Ronald L. Ezell

1939 - 2018

Ronald L. Ezell

- - Our Dad died the day before the geese arrived. Ronald L. Ezell (July 28, 1939-October 1, 2018) breathed his last in the early evening of October 1, 2018. He left behind a son, Michael Ezell of Sparks, Nevada, a daughter, Rona who lives with her husband John Powers in Battleground, Washington, and another whom he raised and loved just as a daughter of his own, Theresa who lives with her husband Chris Mott in Redmond, Oregon. Our Dad died a loved and important man. We knew our Dad always as a man in the service of his fellow men. He was a man of unshakable conviction. He was a man of integrity and honor. And all animals on this planet approved him without reservation, but most especially all the horses and the dogs he ever had occasion to meet.

Of course we, his children, didn't know him his entire life, but we heard the stories of how he was first a farmer's then a coal miner's son and how he grew up in Southern Illinois in a day and time and area where horse-drawn wagons and buggies and plows were nearly as common as cars or tractors, if you can believe that. He talked about a farmhouse with no indoor plumbing or sanitation. I vouch this part, for when I was very young I trembled with fear when I had to use the outdoor facility at night on the very farm where this man, once a boy like me, ran about and played in the cornfields as if this kind of backwardness meant nothing at all. I remember electricity on that farm, but I also remember the soot of lamplight upon the old house ceiling and wallpapers. Oil lamps remained placed like stubborn sentries about the house and were often used as a more agreeable light source in spite of electricity. Most times for his children's part, I do admit for myself, we thought his stories inflated in memory and grown over-mythic somehow. He told stories that sounded like they were derived from the pages of famous American books like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. He told how he walked barefoot throughout the county; he told how he fished and hunted whenever he wanted and ate everything he caught. He told of a rich land that grew the best corn, tomatoes and melons; he told how not a scrap was wasted when it came time to slaughter a chicken, a pig or a cow. He told a romantic tale of a life of freedom and a life of hard work made easier by clever thinking and a way of living off the land not known to us today. Even if these stories of his were only half true, then he certainly saw a lot in his time. In the passage of his youth, he matured through the time of the horse to the time of' the hot-rod. And as he grew into a young man he sustained his passion for both, the animal and the machine. I suspect that with each, he could admire and compare them by their horsepower! For my part, I believe like the gospel, the truth of every detail in the stories concerning this period of his life - now more than ever. Our Dad was raised a man of the earth. To him, living meant willful, cheerful engagement and doing.

When I was born, my father was an Airman of the US Air Force, serving around the globe, a patriot in the long, cold war. He had a wife, my and Rona's mother, Annette, and at the end of his tour he was ready to go home and make his family. But those were dicey times in those days and the Air Force retained him in service for "252 days for convenience of the government" by excuse of the Suez Canal crisis. For his job, he maintained strategic aircraft on SAC airbases from Goose Bay Labrador in the Arctic Circle to Christmas Island in the Pacific Ocean. His stories of this time were also very loving and romantic and too many to tell you. But I will say, he talked of times when he had to urinate on his frozen hands to warm them enough to hold a tool on a snowy flight line during a never-ending night. He told of times when he was instructed to sit with his unit on a flight line, everyone wearing welding goggles, to watch an atomic bomb blast mushroom up in the tropical distance. And apparently, this exercise occurred more than once. What, I wonder, was the feeling of that radioactive wind blowing over these men and drying the pomade in their military haircuts; but then, what did they or anyone else know about it in those days? And since there were no horses on those isolated outposts and no dogs allowed on base, he learned the migratory habits of tasty crabs and he swam among sharks and giant clams and moray eels. And he told of even happier times on a now forgotten flight-training airbase at Stead, Nevada, happy because he could serve closer to family and home. And then finally the day came when my Dad was free and the Airman 1 st Class came home for good. His years of military service were from September 17, 1957 to May 28, 1962.

Then my Dad, like a type-cast character in a play, stepped from one type of service into another. Seamless somehow, he went from protecting and serving his country to protecting and serving his community. My Dad became a Police Officer of the Reno Police Department when Reno was but a small town on an important road in the West, before the Interstate Highway System was real or gravel streets were thought worthy of paving and when individual, extraordinary men owned the glitzy casinos, and not corporations. Even then, I also remember how our Dad always had a knack for bringing everything he loved along with him. For example, he was instrumental in developing the RPD's first K-9 unit and I believe he went out with City funds to buy the Department's first batch of dogs. I believe that he trained these dogs and the men that would handle them. I can't remember a time in my early years when I did not play and cohabit with police dogs - Blackie and Flash and others. I remember them all, even if I don't remember all their names. Then our Dad developed the Department's first horse mounted unit. You see what I mean here. Through his career he witnessed increasingly turbulent and violent times. He was in the forefront when political agitators invaded Reno like bees from California hives. And when these dangerous times calmed down, his family found that even his daily routines presented peril. There was a picture in the paper of him on his Harley Davidson motor, pinned under the wheels of a tractor-trailer. He lay in bed at home a long time recovering from that one. Then later, as a Lieutenant he led CNU (Consolidated Narcotics Unit) when it seemed the whole sad world would capitulate in suicide by overdose, or permanently impoverish itself in hopeless addiction. He earned the nickname 'Ramrod' during this time, descriptive I thought, of bashing in drug dealer doors. He also told me how his team took down underground meth labs in their uniforms and street shoes, without any protective clothing whatsoever - but then, what did they or anyone else know about it in those days? He lived an exciting career, but I remember how his stories from this period of his life were not as romantic, not as lovingly recalled. I remember how he warned me of a trap of perspective when he said, "You have to be careful when you see the worst of the worst every day, because that's your job... careful that you don't begin to think that the world's made like that. You have to remember that the misery you see is all really, just a very little part." To this day I try to remember that wise advice when times are bad for me. Our Dad's years of service with the City of Reno Police Department were September 16. 1962 to March 15, 1990. He retired as a Lieutenant.

Our Dad spent the rest of his life, during what I call the "assessment" period, lovingly doing whatsoever he wanted and as he liked. Because he liked his Country, he was a lifetime member of the NRA and a Nevada Delegate, one or more times, to the Republican National Convention. He liked his family and wanted them near. He liked his friends and continued to make new ones though he had many. He liked to help, so he contributed to charities and causes beyond counting. He liked to tour the Gold Wing through the mountains. He liked his Brothers of the Masonic Pyramid Lodge 43 for they were thinkers too and served. Never greedy, he liked the vibe of casinos where he won more than he lost in his little low-stake games. He liked old Reno and he liked to eat Basque sweetbreads and oxtails and tongue and also imbibe some Picon Punch with the locals. He liked to watch the Derby and the other races for the Triple Crown, hoping to see a freak of a horse like Secretariat run one more time. He liked to watch a ballgame with his son. He liked his horses. And he liked his dogs.

And because we children with great loving liked him back - we shall miss him and honor him in our memory every day.

Patience now father, and know your children will return your ashes between spring and summer to a little country cemetery near where you began your earthly journey. Your brother Charles and your sister Janice are preparing a place for you near the spot in the country where you were born, in the very country where the three of you ran and played and fought with each other as the Ezell kids. For those who would like to see it, our Dad's marker will be found at Bethel Cemetery, between Benton and West Frankfort in Southern Illinois, in an area known to the locals as Dog Prairie.

Rest in peace Dad. We will miss you.