July 1, 1957- September 9, 2026
Candace G. Greene, daughter of Betty and Eugene Greene of San Carlos, California, was a longtime Reno resident, businesswoman, journalist, publisher, community advocate, and, above all else, to those lucky enough to truly know her, an information broker extraordinaire.
Anyone close to Candy knew how deeply she cherished her mother, Betty. They shared a special mother daughter bond filled with sass, silliness, and laughter. Friends often heard Candy say, “Oh well, you know how Mom is.” She missed her mother deeply after her passing, and we find comfort in knowing that Candy and Betty are together again, side by side.
Candy spent much of her professional life in Reno, beginning with more than a decade at Prudential Financial before bringing her talent for relationships, sales, and getting things done to the Reno Gazette Journal. As a Real Estate Account Manager, she became a familiar and well-respected face in the Reno business community and built lasting relationships with clients, colleagues, and readers. The RGJ was a natural fit for Candy. It gave her a place to connect people, tell stories, and, as she would later prove time and again, make sure the right people knew the right things.
But Candy was never really someone who was content to have just one thing going on. There was always another project, another idea, another person she wanted to help, another woman she wanted to support, and another story she wanted to tell, even if that meant making an enemy along the way.
Her professional life eventually expanded into media, entertainment, radio, publishing, politics, and community advocacy. She was involved with the Reno Tahoe International Film Festival, serving as its Board Chairman, and was part of Reno Art Works. She became a co-host of Chick Chat Talk Radio on Renegade Radio 101.3 and was involved with To Be Announced in Reno. Candy was the mastermind behind Picon Press, and then there was Senior ResQ.
Candy became the editor of Senior ResQ Magazine and played an important role in growing Senior ResQ and its mission of helping local seniors. She was not content to simply put a magazine together. She used it as another way to connect people, tell stories, highlight local history, food, wine, entertainment, and the people who made the community what it was. She organized events, cooking classes, Happy Hour Bingo, and countless opportunities for seniors to get together, laugh, eat, talk, and feel connected. There were even cooking classes that were recently commandeered by certain chefs before her ashes had barely made it home. Candy would have noticed. Candy would have had something to say. And knowing Candy, she would have made damn sure they heard it.
That was Candy. She was always connecting people, always making something happen, and always finding a way to turn an idea into an event, an event into a story, and a story into something people would remember. And then there was her writing.
If you read Candy's work, you could hear her personality on the page. Some would even say people became obsessed with proving it was her work. She had a voice. Not a carefully polished, committee approved, everyone will be comfortable with this kind of voice. Candy's voice.
Funny. Direct. Sassy. Curious. A little mischievous. And occasionally just the right amount of dangerous.
She was never afraid to have an opinion. In fact, she seemed to consider having an opinion and sharing it part of her civic duty. Candy asked questions. She pushed. She investigated. She challenged. And if something smelled like bullshit, Candy had an almost supernatural ability to find it. She was an information broker extraordinaire because she knew people, she knew stories, she knew who knew what, and she somehow always seemed to know something you did not. But for all of her professional accomplishments, publications, boards, clubs, businesses, radio shows, and community projects, those who knew her best will probably remember something much simpler.
She was a hell of a friend.
Candy did not do casual friendship particularly well. If you were her friend, you were her person. You were in the cone of silence, and being one of Candy's people meant something. She showed up. She called. She listened. She gave advice whether you asked for it or not. She could make you laugh when you desperately needed it, tell you the truth when nobody else would, and remind you that you were stronger than you thought you were. She was stubborn, blunt, fiercely loyal, and occasionally terrifying when someone she loved was threatened. But underneath all of it was an enormous heart.
When things got ugly, Candy did not disappear. She moved closer. She did not just tell you she had your back. She proved it. She would stand beside you, fight beside you, and, if necessary, go to war for you. Candy loved hard, protected her people fearlessly, and if you were lucky enough to call her a friend, you knew there was very little she would not do for you.
That loyalty came with a warning.
Candy had no patience for bullies, phonies, hypocrites, or anyone who thought they could take advantage of someone she cared about. She was particularly talented at making people regret underestimating her. She was ruthless when she needed to be.
There is a difference.
Candy could forgive a lot, but she was not stupid. And if she decided you had crossed a line, well, congratulations!
You just become Candy's next project.
She had a way of looking at an impossible situation and somehow deciding that the only reasonable response was to go directly at it. She could turn a disagreement into a campaign, a problem into a mission, a bad idea into a very long conversation, and a person who had underestimated her into someone who was suddenly having a very, very bad day.
Candy was funny, too. Really funny. Not always intentionally. Sometimes especially not intentionally. She could make an ordinary afternoon feel like an event. She could turn a conversation into a story and a story into something you would still be laughing about years later.
She had sass. She had pizzazz. She had nerve. She had opinions. And she had absolutely no interest in pretending otherwise.
She was not everyone's cup of tea. And honestly, she did not want to be. Candy was never a cup of tea to begin with. She was a martini. Strong, unapologetic, a little dirty, and definitely not for everyone. She was meant to be poured straight, preferably with a little attitude, an olive, and absolutely no apologies.
She lived loudly. She loved loudly. She fought loudly. She cared loudly. And she left a mark.
And she looked the part. Those big glasses were unmistakably Candy, framing a face that could go from amused to suspicious to ready for battle in a heartbeat. Her lipstick was never an afterthought. It was part of the presentation, part of the armor, and sometimes part of the warning. Add the jewelry, the furs, and that unmistakable flair, and Candy could walk into a room before saying a word and make sure everyone knew she had arrived.
For the people who loved her, her absence will be enormous. They will miss the phone calls, the laughter, the stories, the advice, the arguments, the ridiculous conversations, and the unexpected acts of kindness. They will miss the feeling that if something went wrong, there was at least one person they could call who would not panic, would not sugarcoat it, and would probably have a plan before they finished explaining the problem.
They will miss knowing that Candy was in their corner. And they will miss knowing that if someone crossed them, Candy was probably already three steps ahead and preparing the paperwork. Because that was Candy.
A devoted daughter,
And, depending on which side of her you happened to be standing on, either your greatest ally or your absolute worst nightmare.
She was not perfect. Thank God. Perfect people are boring. Candy was complicated and hilarious and stubborn and generous and loud and loving and occasionally completely impossible. She was human. She was real. And she was unforgettable.
So, when you think of Candy, do not think only of the end. Think of the woman who spent her life making things happen, building relationships, telling stories, championing seniors, supporting her community, creating opportunities, and making sure the people she loved knew they were loved. Think of the woman who walked into rooms full of men and outworked, outsmarted, outmaneuvered, and outshined them all. Think of the woman who could walk into a room and change the temperature. Then raise a martini, a Sauvignon Blanc (with ice), or your bubbles.
Raise it high.
Raise it for Candy.
For the woman who loved deeply, fought relentlessly, laughed loudly, and never backed down from a fight she believed was worth fighting.
And remember this: When Candy said she was going to destroy you, she was going to destroy you.
She won. Every damn time.
Rest easy, Candy. We will miss the hell out of you. But we will never forget you.
And now, to everyone else wondering what comes next, perhaps it is time to ask yourself one very simple question:
Who are you going to blame now?
Because Candace Gail Greene is not here anymore to take the call, fix the problem, expose the bullshit, or save you from the consequences of your own spectacularly bad decisions.
So good luck. You’re on your own now. There is no Candy to call when you’ve fucked it up, no Candy to tell you what you don’t want to hear, no Candy to swoop in and clean up the mess you made, or to laugh as you keep making a fool of yourself.
But fear not. Picon Press will still be here.
The stories will be told. The receipts will remain. The whistleblowers will still be protected, or their stories passed off to other publications, and the skeletons will still come out of the closet.
Candy may be gone. The truth, unfortunately for some of you, is not.
A Celebration of Life will be held on Thursday, October 29, 2026, at 5:00 p.m. at the Atlantis Steakhouse. Friends, family, colleagues, and members of the Picon community are invited to come together to celebrate Candy, share stories, raise a glass, and remember the woman behind the words, the wit, and the unapologetic voice that made her so unforgettable.
