Brilliant, hilarious dad was a complicated character
SANDPOINT – How do you capture a life in words? When that life belonged to one Bob Gunter, how do you hope to even scratch the surface?
He was a brilliant, hilarious, complicated man who took an interest in virtually everything and whose knowledge seemed to know no bounds. It would take a trilogy – at least – to paint a complete picture of this Renaissance man, so a snapshot will have to suffice.
Taking a lead from his popular newspaper columns “Do You Remember?” and “What’s That?” and “Who am I?” here, then is a glimpse of the guy in a piece we’ll call “Who was Bob?”
Bob was a gifted historian.
As kids, we would moan whenever the words “I wonder where this road goes?” were uttered from the driver’s seat on a family trip. Dad couldn’t resist the temptation of knowing what was on the other side of the hill or around the bend in the river. Any sign that read “Historical marker ahead” was guaranteed to bring the vehicle to a stop. Which explains why he could actually quote sections from the Lewis & Clark journals – he read and re-read every available version – and tell stories about his visits to many of the actual locations mentioned therein. Had he lived in that time, Meriwether and William would have joyfully welcomed his energy and expertise in the Corps of Discovery.
He was also a Civil War buff extraordinaire, having studied its battles and the generals behind them at great length and, over the years, walked the majority of the sacred ground where so many young men gave their lives. He was fascinated by what made Abraham Lincoln tick and any book about the man was a candidate for his bedtime reading ritual. If you called him at night and asked what he was up to, he’d usually say, “I’m climbing into bed with Abe.”
He saved his greatest love of history for the small town he called home – Sandpoint, Idaho, and its local environs. Through his journalism – though he’d laugh if you called it that – he reignited the memories of older generations of residents and sparked the interest of younger ones as he revisited the area’s past in words and photographs.
Bob was a music lover
From Beethoven to Broadway, Bluegrass to Bob Dylan, there were precious few musical genres that escaped his passion. As a youngster, he was encouraged by his German taskmaster of a violin teacher to practice hours a day as part of the path toward becoming a concert violinist. When he lied about his age to enlist in the Army at 17 and serve in World War II, those plans were disrupted. He did, however, continue to play his “fiddle” and joined small town symphony orchestras in West Virginia and North Carolina later in life. He could listen for hours on end to musical fare that might range from the classics to musical soundtracks, sweeping along the way through old-time mountain music and good-time rock n’ roll. Eyes closed, he would conduct an invisible orchestra one moment, whistle along to a rousing banjo line in the next, then wrap it all up by singing along to a spiritual in a voice he described as his “graveyard tenor.” Asked how he came up with that description he said, “Because it sounds like you’re fixin’ to die.”
Bob was a muckraker
In the spirit of Benjamin Franklin and Will Rogers (who was a distant cousin and a source of great pride for that reason), Bob was ever ready to jump into the fray and fight what he saw as injustice, pomposity or just plain stupidity with his pen. No windbag politician or self-important bureaucrat was safe from his rapier wit and he seemed happiest when he was stirring the pot.
Only a handful of people – all of them sworn to secrecy but now off the hook – knew that the folksy, acerbic columnist “Cousin Will” and the tattle-tale letter-writer “Aunt Birdie” were simply nom de plumes for Bob Gunter, two more ways for him to upset the apple cart.
Bob was a gadget freak
Dad might not have owned the first personal computer sold in America, but odds are he wasn’t far behind. He loved cameras and had his own darkroom back in the film days. He was just as crazy about tape recorders, which he used for a radio interview program he hosted for several years in Southern California or for listening to music at home. He followed the advent of reel-to-reel, 4-track, 8-track and cassette recorders like a bird following breadcrumbs.
When technology tipped cameras and recorders into the digital age, he made the leap with sheer joy, knowing the shift meant a whole, new set of toys was in his future.
Bob was a world-class cook
His kitchen could be transformed – transported is more like it – from a spot where collard greens, corn bread and black-eyed peas graced a mouth-watering Southern meal to the place where hand-crafted marinara sauce and breaded mushrooms would make an Italian weep with gratitude or Japanese food could cause an Asian food lover to grow weak in the knees. His homemade pizza – no lie – had friends and co-workers begging to be on the waiting list for a dinner invitation. His meatloaf was legendary, his creamed potatoes a symphony adorned in butter. His Christmas gifts of canned pepper relish and pickled vegetables were an annual family tradition. The man could cook and those lucky enough to taste that food will be talking about it for the rest of their days.
Bob was painfully shy
This will come as a surprise to those who came to know him, but Dad was fairly crippled with anxiety at the thought of making the first overture when it came time to contact someone he hadn’t met. Once that hurdle was cleared, however, he was a friend for life. He would often ask someone close to him to “Get ahold of them and have them call me first.” For some reason, that made everything easier. His “hale fellow, well met” public persona for men, as well as that of being a shameless and quite welcome octogenarian flirt to the women in his life, belied the intensely private soul lying just below that surface.
When the growing popularity of his columns required that he come up with a way for his readers to call and identify historical locations or name the mystery people he wrote about, he installed a toll-free number and answering service to handle the dozens of responses that poured in on a daily basis. When the machine beeped, everything stopped while he cocked an ear to listen to the voice on the other end of the line. Then he would smile and remark about how many of his “kids” had called that morning.
Bob was a lifesaver
Years before the world had heard of such a concept, Bob formed an adjunct department to Long Beach Memorial Hospital called the Suicide Prevention Center. He quickly learned that what he initially thought was a calling to the ministry was actually a calling to the counseling profession. He continued on that path when he went back to school as an adult and earned his PhD to become a practicing psychologist.
Later in life, his personal mistakes informed a new and even more powerful way to help others as he found sobriety through Alcoholics Anonymous and touched the lives of countless struggling individuals traveling this same road. His work in AA resulted in his reputation of being a no-nonsense helpmate for those seeking to change – or save – their own lives.
Bob was larger than life
We never had garages as kids. We had “theme rooms.” This open area where other families parked their vehicles were seen by him as blank palettes waiting to be festooned with his latest ideas. In one home, we had a full-blown Tiki Lounge, complete with bamboo matting and Polynesian masks on the walls. In another, it was a massive train set, with papier-mâché mountains, bustling townships, train yards and trestle bridges.
When slot cars became the rage, Dad covered the floor with his own, miniature version of the Grand Prix. He later invented a military strategy game that, at the time and to my young mind, seemed needlessly arcane. It, too, covered a large patch of garage and had its own complex rules of engagement and battlefield etiquette. A few years later, when Milton Bradley released the hit board game Stratego, it bore a striking resemblance to Dad’s earlier creation.
Bob was our Dad
Camping trips. Car rides. Gardening. Making music. Sharing laughter. Growing apart and coming together again. Forgiveness. Friendship. And, ultimately, the freedom to fly.
Bob Gunter chose to die as he chose to live – in his own time and on his own terms. He was a true original, a man who was hard to fathom, but easy to understand. We will miss that Southern voice and the soft heart beneath that crusty exterior. We will miss a million things about him and carry those things with us in our hearts as we carry on.
After mom died, Dad kept up a family tradition she was known for. It was a sweet little way to say goodbye at the end of a visit. I can just picture them now, hangin’ together in heaven and standing at the doorway, waving at us and blinking the porch lights three times. One blink each for the words “I – Love – You.”
You’re Invited: A celebration of Bob’s life will be held on Sunday, July 1 at 5 p.m. in the top-floor auditorium at the Sandpoint Events Center – the former Sandpoint High School Building on the corner of Pine & Euclid. His many readers, friends and fans are encouraged to attend and share memories of the man. This event is open to the public.