Cindy Boyce
As we gather here today, I’m filled with a lifetime of memories—each one reflection of Bruce’s character, his wit, and the deep love he had for our family.
Our adventures began while backpacking on our honeymoon. We pitched a tent in the middle of nowhere, only to be jolted awake at 2 a.m. by a downpour. There we were—stumbling through the dark, packing up camp with soggy socks and weary smiles, climbing to higher ground. That was Bruce: steady in the storm.
And then there was the time an armed robber demanded he open the hotel safe. Bruce, without missing a beat, replied in his southern drawl, “Beau, I’ll help you carry it out, but I can’t open it.” He was unflappable.
Some of my most cherished memories are the simplest ones: evenings by the campfire, playing combat spoons and laughing like loons; rewatching Bringing Up Baby until we could quote every line; our many trips to Skyline Drive; beach days where he played in the surf with the kids while I paced the shoreline, desperately counting heads. He was the anchor that kept me grounded.
Bruce was a character. Whether he was skydiving with a chicken—yes, really—or orchestrating one of his legendary childhood adventures, he had an ability to turn the ordinary into the unforgettable.
Boredom was his sworn enemy, and Sunday school often took the hit. He once escaped through a window mid-lesson, triggering a full-blown police search.
His wit was razor sharp and occasionally got him in trouble—like the time he visited a glass factory and, when asked what he saw, replied flatly, “Glass.” He didn’t remember much after the look his father gave him, other than perhaps learning when not to joke.
But beneath the laughter and the antics was a heart that ran deep—fiercely loyal, endlessly curious, and filled with love.
My mother adored Bruce. When she broke her hip, he showed up every single day—not with grand gestures, just his faithful presence. That was Bruce’s way.
People often asked the secret to our 50-year marriage. Honestly? It was Bruce. He loved in a thousand quiet ways—surprise flowers for no reason, encouragement for every wild dream I chased, spontaneous unplugged weekends away. His humor softened life’s rough edges. His love was constant, deep, and unconditional.
Even as his memories began to fade, he never forgot our love. That love burned bright in him until the very end.
So, while my heart aches with his absence, I find comfort in being the one left behind—because it means he doesn’t have to carry the weight of missing me.
Bruce was my anchor. My laughter on a rainy trail.
And though he’s no longer beside me, I will carry his love with me—for all the days to come.
His story doesn’t end here. It lives on in all of us. We’ll carry his story with us—with gratitude, with love, and with hearts wide open.