Tribute to a bridge player and word maker-upper

On 2/27/2008

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Steve, next to his wife Billie and her sister Barbara, 2006

Provided by: Linda Lidov

Contributed by: Linda Lidov on 3/4/2008

My father, Steven Mason Turner, passed away on February 27. He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in December 2006 and fought the painful disease with great courage. A man of unrelenting positive attitude and a good spirit, I know I heard him chuckle under his breath a couple of times as I recalled some fun memories in his last days.

Born in Bakersfield, California on January 12, 1939, my dad had just turned 69 when he passed. His accounting business brought our family to Greeley in 1974. He was a public accountant with Small Business Solutions, and many clients were loyal for three decades. As a loving father, husband, and friend, my dad was known for his gentle nature, infinite patience, and good humor.

A lover of math problems, numbers and sequences, my dad was the quintessential bridge player. He dedicated his life to bridge, which became a life force after he learned to play it in college at the University of Nevada in Reno. He gained a reputation for his excellent skills and knowledge of the game. So masterful was he that, in his final games only a few weeks ago, he managed to take first place overall - even after falling asleep at the bridge table. His friends joke about that with pride.

In 2005, my dad became a certified cruise ship bridge director, an opportunity that brought out his good-natured teaching skills and enabled him to share his energy and passion with others. It also opened up a world of traveling, taking him and his wife Billie to exotic locations ranging from the Baltic Sea to Alaska.

He also loved to go lake fishing with friends. I myself was never fond of fishing, but I have tender memories of going camping with him and my brother. Being an accountant, he was always extremely precise and organized - he carefully planned his camping trips using a list of tools and supplies as a packing guide. That's why it was a shocker when, on more than one occasion, he failed to pack the tent poles. The first time he did it, I had brought a friend from France along, whom I was trying to impress. To my horror, we ended up sleeping in the car to shield ourselves from rain. The second time he left the tent poles behind, several years later, Dad and I simply laid our tents out flat on the grass and slept under the stars. It was a perfect night.

Beyond an affection for numbers, his slightly zany side was revealed when it came to words. Odd, made-up words were his specialty. He was always concocting something new, but there were a few everyday words that I remember him using for decades. Nicknames were big: My brother was Popo-Head; I was Schnoppy (when I wasn't Linny). My stepmother, whom we call BJ, was Borjicles. My mother, Millicent, became Cilliment. His favorite monikers for snacks included numbulas for dry, crumbly treats; and schlieschulas (that's the phonetic spelling) for wet or soggy desserts. A standard greeting that at least one of my childhood friends still remembers was "oonga boonga."

Most recently my dad used his fondness for made-up words in a column he wrote for a quarterly bridge association newsletter. His character, the Woeful Wombie, had a teammate, a "gorpulus" who was eager to learn new bridge strategies and techniques. Each column contained a lesson for readers who, at least, understood the language of bridge.

During my dad's last two weeks of life, I finally had the pleasure of meeting many of his longtime buddies, who spent generous amounts of time visiting him in Hospice. They are primarily bridge players. I had heard their names many times during the course of 30+ years, and yet I always felt they were from another dimension, a life that was separate from the one I was a part of. Now that I have actually met my dad's closest friends, I have caught a glimpse of something monumentally important to him. I have a better understanding of him and a community I didn't realize existed. It's strange how, under the most devastating of circumstances, the everyday-ness of someone's life can surface in meaningful ways.

I also met a very gracious client of his, a lovely woman named Echo, who runs a Japanese restaurant in Greeley. She had been a client for almost 20 years. She and I visited several times those last two weeks - I dined at her restaurant, she spoon-fed him in Hospice - and on our very first meeting she held me as tightly as she would a family member or old friend. As my husband put it, she is a person with a good soul. I was honored to meet her.

My dad died with my husband and me by his side. We felt privileged to be with him at the moment of his death. I personally am grateful to the Hospice staff who took care of him starting on Valentine's Day.

My dad's mother, Dorothea Hentges, and his stepfather of 45 years, Bill Hentges, of Garden Grove, California, passed away in January and February 2005. My dad's father, Earl Turner of Las Vegas, Nevada, passed away in 1977.

He is survived by his wife of 24 years, Billie Turner of Greeley; his sister Patty Ruggles and her husband Robert of Silsbee, Texas; his son Jim Turner of Denver; his daughter (me) Linda Lidov, my husband Philip, and our sons Toby and Jonah of Denver; his stepson Dr. Nick Jamison, his wife Jen, and their son Nico of Greeley; and his former wife, my mother, Millicent Turner of Denver.

He will be sorely missed by all who knew him.