Howard Wayne Sims passed away peacefully in Hope, Arkansas, leaving behind a legacy of love, laughter, music, and a deep appreciation for the outdoors. He will be remembered most for the joy he brought to others, his many talents, and the meaningful connections he made throughout his life. He was a devoted father, grandfather, brother, and friend. Howard was born to Barbara Joyce Stout Newton and Gerald Henry Sims, February 17, 1952, in Sheveport, LA.

Howard received his early education in White Hall, Arkansas, and later attended schools in Star City and Pine Bluff. He graduated from Watson Chapel High School in 1970 and continued his education at Pines Vo-Tech School in Pine Bluff, earning a certification in refrigeration.

His career began at Central Moloney in Pine Bluff, but he spent most of his working life with Arkla Gas, which later became CenterPoint Energy and then Summit Utilities. After retiring, Howard continued serving his state by working as an inspector for the Arkansas Department of Environmental Quality, a role that brought him and his wife, Norma, to Hope, Arkansas.

Howard was of the Presbyterian faith and spent over 20 years as a member of Bethany Missionary Baptist Church in White Hall. In his younger years, he was a talented athlete, playing football and running track for several area schools. His love for sports carried into his adult life through hunting, fishing, and racing dirt bikes in the Jefferson County rocket runs and turkey runs. He was a proud member of the Delight Hunting Club, where he enjoyed many seasons of friendship and deer hunting. Howard also competed in numerous bass fishing tournaments and was a longtime member of the White Hall Bass Club. His love for fishing continued throughout his life, particularly at Dierks Lake, Bois D'Arc Lake, and various local ponds.

Howard deeply loved his family and cherished time spent on the water. His daughters fondly remember being pulled on water tubes across Arkansas rivers and lakes, holding on tight as he sped across the open water. He passed on his love for the outdoors to his children and grandchildren, sharing countless summers at the lake and vacations to beaches in Florida and Alabama.

Music was a core part of Howard's life. Gifted and self-taught, he played guitar, drums, and keyboard by ear, filling his home and heart with the sounds of southern rock and country. Whether performing in the "City Limits Band" with family and friends or serving as a drummer for the worship band at First Presbyterian Church in Pine Bluff, music was one of his purest joys. His shop was always alive with melody, and he eagerly shared his talent with his children and grandchildren, often turning it into a family version of "Name That Tune."

Howard is survived by his loving wife, Norma, and his three daughters and their families. Daughter, Traci Sims Baugh (Clay) of Bryant, AR. Daughter, Stephanie Griffin of Heber Springs, AR. Daughter, Bobbie Caubble (Jeff), of Heber Springs, AR. Grandchildren:  Layton Charles (19), Laci DeAnna (18), Abigail Joyce (17), Leah Adelle (16), Ella Leigh (14), Lucille "Luci" Louise (13), Anabelle Joann (12), Lillian Pearl (12), Alexander "Alex" Howard (8), Lilah Marie (8). He is also survived by his sister, Cindy Newton Henderson, and her husband, Billy Henderson, of Rison, Arkansas. From Cindy, he had one niece (Lily Henderson) and one great niece (Zoey). Howard is also remembered with love by many more extended family members, close friends, and all those whose lives he touched.

Howard was preceded in death by his mother, Barbara Joyce Stout Newton; his father, Gerald Henry Sims; and his stepfather, Kenneth Newton.

A memorial service, with friends and family to celebrate the life of Howard Wayne, will be held at a later date.

Howard Wayne Sims was a kind, talented, and generous man who never met a stranger. His legacy of love, music, laughter, and outdoor adventure will live on in the hearts of all who knew him. He will be deeply missed until we meet him again.

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A Daughter's Tribute

Howard Wayne Sims passed away suddenly from natural causes, and it still does not feel real. Writing something like this is unimaginable, because you never want to — not for someone you love this much. He was one of the few people in the world I know who loved me deeply, trusted me completely, and shared so many of my days, memories, and moments.

Before I turned ten, my dad had already taught me more than some people learn in a lifetime: how to skin and gut a deer, how to clean and fillet a fish, how to ride a four-wheeler — even if that meant crashing into a fence and leaving it there. He taught me how to drive at deer camp and how to shoot a gun, not for sport, but because he wanted me to know how to protect myself. "You never know," he would say, referencing the roads of Jefferson County.

I always loved that my birthday was close to Father's Day. I would ask if we could just "do something outside together." I was just telling people at work how we used to stay up late watching Johnny Carson and Saturday Night Live — his laugh was specific, contagious, unforgettable. So many memories were made going to shop band practices with him — his "gas company band" — a group of guys who always had fun and always made music.

Some of my favorite memories were in his shop. From helping him melt and make old fish baits to performing "concerts" with my sisters — Traci on the keyboard, Bobbie playing guitar (we think), and me on drums. We were loud, chaotic, and laughing, and eventually he would just say, "OK y'all, that's enough, go inside." That shop was not just a place to work; it was a sacred space where he taught us what solitude, peace, and reflection meant. I called it "going to hide." He called it "going to the shop."

That peace — that quiet, intentional life — is how he lived, whether he was hunting, fishing, golfing, or just being present. We had just talked about it recently when I moved near the river. He said, "I figured you would do that. Now look at you, sounding a lot like me — but you have a lot more life to live before you go off alone like that!"

What hurts most is knowing he kept his illness to himself, calling it a stomach bug — to stay strong, to care for Norma, and continue without burdening anyone. That was his way: quiet strength, no complaints, just love.

Thankfully, my children and I saw him recently. We laughed, hugged, talked about how fast the kids are growing up, and made plans to go fishing and play golf this summer at Lake DeGray.

Now, he is reunited with his beautiful mother, stepfather, and other loved ones he missed so dearly. He leaves behind three daughters, ten grandchildren, an amazing sister and brother-in-law, a niece and great-niece, and a lifetime of friends from work, deer camp, fishing tournaments, and beyond. My children carry his family names, and his spirit lives on in us.

He is no longer in pain. I miss him more than words can say, but I find peace knowing he is finally resting — just as he lived — quietly, peacefully, and full of love.

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There are people who walk into your life and change everything without ever needing to say much. My dad was not loud, but his presence was thunderous. He was not boastful, but he taught me more than any book, school, or sermon ever could.

He was my call — on long drives to work in the early mornings, or in the still afternoons when the road stretched endlessly ahead. Those conversations were not just a habit; they hit home. He taught me everything from hunting to fishing, to shooting and cleaning guns — especially the muzzleloader, which he warned me would stink to high heaven. He was right. So, he was about how bad it would smell if you hit the wrong part of a deer while skinning it — lessons burned into my memory, half from the laughter, half from the experience.

He taught me how to drive a four-wheeler like it was second nature, even if I wrecked and left it. He gave me the gift of speed and freedom on a dirt bike, racing through the backyard and doing rocket runs down Bruce Trail. He never forgot to watch me race cars or four-wheelers because he said I needed to be careful and think about what I was doing. I know he did not want to see his little girl out with all the guys being dangerous. Those were not just moments — they were pieces of my childhood and through adulthood, all stitched together with joy and adrenaline.

But his greatest lessons were not about gear or grit. They were about life.

He taught me the beauty of solitude — the kind that does not feel like loneliness, but like peace. And I am so thankful for that. Lately, he kept telling me, "You're too young for that, maybe you should find you a friend or go be with your friends too." Haha! I told him that I am fine until the good Lord himself sends me my "friend," Daddy. "I have some time to enjoy some things I need to do by myself." He disagreed and would say to me, "I don't want you to be alone," and once I told him I was fine — not lonely, just alone — then he was always good.

He showed me how to live drama-free to avoid noise, because life is too short to waste on what does not matter. You could always go hunting, fishing, or play a round of golf instead — that was his way, and it is mine too. We used to laugh about how I had turned into him — how my tolerance for people.

Arrangements are under the care of Brazzel-Oakcrest Funeral Home of Hope.

Online condolences: www.brazzelfuneralhomes.com