In the 1990s, a visitor walking into the subdued light of Stroud Tackle, on San Diego’s Morena
Boulevard, would have felt transported to a slower, more personal time.
Bill and Eileen Stroud, aging but not old, would have stood like squinting officers on a
bridge deck, the identity of the true captain unclear. Behind the counter, grinning, with an unlit
pipe clenched in his teeth, would have been the chief volunteer and raconteur John Bowman.
In semi-fictional retirement, J.B., as he was often called, spent many of his non-teaching
hours either fishing or helping Bill and Eileen. With his neatly trimmed, startlingly white beard
and aviator glasses, J.B., as he was often called, looked like a healthy Hemingway.
He appreciated that comparison, but it fell short.
“You can tell a lot about people by fishing with ‘em. Places, too,” he liked to say. “I love
to watch people fish; I love to watch fly-fishermen. Especially my son, he’s a hell of a caster.”
He scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper.
“You go see Conway. He’ll tell you something about fishing.”
In those years, Conway was making a reputation by fly-fishing for sharks from an 18-foot
aluminum boat a dozen miles off the San Diego coast, where an upwell of warm water brought
sharks to the surface. Strictly catch and release. Later, Conway became a legendary guide and
host of a national television fishing show. One day, the visitor did go fishing with Conway. Over
the noise of the engine and the pounding of the hull, Conway shared an early memory:
“I remember my father, this big man walking into the kitchen with albacore as long as his
leg. I’d watch the way he cleaned the fish with authority. I’d sit on the floor and just look at him.

We’d go fishing every weekend. He’d get me up when it was still dark. The mornings always
smelled like pipe tobacco. I remember his Ford Falcon, and his hat, and his red-checkered Filson
jacket, and his boots. I still have those boots. He didn’t use them anymore, so I just took them.
Up until a few years ago, I used to wear them when I fished. They’re in my closet now.”
He recalled catching a trout, and a childhood fishing baptism. “I went into the water after
the fish. Just to play with it, you know. This was the middle of February; it was probably 32
degrees out. I remember him getting into the water and just taking me, you know, and running
me up to the car and putting me in the car and taking me home. With the fish of course.”
After a long illness which never conquered his spirit, John passed on June 26, 2020, with
his loving family at his side. A few days later, Conway found the obituary his father had written
for himself, which John intended “for newspaper and USD magazine.”
“I wish my life to be remembered for my fatherhood, marriage, and very importantly my
teaching career. I desire NO military recognition beyond my having served in the Air Force,” he
wrote. True to form, he requested “no open mic for general comments, as these things can go on
indefinitely.” And here, he said, were the basic facts:

John J. Bowman: Born October 2, 1926 in San Diego. Attended numerous local schools;
graduated from the University of San Diego, College for Men in 1960 with a degree in
English; received a master’s degree in 1974. He served in the United States Army Air
Force in the waning days of WWII. A high school teacher for 40 years, he taught English
and history, as well as coaching football, cross-country, baseball, and track and field; he
also directed numerous high school plays at St. Augustine and Ramona high schools. He
was an avid fly fisherman and bird hunter. But perhaps the one educational achievement
he valued above all others lay in his having taught thousands of youngsters the joy and
learning provided in the reading of good books. He was an active member of the
American Legion and Knights of Columbus. He is survived by his spouse, Marion;
children: daughters Bernadette; Molly (Styles); Eileen (Sylwestrazk); and son Conway,
his wife Michelle (Woo) and grandson, Max.”

Conway’s second child, Jackson, makes no appearance in this obituary because John
wrote it before Jackson was born. He loved and loves both grandchildren. With his dear wife,
Marion, John doted over them. Doted is probably not a sufficient word. Embraced, clowned,
chased, hugged, taught, learned from and loved. Just as he had loved his own children.
And, sometimes in a more intimidating way, he loved his students. Even after they had
entered their middle age, so many of them came to see him or called him, again and again, to feel
that supportive care one more. Molly, a media relations specialist in San Diego, estimates that
her father has stayed in touch with over 1,000 onetime students. Someone set up a Facebook
page for him, and hundreds of his former students followed him, even after his passing. After
four decades of teaching high school, he retired. Then he taught for six more years.

His kindness extended far beyond the home and classroom. “When my Dad saw a young
man at football practice wearing tattered cleats, he gave him the pair of cleats he wore as a USD
freshman because the young man's family could not afford such a luxury,” she says. “Our home
was a sanctuary for several young men who encountered trouble at home. One student lived with
us for an entire summer! My dad's life was shaped by the kindness of others, mentors he refers to
in his book as his ‘angels.’ In turn, Dad has been an angel to countless family members, students
and friends. I could not be more blessed by my dad's love, compassion and his uncanny
perception of the goodness in people.”

One of the youngsters he mentored was my younger son, Matthew, whom John referred
to as Dr. Droll. In a letter home, relating to another matter, Matthew once wrote, “Love is more
important than words, but words help.” That a suitable description of John’s passions.
When I was asked by the Bowman family to write this remembrance, I was honored and
daunted. How does one sum up the life of a man who has never quit living? Even now, Molly,
says she senses her father’s presence. When she writes, he urges her to use just the right word.
And, reflecting him, she most often uses the word love.

John’s doppelgänger, Ernest Hemingway, who didn’t hold a candle to John’s luster, as a
man, once opined: “Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and
how he died that distinguish one man from another.” John might have had a problem with that
sentence. Reducing a life to details? Like adjectives, superlatives, medals and awards, details
pale in the shadow of stories. I believe John would have preferred stories.
How John lived is best told by the family, students and friends who will always love him.
Jennifer F. Skains wrote on Facebook that a “compliment from Mr. Bowman was rare,”
but when it came it left a profound impression: “I remember something he told me once that I
have tried to live up to ever since. One night at a football game I went to buy some food and
realized I had forgotten my ASB card. He was operating the cash register that night and gave me
a discount anyway. He said, ‘If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?’” There’s something about that
cryptic question/statement, a challenge to be trustworthy, an assumption or prophesy to be kept.
She added, “Many of us kids were lucky enough to call him a friend later in our lives.”
John’s affection and respect often seemed balanced on a thin line between exasperation
and admiration. Former student Charles Moore, who wrote that he’d been “bawling like a baby
on and off” since he learned of John’s passing, said this of John, one of his heroes: “I disagreed
with him so often, both in the past and the present, but I never doubted his love for those whose
lives he touched. And my love for him never ended, from the first time he challenged one of my
ideas in front of my peers and called me Mr. Moore, to right this very second. He was one of
those people who challenged you to THINK, and to LOVE. He suffered no fool, but sought to
overcome foolishness with reason and compassion. At least he did with me. I’ve realized every
day a little more what a fool I can be, and that is due a lot to his gruff voice playing in the back
of my head.”

Call it the Bowman Echo. “I can still hear your voice every time I sit down to write,”
Elaine Jennings posted. “And thanks to a painful freshman English project, I have also retained a
ridiculous amount of random trivia knowledge including ‘who wrote Spoon River Anthology?’
and ‘what is the Diet of Worms?’ which serve little purpose other than to make me smile when I
think about them. … I will keep this short because I can already hear you say, “Jennings, this is
too verbose, how can you say this in fewer words?’ So then……Thank you. You mattered. To so
very many. You will be missed. May you continue to look down on us from heaven with that
twinkle in your eye.” And, she might have added, to speak to her, over her shoulder.
His influence bounces across generations. Mechele Valencia: “You were the first real
teacher who took a vested interest in me and believed in my dreams when I wasn’t sure I could
succeed.” Lydia Krasner: “Today we lost a great man and God has a new reading buddy. John
"Poppy" Bowman was another Father to me since I was 15.” “We shared so many holidays,
milestones and celebrations. When our twins were born, you even drove me back and forth to the
hospital many times just to get a glimpse of them.” Kristen Vengler: “Thank you JB, more than
you ever knew. Light up the Heavens and enjoy perfect grammar.”

Mark Smith wrote about John’s impact years long after class was over: “One summer we
crossed paths at Redfish. AJ., our son, was two and a half years old. JB and I were sitting on a
log watching AJ play on the beach as we talked. AJ was drawing in the sand with a stick. He said
he was drawing an airplane. He wanted us to get on the plane. JB and I got off the log and got
inside the outline of his airplane. We laughed as we made engine noise and bounced in the
turbulence as AJ piloted that ‘plane’ around the lake.” Enjoyment of such moments was “one of
the many lessons” that John taught.

While JB was an angel to many, he never pretended to be pristine. Mike Vallander
recalls his freshman year of high school, with John as his teacher. “Being that I'm a class clown,
we clashed often. He would even throw textbooks across the room at students like me to get
their attention…. By the end of the year I wised up and we actually became friends, so much so
I ended up taking Composition with him my junior year and Advanced Composition with him
my senior year.” Now comes the no-saint part: “One of the things we often talked about during
our lunch time hang outs was his (and our) disdain for certain tenured teachers skating by and
not teaching anything to their students. Mr. B would joke that they would just weigh a paper to
decide the grade it earned and didn't even read it.”
So, in his senior year, Vallander wrote a paper, and “randomly placed curse words
throughout the paper to see if it even got read. I told Mr. B I was doing this. However, being
that he was a fellow teacher he could not condone such a thing, but the smirk on his face said it
all.” Vallander received an A on the paper.
And here is Andrew Salmonsen’s perfect story: "One day in 1983 while sitting in your
class at Ramona High, some savant rode by the door on this bike and yelled out 'Mr. Bowman
is a dick!' He quickly pedaled away leaving the room in deafening silence. You sat perched at
your desk for moment, then you stepped down, walked over to the chalk board, picked up a
piece of chalk, and proceeded to write 'Mr. Bowman is a dick.' No one in the class breathed.
Next, you called out and underlined subject, verb and adjective and declared it a 'perfect simple
sentence.’ You then erased it, went back to your desk, and continued the lesson. But the lesson
was already over. I remember being absolutely shocked and awed by the way you handled that
situation. It taught me more than anything I ever learned in class."
Even now, the tributes flow in. Hector Ibarra, describing John’s gruff mind-side manner,
wrote, “Therapy? We didn't need no stinkin therapy! RIP Viejo Juan!” Michael L. Blood wrote,
“There is nothing I wouldn't have done for this man.” And Woody Kirkman called John “the best
teacher I never had.”

Each of John’s grown children — Bernadette, Molly, Eileen and Conway — tell their
own stories with clarity and care. Then and now, JB glows in their presence. He loves his
family in a way that only someone who has lost both parents at an early age can, someone who
has witnessed a tragedy that no four-year old should see. He understands that every minute of
family life is a gift, never to be taken for granted. And with great sweetness, his wise and
nurturing wife, Marion, and his children never take John for granted.
“Today, after reading the hundreds of astounding and heartfelt posts about my father,”
writes Bernadette, she was moved to share this memory. When she was about to enter the first
grade, her father took her to Long’s Drug Store in Grossmont Center. There, he told her that she
could choose any lunchbox I wanted. “No brainer. I remember actually trembling with
giddiness when I spotted this lunchbox which had the image of my future husband, Davy Jones,
on it,” she recalls. “I fondly recall proclaiming to my Dad around that same time that I planned
on marrying Davy Jones,” the diminutive member of the TV series rock band, The Monkees.
“Pop’s reply? ‘Well, ya better hurry up because you'll be taller than that shrimp in about a year.
Classic John Bowman." Today, she writes, “Thanks, Pop, for always supporting my
dreams…whether you approved of them, or not.”
And this earlier memory, too. When she was three, she requested that the family refer to
her “only as ‘Dorothy’” for at least two weeks, after she and her father had watched “our
favorite film ‘The Wizard of Oz’” on television. Her father’s favorite character in that film was
the Cowardly Lion. “As I grew older, I understood and appreciated Pop's love of this character
and the actor who played him,” she writes. “Bert Lahr used to have Pop in stitches with his ‘If I
Were King of the Forest’ solo,” and JB would often impersonate “Lahr's hammy scenerychewing vibrato.” Remembering this, she shares this “beautiful quote from the Wizard to the
Tin Man as he is presented with his heart. It is the essence of my Dad and the mark he left on so
many of us.” Here is the line: “And remember, my friend. A heart is not judged by how much
you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”

Daughter Eileen, now an entertainer in San Diego, writes: “This is what I know for a
fact, my daddy is and was loved by so many and the most wonderful thing is he knew that!
Nothing was better than when My daddy laughed or told you how proud of you he was (which
luckily for me was very often).” She was always excited when she knew that her parents were
in the audience during one of her shows, because her father’s laugh “would make everyone in
the cast say “who does that wonderful laugh belong to? I was always so proud to say ‘that’s my
daddy.’” She adds, “He was full of humor, facts, humility and a veracious love and pride for all
of his ‘chickens.’ He had a long and blessed life here on earth and once again he knew it… He
would always say to me ‘Your mother and I gave you kids to God long ago.’ …I can’t wait to
see my daddy in heaven.”
What about the extended members of his family? “He was one of the most amazing men
I have ever met,” writes Conway’s wife, Michelle Woo Bowman, who says what all of them
must feel. “Reading all of the posts on Facebook it is obvious that he was a father-figure and
definitely a role model and great friend to countless others too. I will miss his smile, his chatter,
his ability to recite poems off the top of his head, his love of black and white movies and show
tunes, his huge presence in any room and most of all I'll miss seeing my kids curled up in his
lap while he reads to them.”
For years, I knew John was writing a memoir. In process, he shared only a few
paragraphs with me. I decided he needed a proper writing tool, so I loaned him an old Mac. He
hated it with a passion (which he would deny, because he was not only a serious man, but a
gentleman) and he finally gave it back. John’s family set him up with a computer more to his
liking, and his pace picked up.
More years went by. Their patience was rewarded.
While reading his manuscript, I sent him this e-mail: “I was up until 1:30 am reading
your book. About a third of the way through. Reminds me of Dickens.” It was that good.
To write “Don’t Play on the Trestle,” he picked out moments, some large, some small,
and told stories of people, some large, some small, who were pivotal in his life, characters as
vivid as Doc or Twist. One of them is John Bremner – who not only recognized John’s writing
potential but set an example as a great teacher. Over the years, we devoted hours to talking about
Bremner, an ex-priest whom we shared as a teacher two decades apart.
Angels and tricksters rise from the pages of John’s book. In his earliest years, in San
Ysidro on the U.S.-Mexican border, John thought of himself as “Buck Bowman, Interplanetary
Buckaroo.” Buck rounded up a colorful set of mentors. For example, “Mr. Cahill…an English
gentleman of about seventy plus years” who had suffered wounds in the Transvaal and received
the Victoria Cross for heroism. Mr. Cahill would regale John and his pals with tales of the Boer
War. While listening to the stories, the boys would admire the framed pictures of queen Victoria,
King Edward II above the fireplace mantel. Mr. Cahill would signal the end of his story telling
sessions by presenting them with a big pan of homemade gingerbread. As John recalled, Mr.
Cahill “seemed always without the companionship of adults,” except for John’s grandfather.

After a childhood tragedy carved up John’s life, his grandfather and grandmother raised
him. But always he yearned for the parents he had lost, or someone to fill their place.
Ones like Crazy Ralph, a cowboy who lived in a house trailer, the interior of which John
was one of the few residents of San Ysidro to have seen. “Ralph’s person emitted an odd odor, a
mixture of Duke’s Mixture tobacco, snuff, sweat, and horse and cow manure.” Or Mrs. Corbett
and other treasured teachers. John best remembered Mrs. Corbett for the index finger of her right
hand: “With that digit, which seemed two feet in length, she could fairly knock you out of your
desk; It was a real stinger and a force to be avoided at all costs.” Such characters spill out of
John’s book, each more vivid than the next. The most vivid character is John. “This man/ham was so at home in front of a microphone! Any microphone,” writes
Bernadette. He did so many things, some of them central to his life, others avocational, including
his long run as stadium public announcer of the Pacific Coast League’s San Diego Padres from
1961 to 1971. More central, he was a proud Lay Reader at Saint Martin of Tours parish in La
Mesa. When he “recited the epistles, his booming, authoritative, dramatic voice sent chills
through the congregation.” Once, “as a (really) wide-eyed, not-yet-theatrically-trained first
grader,” she asked him: “Daddy, why does your voice sound so different than the one you use at
home?” Using either voice, JB’s spirit is too large to have left the stadium, let alone the world.
Not long after I met him, John and I went fishing at Lake Morena, in the high desert of
San Diego’s rugged East County. On that day, he taught me that fishing, fatherhood and teaching
are related. It was a cold day. We wore light waders. The lake and the dark, and the flat clouds
above it were low, the wind icy.
After a while, we retreated to my van, poured coffee, and John told me how he was
orphaned at four and a half years old. The details are best found in his book. But this image is
especially moving, and characteristic of John: “Taking my sister’s tiny hand in mine, I
announced to the gawking neighbors that my sister and I would have to stay with them because
my parents were not going to be home that evening. And that was that.” Except it wasn’t.
In his book, he writes, “Now, at the age of eighty-three through the tear-filled eyes that
had witnessed the tragedy of seventy-eight years past, the aging bungalow conjured one
overpowering thought – Sweet Jesus, I sorely miss my tender loving mother.”
As we sat in my van watching the lake, he said, “Our maternal grandparents took in my
sister and me. "My grandmother was Spanish, born in the old country and she couldn't speak
English worth a damn. Probably loved us too much and pampered us. I used to pull the wool
over her eyes just by saying, `I'm going to be a priest.' And she'd melt like butter because she felt
that was going to be her ticket to heaven.” He adds, “My grandfather was a very stern
disciplinarian. Unfortunately, he died when I was 10, so I was left without a male role model."

As we sat there watching the dark lake grow darker, I told him I had always been struck
by the fact that so many men with the most traumatic experiences with their own fathers, became
such good parents. He warmed his hands with his coffee cup, and then he offered a fisherman's
view of fathering.

"Raising my kids was not a conscious thing. I think a lot of it was like fishing with
nymphs." Nymphs are flies that imitate the larval stage of insects that live on lake or stream
bottoms. "You let the nymph drift under the water. You watch the line. You don't usually see the
strike but you do anticipate it. It's very subtle. Of course, you must have a tackle box full of all
kinds of lures and equipment, but the most important thing is time.
"When my wife and I were raising our children, I had to really make myself be a father --
not as an obligation, but because I was privileged to have them. I always felt like my kids were
sent for a purpose. And I always looked at them as being my conscience." Like fish, he added,
children are unpredictable, individualistic. "I have four kids and none of them is the same." Each
needs a different approach -- or presentation, a term that fly-fishermen use. "My wife will tell
you I paddled the kids, and I did, but they never went to sleep without my going in and giving
them a big hug and kiss and saying good night.”

By then, Conway had kids of his own, and he told his father that he would raise them just
like John raise him. “That pleases me no end. And I'll tell you, when we're out at a fishing cabin,
Conway still kisses me at night before he goes to bed. In fact, just the other day in Stroud's, I was
standing behind the counter and there were about four people there, and Conway said, `Well,
Pop, I gotta go,' and he came over and he gave me a kiss on the top of the head.” John paused.
The sleet and the rain were lifting from the water. "Somebody said, `You must be awfully proud
of those kids.' And I said: `The main thing is they're proud of themselves. That's more important
than my being proud of them.' "

That, not his resume, shows best the John Bowman who is still with us. Did I mention
that John is too large a personality to have left the world? He has not. His children and
grandchildren, his students and his friends, will tell you that. He will, too. And did.
At 6:15 am on June 27, on the day after he passed, the following message mysteriously
appeared on his Facebook page, written in his unmistakable voice:
“I have left this Earth. I am happy, fulfilled and don't regret a minute of my life! I have 4
beautiful children, 2 amazing grandsons, nieces, nephews, godsons, cousins and friends
that enriched my life while I was here. Heaven has a endless supply of fishing and
hunting days. I'll be puffing on my pipe reading books everyday. There are lots of friends
here so don't worry about me. Each one of you have touched my life and I will never
forget any of you. Till we meet again. JB.”