Discussion in 'General Gun Discussions' started by Johnny Guest, May 28, 2011.
Condolences to his love ones, they were lucky to have him.
Rest in peace, Mr. Camp.
RIP Mr. C.
A huge loss to the shooting world
As many have said, he came across, first and foremost, as a gentleman eager to share his knowledge and wisdom gained from a lifetime of learning!
I bought several BHPs as a result of his reasoned arguments in their favor!
Thanks, Mr. Camp, for your contributions to this community and nation!
Condolences to the Camp family.
I never met him in person, but felt like I knew him through his writings and the messages and e-mails we exchanged.
I always listened to what he had to say because he always knew what he was talking about. He was always helpful and polite and willing to go the extra step to help someone out.
My condolences to his family and friends.
To me, he typifies the best that the shooting sports community (and after reading his bio. I'll add America) has to offer.
Saying a prayer for his family.
Rest in peace Mr. Camp. Thank you for all you have done.
I am indebted to him for what he has meant to me as a gun enthusiast. May he rest in peace and may his family be comforted by the outpouring of sincere praise from those who have responded to the news of his death.
It is with gratitude and high esteem that I sadly say farewell to him.
Mr. Camps thanks for sharing with us your knowledge.
It makes me sad even though I didn't know him personally.
Mod Edit: Story link repaired.
Donna Fielder: Stories of Camp help ease the pain
12:17 AM CDT on Sunday, June 5, 2011
He called me “the harpy of the media.” I was never sure what he meant by that, but I was positive that he meant it in the nicest possible way.
Many years ago, Denton police Sgt. Steve Camp befriended a reporter and trusted her. And by doing so, he signaled to all those who respected and trusted him that she must be OK.
It was back in the old days of the police department, when a recalcitrant dispatcher didn’t want to hand over an activity sheet for me to look at. “If Donna says it’s public record, then it’s public record,” the sergeant told her. “Now give her the clipboard.”
“Steve Camp was my friend.” I heard those words a lot last week and everyone who said them was proud. He was a man who commanded respect just by living an honest, upright life. Last week, at age 59, he unexpectedly left that life — his adored wife, Sandy, and his friends to somehow struggle through without him.
There was shock and disbelief. There was grief. But everywhere his friends gathered, the “Camp” stories began.
No more serious man would you ever meet if you were the complainant or, heaven help you, the suspect he was focusing on at the time. He was tough and smart and he didn’t put up with much from the bad guys. He was unit leader of the tactical team, and he was an expert with weapons. He wrote books about guns and self-defense after he retired from the department a few years ago. He was never without a gun of one sort or another. He relied on the belief that the best defense was a Browning Hi Power.
He wasn’t afraid of anything, except, well, spiders and snakes. Finding rubber snakes in unexpected places was pretty standard for Steve, but the person who scared him paid in kind later. Jeff Wawro remembers a defensive driving course when his police sergeant at the time was threading a squad car through a line of cones he was supposed to avoid. Jeff tossed a rubber spider though the open car window. The spider bounced off Steve’s head, danced on the steering wheel and landed in Steve’s lap. The car did a 360-degree spin, knocking down every cone. Jeff started running even before the door burst open and his maddened supervisor leapt out after him.
For a while I met each morning to read reports at the police department with Lt. Loyd Burns. Most mornings he would check his voicemail and share one message with me. It was a duet, sung by the two deep-night sergeants. Bill Knight and Steve Camp serenaded him on their way off shift.
Steve and his friends Art Behrens and John Lassiter taught the first concealed-carry license class in Denton County, and I was a member of that class. Steve was beside me when I qualified at the range. My aim was good, but my fingers weren’t strong enough for quickly reloading a magazine. Somehow, every time I needed a fresh clip, one was there waiting for me.
Steve invited me to range get-togethers with some of the best shooters in the police department. Because Steve thought I was all right, they let me fire their specialized weapons. He introduced me to his friend Ray Meckel, who allowed me to shoot some great firearms, including a Tommy gun.
They let me in on some of their jokes. I learned about Pigbert, the 250-pound concrete pig-deer hybrid they all delighted in leaving in some hapless friend’s front yard until they paid a ransom to have him removed.
Pigbert showed up in my yard one Christmas morning, sporting a red nose and leading my flock of pink flamingos pulling a sleigh. But all I had to do to send Pigbert scampering out of my yard was threaten to paint him hot pink. Pink was not considered a manly color by Pigbert’s owners.
They told “Camp” stories at his funeral Wednesday. His lifelong friend Russell Lewis described his lack of a “tidy” gene. His good friend Paul Abbott held up well while he told his “Camp” stories, but his voice broke on his last words. “Goodbye Stevie,” he said.
Former dispatcher Ida Bonaparte spun a fantasy about Steve reaching the Pearly Gates. St. Peter went to God to tell him that Sgt. Camp had arrived. God allowed that he had been expecting him. He was on the list. Just let him in, God told St. Peter.
“You don’t understand,” the angel replied. “He says if he can’t bring his gun in, he’s not coming.”
Whether we knew him or not, we all suffered a loss last week with the death of a fine lifelong public servant. Steve Camp was a man’s man. He was a cop’s cop. He was a good friend. I’m proud that he was my friend.
DONNA FIELDER can be reached at 940-566-6885. Her e-mail address is [email protected].
Sheriff Benny posted the above found in the local paper.
Separate names with a comma.