Bob Stephenson, Jr. - Remembering an Old Friend
Bob Stephenson, Jr. passed away five years ago this weekend. Host of the Bob Stephenson Outdoor Show on Houston radio station KILT SportsRadio 610, the program is now hosted by my good friend Capt. Wayne Vinton, and on weekends, co-hosted by Capt. Bennie Hatton. Today’s it’s the “SportsRadio 610 Outdoor Show,” and the tradition carries on in grand fashion.
Capt. Wayne was kind enough to let me read this on the air Saturday morning, the eulogy I wrote and recited at Bob Junior’s funeral in late May of 2002.
Bobby’s father, the legendary Bob, Sr. “Pappy” Stephenson, went to meet his son several months later, on Labor Day weekend.
Both were dear friends, and both are sorely missed.
Several folks have asked me about reading this since it aired, and with them … and my old friends and their precious mom/wife “Miss Dotty,” who survives them, in mind, I am running it here.
Remembering Bob Stephenson, Jr.
You learn in journalism school that the essence of good communication, be it in print or on the air, is to say as much as possible with as few words as possible.
Almost 25 years out of college, I’m still working on that one.
On the other hand, like his father, the living legend we all lovingly know as “Pappy,” Bob Stephenson, Jr. never had trouble expressing his thoughts with a brief but meaningful mix of words. In the past two decades, from the BassMasters Classic fishing tournaments of the early 1980s to the months I spent with him on the air just this past fall, Junior and I shared countless conversations and insights.
There is one in particular, though, that I will never forget. Arthur Moeller had graciously invited us down for a weekend of deer hunting in the live oak bottoms near Columbus. Along with other friends … and literally everybody Bobby met became a friend … he, Wayne Vinton, Arthur and I were sitting out by the campfire just after sunset.
Like everything else in life, I know God specially arranged that particular evening for us. He knew it would be one of Bobby’s last deer hunts, so I guess you could say he upgraded us to first class.
He made the November air cool and brisk, riding on the rearward fringe of a fast-moving cold front that had rolled through the area the day before. He told the coyotes to sing for us, and they obediently did what The Man Upstairs told ‘em to, howling it up in three-part dog harmony that echoed through the rustling leaves and put a great big grin on all of our faces. Then he told the screech owl out by the barn to follow up with a solo. That little old bird did a job that would’ve made Pavarotti proud.
Most of all, he took the lampshade off the stars. A sea of twinkling lights, an entire galaxy of tiny little sparklers, winked at us from hundreds of millions of miles away. But it felt like they were flashlights in our laps.
I went inside, got my binoculars and brought ‘em back out with me. We took turns looking at the Milky Way, and every one of us asked for another look.
Most folks don’t take the time to do this kind of stuff. They’re missing out. One thing I can say for Bobby … and as he would assure you if he were here now, I can definitely say a lot … he didn’t miss out on anything … especially when it came to God’s Great Outdoors.
I looked at him, knowing that at least this one time I’d be able to produce what few men can … an accurate weather forecast … and made a confident prediction.
“It’s going to be a good morning tomorrow.”
He put down the binoculars, locked his hands behind his neck as he stretched out in the chair, and looked at me one more time with that contagious smile that was uniquely his.
“Bubba,” he said, “every morning you wake up is a good morning.”
It’s a cliché, but truer words have never been spoken.
While we’re covering clichés, I guess I might as well add another one.
You hear it quite a bit at funerals, and sometimes it’s truer than others. In the case of Bob Jr., though, it’s as solid as the big granite rocks on the Galveston Jetties.
“He touched the life of everyone he met.”
Physically, he’d shake hands through sheer instinct. Those handshakes were always sincere. Some guys, those of us fortunate enough to call ourselves “good friends of Bob, Jr.,” occasionally got a big ol’ bear hug.
Then he’d look me in the eye, especially after we’d finished a show and were headed for our cars outside the KILT studio parking lot, and say “I love you, Bubba.”
I don’t care if you’re a hairy-chested weightlifter who eats nails for breakfast and wrestles crocodiles for a hobby. Bob Junior could be plenty macho when he wanted to. But he didn’t do it often. He didn’t need to. No one with a heart that big needs to prove anything to anyone.
You knew when you said adios to Bobby that you had just said goodbye to a bona fide man, a family man and a man of God, and a true-blue friend to boot. A friend you could count on.
When the grenades of life suddenly got tossed in amongst those he knew and loved, Bob Jr. was the first one to pounce on ‘em. You could always count on him to cover your back.
When the car broke down one morning last December, right before we went on the air, he stepped in the studio and said “Just do the show; I’ll take care of it.” And like always, he did what he said he was gonna do. By the time we signed off at 5:30, that car had already been behind a wrecker, on the way to Skeeter’s, for half an hour.
He drove me to his house, and doing our best not to wake up Melba … though I suppose it wouldn’t have been the first time … we sipped coffee and shared the newspaper. I read the editorial page while Bobby pulled out his number-one favorite piece of the paper.
The cartoon section.
If there was a laugh to be had, he’d laugh. If there wasn’t, he’d made a reason for one. And he never had to work at it. Laughter, humor and a sense that most everything in life has a lighter side, were at the very core of Bobby’s personae and spirit.
Call it another cliché if you will, but that spirit lives on. Dana called me to let me know he had passed away Friday morning, and for that I thank her. I know she had plenty other folks to talk to.
I tried to work, but couldn’t. Then I sat down on a lawn chair out on the back porch, and did my darndest to be as depressed and miserable as possible.
Try my best, it just wouldn’t happen. So I finally fired up the barbecue pit, put a Willie Nelson CD on the boom box and, without a tinge of guilt, sat there and grinned. Bobby knows what I was grinning about. They’re some great stories, but those are staying in the private collection of the memory banks.
I’ll cherish those memories like priceless gems. Because they are.
I was, and always will be, sad that I lost such a wonderful friend. But I can’t help but be happy that, as of Bobby’s passing after such a hard-fought battle, he’s now on the A-Team in heaven. It’s mighty comforting to know that he’s on our side.
I’ll never forget that starlit night in Columbus. And like everyone else in this house of worship, and just as notable, the hundreds of thousands of people who tuned in most every morning to share his unique blend of personality and know-how, I’ll never forget my friend Bob Jr.
From here on out, I’m looking at life the way he looked at the weather.
“It’s just a forecast.”
Every time the National Weather Service gets it wrong, every time I drive through Rockport and check out the water conditions off Fulton Beach Road, every autumn night when the sun has fallen below the horizon and the campfire glows brightly under the gentle caress of a hundred million stars, I will think of him.
And sure as the sun comes up tomorrow, I’ll be smiling.
For that and so much more, thank you, my friend.
And Godspeed.
Howdy. I am 
That reminds me of when my grandma died. She was my best friend and fishing buddy. My grandma and grandpa bought a place in bolivar overlooking east bay and I think that made me a better person. I was only 15 when she went home at the age of 51 but she is with me still 17 years later every time I am on the water. Very touching. Thank you.
Sharky:
I am really glad you liked the story. It sounds like your grandma was one very special lady. In fact, I KNOW she was. Any woman who is her grandson’s fishing buddy is as good as it gets.
I’m sorry you lost her at such an early age. My dad passed away when he was 61, and that was way too early as well.
In both our cases, however, I dare say they left us with some fantastic memories … and, a legacy that we can someday share with grandkids of our own.
Good fishing, and God bless …
Larry