Timothy Donice Blackwell II—“Bo” to absolutely everyone—lived his life the way some folks wish they could: wide open, full throttle, and with a heart big enough to carry half the parish in it. When he passed away on June 7, 2026, the world didn’t just lose a man; it lost a presence. The kind of presence you heard before you saw and felt long after he walked out of the room.

Bo came into the world on March 23, 1978, born to Tim and Rosanne Blackwell, and from the very beginning he was wrapped in the kind of family that teaches you who you are. He grew up learning the value of hard work, the importance of loyalty, and the simple truth that friendliness can take you farther than anything else. Those lessons didn’t just shape him—they became the compass he lived by.

If you ever heard Bo tell a story, you remember it. He had a way of spinning a tale that made you feel like you were right there beside him, even if the details wandered into the territory of “maybe true, maybe not.” He could make a whole room laugh with a joke, a memory, or one of his infamous practical jokes—because even when you were the target, you couldn’t help but laugh. He never met a stranger, and he never let anyone keep their given name for long; if Bo liked you, you got a nickname, and if he loved you, you probably had three.

He was a third‑generation nurseryman, proud of the dirt under his nails and the heritage behind it. Work didn’t scare him. Sweat didn’t bother him. And shirts? Well, those were optional. If you needed help, he was already halfway to the truck before you finished asking.

Bo loved the outdoors like it was part of his DNA. Hunting, fishing, collecting arrowheads—those weren’t hobbies, they were chapters in the story of his life. Some of his hunting tales sounded like they belonged in a book of tall tales, but with Bo, there was always just enough truth to keep you guessing. In his younger years, he rode horses and team roped, and no matter what he was doing, if a song came on the radio, he was singing along. He loved a good time, a good joke, and good people—and he found all three everywhere he went.

But for all the things Bo loved, nothing came close to the love he had for his children, Connelly and Blaise. They were his pride, his joy, and the best parts of his heart walking around in the world. He adored his family, and they adored him right back. He cherished his nephew and niece, Case and Landry Putnam, who though he’d never say they “hung the moon,” he treated them like they did. His sister, Beth, was his lifelong partner in mischief and mock‑arguments, the kind of sibling bond built on equal parts teasing and unshakeable love.

Bo was the grandson of the late H.D. and Peggy Blackwell of Folsom; the late Bernadine Antony Douglas of Madisonville; and the late Ruil Douglas Sr. of Ponchatoula. He was preceded in death by his uncles Speedy Douglas, Michael Douglas, David Douglas, John Douglas, and Richard Douglas.

He leaves behind his parents, Tim and Rosanne Blackwell; his children, Connelly and Blaise Blackwell; his sister and brother‑in‑law, Beth and Aaron Putnam; his nephew and niece, Case and Landry Putnam; and a wide circle of aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who felt more like family.

Bo will be deeply missed by all who knew him. And in true Bo fashion, his life will be celebrated the way he lived it—big, loud, full of love—at a later date.