Russell John Berard

Russell John Berard (September 4, 1940 - January 26, 2026) lived a life that defied simple summary. Born in Des Moines, IA, raised everywhere, and finally at peace in Traverse City, MI, he left behind his birth and blended family that includes two daughters and a son - Jon Willow, Lucky, and Terry; seven grandchildren - Lena, Harrison, Kitty, Jeff, Jesse, Hailey, and Anthony; and four great-grandchildren - Hazel, Ava, Blake, and Quentin. His niece, Dawn, held a special place in his heart. His good dog Leo misses him; his good dog Audrey surely met him at the crossroads.

John was a person of exceptional intelligence and entrepreneurial energy. He also battled severe, untreated mental health conditions in an era when there was no shared social understanding of the challenges faced by those affected. His own spiritual seeking and the VA psychiatric team in Palo Alto, CA were able to finally set him on a path to healing when he was in his 60s, but much had already been lost, especially with family and personal relationships. Some he was able to heal; others were left to languish as regret and Parkinson's eroded his ability to fully participate in the world and the clock ran out.

One thing was consistent throughout his life: he made an impression wherever he went. After what could generously be termed a misspent youth, John eventually found his home in Monterey, CA, where he lived for almost 30 years. He was a charismatic man of many careers, despite leaving school after the 11th grade. He was a soldier, an indie magazine publisher, a real estate agent, a balloon festival concessionaire, a pool hall manager, an art dealer and authority on Haitian naive art, a survey geologist, a woodworker, and later in life a handy person (his term). When John left California in 2011 to live with his family in Wisconsin, he sold his fully equipped panel truck and all the tools in it to his assistant for $2,000 so he and his son could take over the business and grow one of their own. He never cashed the check.

John was always deeply rooted in a philosophy of personal autonomy enabled by unwavering practicality. He could fix anything and avoided buying things new because of the horrific waste involved. He believed true freedom was grounded in the ability to remain unshackled from the chains of materialism. He paid cash for everything but was proud of his one credit card and its high limit. He drove a Mazda 323 hatchback over 300,000 miles.

He was a man of many paradoxes. Despite his commitment to simplicity, he loved Armani suits and good watches but was mostly seen in his signature faded Levi's and white t-shirt. He and his friend Lou took disabled veterans ocean fishing twice a year, and he carried a clipboard in his car to register anyone to vote who would stand still long enough to fill out the paperwork. But he also left his third wife/domestic partner - who was unknown to his family until his death - by simply driving away from a friend's home where they were staying for the weekend and never coming back. He once stopped speaking to his oldest daughter for nine years over a misunderstood piece of paperwork. Later, after he got the help he needed and could finally see beyond himself, he was the first investor in her company and a constant source of practical advice and support for many years.

John's life path led him down some wild roads, with the stories to prove it. There was the time he almost accidentally sold an expensive piece of counterfeit art to a deeply offended Frank Sinatra in Las Vegas. The terrible winter he and his second wife, Kathy, almost froze to death on a homestead in the Iron Range but made a circle of dear friends in a shared quest to survive. A family favorite involves an uncle who allegedly had the keys to several safe deposit boxes that only John was supposed to receive, containing "millions." The uncle died in an unusual accident involving his car's parking brake without disclosing the keys' location, depriving John of his "fortune." He wasn't bitter; in fact, he humorously speculated he'd "dodged a bullet" by not taking possession of the mystery boxes that may or may not have actually existed.

John was complicated. And loved. He will be missed.