Advertisement He told stories from the packing house, from the Marine Corps, from smoky little bars where hard-handed men settled affairs with bare knuckles or a handshake. Stories of heroes and cowards; cheats, drunkards and men of a decent sort coping with the odd and unexpected that taken all together passes for ordinary, day-to-day life.
But always stories of family and friends, or friends of friends or of enemies and acquaintances who with time and changing circumstances became friends even, in the case of some once-skeptical in-laws, family.
And it seemed the more rollicking the tale, the more likely the last line worked out to be, “ but then, he’s dead now.” It seemed at the time to be a foolproof means to dodge the fact checker, but then, there in my mid-20s, I didn’t know many dead people to tell tales about.
But now, just about eight years older than Bill was when he shared his first story with me, more and more of my own stories could end with “ but then, he’s dead now.”
This is one of them.
To be a great storyteller is to be a great talker, and it took one hell of a talker to hold his own with Bill Rickoff.
I was on the inventory when he and Stella bought the pizza joint on the corner of Huff and Mark and, much to my surprise, I was there with the ovens, dough mixer and stainless steel shelving when they put it on the market over a dozen years later. It’s no great exaggeration to say I spent a sizable portion of that time shooting the bull with Bill.
Even if it were an exaggeration, what would it matter? After a few beers and when wasn’t Bill up for “just one more and then I’ve got to get goin’ ” a little stretching improves even the best story.
And while Bill would never admit to it, over the years I heard many a tale grow not just a little bit and I knew they were growing because I’d been there when the story got its start.
But no matter how the story grew, at the heart of it he was always telling the truth, and a gentle truth, for the most part. That’s probably why so many people could listen for so many years. I think Bill never got so wrapped up in a tale that he forgot he was talking about friends . with friends. He’d bring tears of howling laughter with his telling of how a fellow singed his nose hairs when he mistook a book of matches for a cigarette after downing more than he could hold, but before the rest regained their breath they also knew what that fellow had done for friends and family in all the days and years that bracketed that momentary mishap. Which was, in its way, a great comfort. If and when the story came to be about us, Bill, we figured, had a better than even chance of getting most of it right.
And what he didn’t well, it made for a good story.
In the end, that may be the best we can hope for to leave a good story and to have a friend who can tell it well. In time, all the life we have on this earth will be in the stories folks tell about us if we’re lucky, those folks will have been our friends.
I guess a guy could say that Bill’s gone to join some old friends old friends he introduced to newer friends with the caveat “but he’s dead now.” It’s left to us to keep their memories alive on this earth, to tell and retell the stories, adding a little bit every time. Because as long as someone is telling their stories, Bill’s stories, your stories or mine, the last line can’t really be “he’s dead now.” For that moment at least, we’re all and to each other very much alive.
Contact Jerome Christenson at (507) 453-3500 or jchristenson@winonadailynews.com. For Jerome’s comments on this, that and something else check out “Up on the wrong side of the bed” at www.rivervalleyblogs.com/jerome/ or go to www.winonadailynews.com.
