Willis, TX - John E. Bock, M.D., 79, a neurologist by training and a reluctant romantic of the pasture at heart, died at his home in Willis, Texas, surrounded by his family. The cause was complications from a stroke.

A physician who spent more than three decades diagnosing neurological conditions and caring for patients, Dr. Bock held a lifelong affection for the soil. On a modest 80-acre patch of land outside Conroe, he found his true calling—not in white coats and waiting rooms, but in green fields and good grass.

Born in Huntsville, Texas, the eldest of five children, and the son of a career military man, Dad was raised in a tight-knit family that remained grounded despite the demands of military life. That strong foundation shaped his desire to create a lasting home of his own. He gave his four children deep roots in East Texas soil—nurturing the same sense of stability he had known growing up.

He first enrolled at Princeton University but didn't quite make it through the first time—just as the Vietnam draft was underway. He joined the Army and served as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam with the 2nd Battalion, 20th Artillery of the 1st Cavalry Division—better known as "Blue Max." After the war, he returned to finish his degree, saying that "Princeton didn't like to admit they'd made a mistake." He graduated and went on to earn his medical degree from Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons. He later practiced neurology in Conroe and Huntsville, where patients came not just for his medical expertise but for his unvarnished wisdom and steady calm.

He read history, poetry, and dense nonfiction, always preferring substance over spectacle. He had a gift for explaining complex ideas in simple, accessible terms and took real pleasure in sharing what he knew. He could carry a conversation with anyone, no matter the subject or setting. Curious and attentive, he was never in a hurry to impress.

At home, he built things from the ground up. He didn't just bake bread—he built a wood-fired brick oven, ground his own grains, and developed recipes from scratch using whey from his dairy. He didn't just homebrew beer—he sourced ingredients, tracked fermentation with precision, and took quiet pride in the results. Creating from raw materials gave him deep satisfaction.

He built wagons and chicken coops, managed sheep, cows, pigs, and children with equal parts logic and care. His bread recipe was as much ritual as recipe, and every step reflected his joy in doing things the hard, right, satisfying way.

Retirement brought no slowing down. He built a raw milk dairy, Goodgrass Farm, and devoted himself to cultivating legumes and native grasses, experimenting like a scientist, working like a ranch hand, and reflecting like a poet. He was happiest with his boots in the pasture and a cow on the horizon. Farming was not a hobby, but devotion.

He was married to Camille for 47 years in a partnership marked by friendship, trust, and shared purpose. They were best friends, co-workers, and co-conspirators, building a life that spanned the exam rooms of his medical practice, the pastures of their dairy, and the warmth of a home filled with love. Camille managed his medical office and later worked alongside him on the farm. They supported each other through every season. Together they raised four children - Courtney, Gretchen, David and Rachel - who carry forward his legacy of hard work, curiosity, and the occasional impulse to take up beekeeping.

To work full-time in medicine and run a functioning farm was, by any measure, an act of both endurance and joy. He did it without complaint and often with a big, booming laugh.

A celebration of his life will be held on Wednesday, July 16, from 4 to 6 p.m. at Goodgrass Farm, Dairy and Creamery, the place he loved most. Friends, family, and fellow grass enthusiasts are invited to raise a glass in his memory.

He lived deliberately. He thought deeply. He mended fences in every sense of the word. And in the end, he left behind not just children and grandchildren, but a legacy grown green and lasting under a Texas sun.

In lieu of flowers, please consider making a donation to your local library in his honor—he believed deeply in the power of books and the value of quiet knowledge.