Well, if you are reading this, I am dead, not by choice, my body just put in its last overtime hours and called it quits. Life has been an interesting ride and I will miss it, and maybe some of you will miss me, too.
I was born in Paris in 1942 — Texas, that is. I had good parents, William and Mary. Dad was a doctor who died during his Navy service in Korea when I was 7. Mom was a public health nurse, who, after Dad passed, took a job working in Ely, Nevada, which I think of as my hometown. Her employer was Uncle Sam, and she worked on the local reservation providing medical services. Looking back on it, I think my family was on the government tit for our entire careers.
Part of Mom’s job entailed certifying the health of all the ladies who came to “work” at the various establishments around town. I was in high school when Mom passed away. The ladies at Eddie’s Green Lantern, partly out of gratitude for my mom’s service to them, cared enough to take me in. I was given the job of house handyman. The ladies could not leave their house once they entered town, except to go to church or the doctor, so I took care of washing their cars or running their errands, such as shopping for their necessaries. It was a great job for a young man.
Nevada in the 1950s was mythic. As high school students, we were taken to watch atomic bomb test explosions, visible with the naked eye. Ely was a copper town; if you stayed, you worked the mines or were Basque and herded sheep in the hills. I spent a few young summers learning the way of the shepherds.
I planned to go to the Air Force Academy after winning a coveted spot. Unfortunately, a week before graduation, while hanging around the bad girls’ bathroom, one of the gals ran out after the vice-principal went in the other door and she handed me her flask and asked me to hide it. I was caught and lost my opportunity. At our 50th reunion she thanked me for not snitching on her and taking the fall. I instead attended Berkeley on a track scholarship and took a class from Carl Sagan — yes, he did say “billions upon billions.” I realized the other students studying physics were far brighter than I was, so I switched to Russian Literature. Although at one point as a physics student, I handled weapons-grade plutonium. Not a good job benefit.
It was the 1960s and the world was crazy and all of the sudden I was a Marine living the good life at the MCRD at Laguna Beach in the sun, but then I found myself heading to Vietnam. I considered being a lifer, but after two tours, two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star, along with being blown up out of a helicopter, I decided perhaps another career choice may be a wise option.
Doctor, lawyer or priest, I had a VA bill and choices to make — I chose law school and Moscow, Idaho. University of Idaho College of Law suited me. In 1970, the law school was in the basement of the Admin Building and studying took place in the Blue Bucket at the SUB with the blue shag carpet. I managed to graduate and pass the bar even though my study group had characters like John Walker, Jess Hawley and Dennis Jones. I tended bar at Mort’s Club during law school, where the beer was cold, pickled eggs in a jar was your food option, and locals told stories.
Law suited me, from private attorney, public defender, prosecutor, magistrate judge and finally — until my passing — Idaho Senior Judge. I found my people: local troublemakers (slapdicks) who had good hearts who trouble just seemed to find, attorneys who only needed some tutoring from me to become wise, and all of the wonderful clerks who helped me through the long days. I attempted to mete out justice with a sense of proportionality and common sense. The good sense was dispensed in the courtroom but more often at the Nobby Inn with Nick Roberts making real cocktails. The Nobby Inn was the scene for attorney’s and the Idahonian reporters, Pete Harriman, Vic Rishling and Marty Trillhaase, to name a few. Being a judge was not an easy job, and I probably pissed off a few lawyers and few litigants in my courtroom. Nothing personal, just doing what I thought needed to be done.
I met, wooed and married Peggy Wright in 1989. Many may say I married her to acquire her gas pumps, but I was her Fred and she was my Ginger. She is a tough, smart and a lovely woman who made me pies and nurtured me for the following three decades, until my very unfortunate demise. I loved her, and still do.
I am survived by my beautiful wife, Peggy; my loyal dog, Lupita; many loving cats; and my delightful Aunt Ruth Pozza, who is turning 99 in a few weeks. Along with Peggy’s niece, Emily Baker — you lived with us while attending UI for a couple of years, and kept me on my toes. I have too many good friends to name and they all know I care deeply about them. I was preceded in death by my parents, and numerous four-legged children that I hope are with me now.
Elvis lives! I may get to see him perform in person finally. Although I hear there is unlimited streaming available in my new digs.
I want to express my sincere gratitude to Dr. Francis Spain (my one-day sheriff), Dr. Geraldo Midence, Dr. Jacques Bouchard and Gritman Medical Center. I am thankful I am able to spend my last days at home in the arms of my loved one, Peg, bless her heart.
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There will be a celebration of Bill’s life in April. In lieu of flowers, adopt an older animal that needs a good home, or feed a feral that needs some love.
Bill was a charitable man and had a kind heart. He had a strong mind which retained its vigor to the last. He lived a useful and honest life and died a peaceful death Thursday, Feb. 3, 2022, at home after fighting for more than 20 years with stage four non-Hodgkin lymphoma, mantle cell lymphoma, lung cancer, small cell Hodgkin lymphoma, throat cancer and COPD. He used all of his nine lives up and will be greatly missed.
