There’s an obituary for David Bell in this paper, in a section aptly named “Departures” because the word obituary is from Medieval Latin obituarius, meaning “pertaining to death,” which is from Latin obitus, meaning “departure, a going to meet, encounter.”
Obituaries are usually submitted to newspapers by others, and we don’t normally expound on the departed mentioned in them, but David Bell was one of ours – those oddball people who stick their noses and lenses into the lives of others and show the rest of the world in newsprint and pictures what’s happening out there beyond their armchairs.
I first met David while working for Carroll County Newspapers. Over the years, as I migrated through that network of newspapers to the Times-Echo and the Lovely County Citizen and finally stepped away to join the Eureka Springs Independent, I habitually looked for David’s camera-bag-laden figure in the crowd at public events, always assured of a friendly greeting and a measure of colleague conviviality.
That’s who David really was – a no-demands, true friend who loved people and never met a stranger. A shining soul with an open door.
It was only in the last three years or so that I really began to know David. He was still publishing his Cruise the Ozarks motorcycle magazine and would ask me to proofread from time to time. It was then I learned how deeply he loved riding, how much he appreciated the bank of a curve, the feeling of freedom cruising under a canopy of trees on a road snaking up and down through terrain that demanded attention. He was all about the ride and enjoyed every minute he was on a bike.
We’d meet at what is now the Hometown Cafe on the Berryville Square for coffee, ostensibly to talk about the magazine, which is when I learned about what his family calls “Bell time,” (a condition due to being a great procrastinator who is easily distracted), also known as being chronically late.
We actually shared that attribute, so it was no biggie when a meeting time was missed, and a rushed phone call on either end was made saying “I’ll be there in five minutes” and we would both show up at the same time in twenty or thirty. It was then I was prompted to give him a desk plaque with three little words that described a certain work ethos we seemed to share: “Deadlines amuse me.”
And the man was incredibly bossy. He’d tell you where to sit, where to put your coffee cup, how to place eyeglasses on the table correctly, and so on. I found it exasperating until my first visit to his cabin when I looked up and saw “Boss’s Cabin” painted on the wall above the living room. Then I got it.
His family called him Boss; he was Grandboss to the grandkids, and just Bossy to little Eliza. It was clearly a matter of love. David wasn’t imposing some iron will, he was just taking care of everyone, as was his nature.
David had been diagnosed with cancer in 2024 and began treatment on Sept. 30 that year. He was doing fairly well and seemed hopeful. We had several conversations in which he said he was at peace either way things worked out. He relished spending more time with his family but would be just as happy to be reunited with his wife Mary Ann and be in the presence of the Jesus he loved.
Late in 2025 his condition was deemed inoperable. He was not doing well and was sent to hospice at home. David was unable to walk on his own, barely able to stand, and was losing his voice. It seemed like his ride through life was over, but on Sept. 30 his cancer meds were stopped… and he slowly began to get better!
David Bell never showed up at the Pearly Gates when originally expected, which makes him the only person I know who actually proved one could be late for their own funeral.
By December, he was back in the pulpit leading hymns at his church, and before Spring was driving again, riding his motorcycle and was even back at work on the new issue of Cruise the Ozarks. He savored every minute and seemed to truly enjoy whatever the day held.
But deadlines can’t be extended forever. Our bodies have their own timetable, and on March 26 David had a heart attack and damage from which he could not truly recover. David’s three children, Robert, John and Emily, honoring their father’s openness and kindness, invited anyone who wished to come and say goodbye at the hospital to do so. He had been given almost another year to show us how to appreciate life, and one another. And he did.
On Easter Monday, David went to his true home.
CD White