‘He was a collector of people; he loved people so much’

If the earth is spinning slower this week, if the pace of mankind seems to have dropped off a notch, there’s a very good reason. Gary Neeleman has left the planet.
After packing more into a single lifetime than was thought possible for a mere human, Gary passed away last week at the age of 90. Starting out as a cub reporter for United Press International in Brazil in 1958, he was in charge of all of Latin America and the Caribbean by the time he left the wire service in 1985 to spend another 17 years with the Los Angeles Times Syndicate. After that, at an age when most people retire, he launched his own consulting firm that he ran for another 20 years. You’d be hard pressed to find a newspaper or broadcast company anywhere in North or South America that didn’t know and respect Gary Neeleman.
On top of that, he found the time to write 17 books, most of them as co-author with Rose, his wife and ever-present companion; to participate in various volunteer service organizations, including the Partners of the Americas and as an LDS bishop; and to act as honorary Brazilian consul for the state of Utah from 2002 until the time of his passing.
But for all he did and accomplished, it was Gary’s love affair with people that is his legacy. As his son David says, “He was a collector of people; he loved people so much.”
I found this out in 1998 when Gary and Rose moved into the office next door to mine in the Deseret News building on First South — and he collected me.
No matter how busy he was, no matter how many papers he was juggling, he would always, and I mean always, make it a point to say hello and stop and talk as he was rushing past my door.
Thus began a friendship that, thanks to Gary and Rose, lasted the next quarter-century.
Gary was the kind of person who would say, “let’s do lunch” and mean it.
His interest in people was insatiable. Ask any of the “ink-stained wretches” he mentored in the newspaper business, or the multitude of Brazilian expats and visa workers he helped (for no pay) during his two-plus decades as Brazilian consul.
But it was for his family that Gary Neeleman reserved his most undivided attention. Pretty much without exception, any conversation with Gary included stories about Gary and Rose’s seven children and their 86 grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
As much as Gary had going on, and it was always a lot, he never forgot his family, never left them behind. I remember him and Rose telling me that when their kids were school-age they would spend summer vacation traveling the country in a van as Gary did his job visiting newspaper offices and TV stations. The idea was to keep the family intact and expose the children to as much of the world as humanly possible. During the school year, or when Gary’s trips took him out of the country, he would call home every night and talk to each child individually “in case they had something they needed to run by him,” remembered Rose.
That kind of upbringing resulted in adventurous, curious kids who felt confident and secure enough to go off in a variety of directions.
Gary talked about them constantly: the lawyer (John), the airline mogul (David), the resort manager (Julie), the doctor (Stephen), the supermom of quadruplets (Pam), the convenience store entrepreneur (Lisa), the Brazilian businessman (Mark).
When the grandkids started coming, it was the same story, new generation. Gary took them on his business trips, he and Rose attended their games, their recitals, their graduations, giving them the same kind of attention they’d given their parents. Gary talked about them constantly, too.
Nothing slowed Gary’s intense interest and connection to his posterity, not the loss of most of his eyesight due to a jogging accident and botched surgery when he was 70, not the stroke he suffered at 80, not the car accident that sent him and Rose to the hospital in early 2022, not the fall while taking out the garbage later that year that broke his hip and hastened his demise.
He was at a rehab center near his house in Sandy the day before he died, regaling the nurses about his famous quarterback grandsons (Zach Wilson in the NFL and Zach’s brother Isaac at the University of Utah). “He was always so nice to the nurses, and they were just enamored of him,” says David.
The following day, however, things went downhill fast and it became clear that the patriarch was nearing the end.
No sooner had the family grapevine delivered the news than the rehab center’s parking lot started to fill up. When Mark called David to tell him Dad was faltering, he cut short a meeting and raced to the scene, one of the first to arrive.
He describes an afternoon of “a steady stream of visitors, just nonstop.”
The kids, grandkids and great grandkids within driving distance arrived in person; those out of state tuned in via FaceTime. Hooked up with oxygen and morphine, Gary talked to them all, these people he knew like his own name. “He told them he loved them, and they told him they loved him,” says David. “When Julie showed up (after driving the length of the state from Orderville), he said, ‘so how are things at the ranch?’ He was alert and sharp until the last minute.”
“At one point, about 6 o’clock,” says David, “he looked over at me and said, ‘it’s been a helluva ride, son.’”
Stephen’s family was in Mexico. They sang “Peace in Christ” over the phone. Then everyone sang “Amazing Grace”, one of Gary’s favorites, and delivered a spirited rendition of the LDS standard “Army of Helaman.” Only their version is “Army of Neeleman.”
As the day turned to night, Gary had been able to say goodbye to virtually everyone in his family.
The last to arrive was David’s son Daniel, who raced down from Summit County. “I gotta come and see grandpa,” he said. He was holding his grandpa’s hand and Rose was holding the other when Gary passed.
“My dad had the ability to make everyone in the family feel special, kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, even those that married into the family,” says David — a sentiment that was eloquently summed up by Gary’s grandson Josh, the former BYU linebacker, who observed at his granddad’s passing, “What a bummer, we have all lost the only person on earth who thought we were perfect.”