Larry G. Taylor was born in Mangrum, Arkansas, the son of Cecil Taylor and Estelle Couch Taylor on June 11, 1934 and departed this life on April 2, 2020 at his home in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, at the age of 85 years.
He was united in marriage to Clara Ellen Vaughn on August 6, 1955 in Hernando, Mississippi.
Larry is survived by his wife, Clara Taylor; his daughter, Tasabah Taylor Malone and husband, John; one grandson, John Taylor Malone; other relatives; and countless friends.
He was preceded in death by his parents, Cecil and Estelle Taylor.
Larry was a Christian.
Larry graduated from Arkansas State University in Jonesboro with a degree in Chemistry and Biology. After teaching for a few years in Arkansas, he moved to Arizona to teach on the Navajo reservation. After teaching for some time, he opened a gas station on the reservation with help from one of the Navajos. With the success of the station, he opened other businesses on the reservation.
In 1968 Larry moved back home to Arkansas to raise a family. After moving back to Arkansas, he was involved in many businesses, most recently a campground.
He enjoyed attending auctions, fishing, running his campground, and especially spending time with his family. He was a good and humble man who touched many lives.
He will truly be missed by his family and all that knew him.
Graveside services for Larry G. Taylor will be held Tuesday, April 7, 2020 at 2:00 p.m. at Sturgeon Cemetery in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas with Brother Charles Morgan officiating.
Burial will be in Sturgeon Cemetery in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas with services under the direction of Carter Funeral Home, Inc. in Thayer, Missouri.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests you give something to someone who needs it. If doesn’t matter if it is your favorite charity, the homeless man on the corner, food to the mission or just something very nice for someone. It doesn’t have to cost anything. The family would love to hear what everyone did.
John Taylor Malone wrote this:
Dear Papa,
Boy you sure slipped away from us didn’t you? You were always so healthy, so strong, and so sharp that I thought we had at least another 20 years to laugh, hug, fish, and piddle around with your stuff. But now we won’t have the opportunity to do any of that. At least in this life. I feel robbed of the future with one of my best friends in the whole wide world. Your living room is where I learned to walk. Your lap is where I learned to drive. Your couch is where I learned to read. Your land is where I learned to hunt. Your creek is where I learned to fish. More importantly than that is what I learned from your heart. You taught me patience. You taught me to treat everyone like family. You taught me to “go with the flow.” You taught me that nothing is more important than family. You taught me the importance of home. You taught me it’s okay to cry. You taught me that not everything is so serious. You taught me to ALWAYS put others before yourself (in fact if you ever heard me say I thought a jacket or shirt you had on was cool, you’d literally take the shirt off your back and give it to me). Now you’re teaching me how to handle the loss of my best friend. This winter I felt called to spend some time with you. I woke up at 6:00 am and hopped in your truck. We spent the ENTIRE day together. That day you showed me off to literally ALL your friends and taught me about life, love, and your childhood. You were a man who spent your life traveling, but that day you kept reminding me how special home is. That’s the last day we spent together. I wish you could take your own advice and stay home with us. But I know you can’t. You can’t take me fishing. You can’t buck me off your back like a bull. You can’t dance in the living room. You can’t make me laugh with your excellently timed jokes. You can’t take me on trips to Arizona. You can’t tuck me into bed. You can’t hold me when I’m scared. And boy am I scared. This house feels empty without you. Im not sure what we will do, but we will be strong. For you. Thank you for making me a better man.
I love you, a bushel and a peck, and a hugggggg around the neck.
Sleep tight papa. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.
John Taylor Malone
