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John Stovall
The Stovalls and the DeGraafs grew up across Catalan Blvd together. Their three boys were about the same age and their girl was the youngest as was ours. Cleve and I explored what were then the woods of Snell Isle along Rafael Blvd and around the golf course. We built forts, lined up firecrackers for the cars that ventured down that road, swam in the streets after rain flooded the neighborhood and pedaled out to Weedons Island in search of snakes and Indian mounds. My only fight was with Cleve, one we each were pretty sure that we won. I remember Cleve losing a joint of one of his fingers in his push lawnmower and rushing to the hospital. Never got a good explanation of how he managed that. And in high school, playing football, they couldn’t find a helmet to properly fit down over his generously sized head which was pretty funny to us until he got smacked in the forehead, losing track of how many fingers were held up in front of him.
Cleve was, indeed, a kind person with a hearty laugh and an expressive face to match. When he related a funny story, his eyebrows careened up to his hairline and the more he spoke, the more he tumbled over his words until he just laughed and laughed.
He spent a lot of time out west in various places and adventures, ending up in Las Vegas for a period of time. I seem to remember that he was in Montana for a time. And then he came home to St. Petersburg.
I know that he had had problems with his health over the years.
A kind soul. May he surely rest in peace.
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