came almost 31 years ago. He and a group of local sportsmen wanted to be the first to hunt wild turkey in Paradise Valley. To educate all of us on the new game bird, NDOW organized a Saturday “Turkey School” at their old Reno HQ on Valley Rd. Fred and I drove down with the intention of attending and learning about the birds that were multiplying like rabbits all over the ranch. Biologists and expertsportsmen flooded us with information. By noon, I’d heard more turkey calling than any hearing person should be subjected to, and I bowed out. At best, box style turkey calls sound like Bedouin war cries, and after a couple hours of practice calling, I had a migraine and went back to our room at the Sparks Nugget for Tylenol and a nap. Fred told me that “one of the guys would drop him at the hotel and then we could go out for a nice dinner” Well, when I hadn’t heard from Fred by five pm, I got in the shower and cleaned up for a nice romantic supper with my new husband. I came out of the bathroom to see the phone blinking and a message from Fred to “meet US down at Trader Dick’s”.  Hmmm, so much for the romantic supper. I headed downstairs and heard the group before spotting them. They all had brand new turkey calls and were testing them out. I’ll also mention that I’m certain that Happy Hour had been in full swing for sometime. The hostess showed me to our table, and frankly, she looked none too pleased with the gaggle of gents squeaking, laughing and downing copious quantities of adult beverages. I’m pretty sure that our local biologist, his young son and I were the only folks around the table who were not drinking AND could at least partially understand the discomfort of other nearby guests. We were reminded by the waitstaff more than once to please quiet down. Finally, the manager walked over, threatened to cut the table off from more alcohol and said if the noise level didn’t drop, he’d have to ask us to leave. Admittedly, I was a little embarrassed, but, given that ol Trader Dick’s  was nothing if not a rollicking establishment, and that our tab hit $800, I just went back to my teriyaki…until, as a closing argument aimed at the prickly manager, John played his turkey call like a kazoo, giving the uptight manager an audible “goose”. Needless to say, everyone for several tables around descended into laughter and applause. I knew that I liked this guy right there and then. 

I don’t think that he was ever successful at taking a turkey off our ranch, but he sure gave it plenty of tries. The same cannot be said of his duck hunting escapades, on which he was regularly very lethal. 

My final little story is about my early days serving on county school board. My conservative voting record raised considerable ire with one longstanding board member who was very used to getting their way, and within months of starting my term, I received a letter from the State AG’s office, informing me that this member was accusing me of serious ethics violations. I was absolutely shocked and upset. I called John and we agreed to meet prior to our next board meeting. When I arrived, he was seated at his regular “counsel” position. Just seeing him sitting there and looking so stern made me tear up. I quietly sat down, asked if he’d read the complaint, and then struggled to get the words out that I was prepared to resign immediately if he thought it was the best course. By now you know that I have been writing about John Doyle, a splendid man and a truly remarkable, common sense “generalist” attorney. I told him that I honestly didn’t think I had broken any law or ethical standard, but that I didn’t want to do anything that would reflect badly on the District or the Board. He sat impassively for a moment and then he slammed his hand down on the complaint before him. Now I had tears running down my face. He told me that I had not done or said anything improper, and that using the AG’s office to bully me infuriated him. He assured me that he would respond to the inquiry and not to give it another moment of worry. Then he stood up, handed me a couple tissues, kissed me on top of the head and said “you, my dear, are no politician, and I mean that in the very best sense”. John and I were a ways apart politically, but that never stopped us from enjoying an earnest friendship filled with good visits, a shared love of Guinness Irish Stout, and some friendly teasing. 

I last saw John just before the last weekend of duck season this winter. He was parked at the corner of our lane. I hopped out and we lamented that while a rainy spring is great, the flooding was going to make him getting to our lower pond tough. So I mentioned that as long as he took his son along to be safe, he should try our uppermost meadows which were already flooded and filled with mallards. That made him grin. So did his mention of a new friend in his life. He and I had several long and serious talks about losing our spouses and how indescribably hard that is. He urged me to take the leap into new relationships when I was ready, that it could never take away from what I shared with Fred. 

John looked thin but patted his now flat tummy and said he hadn’t been able to fit in the pants and shirt he had on for years. He looked and sounded happy. He was driving his old beater SUV, wearing what I can only describe as his “Elmer Fudd” hat. That’s how I’m going to remember John. A happy warrior and good friend who made a huge difference in a lot of lives. 

Kris Stewart is a rancher in Paradise Valley, Nevada.