Downtown Rantoul, IL. An esthetic that became my life’s own.

“If I perish here in this sunrise land,
This country where I was not born,
Who will bury me?
Who will sing my death-song?
The high-striding Thunder will bury me.
The rumbling storm clouds will stand over my grave
and sing.”  – Roy Thomas, 1981 (Arak # 1)

Ronald “Ron” Wilfong was a hero to me in my teenage years, and other high schoolers like Matt Peterson, Todd Widener of Rantoul, Illinois, at least admired him, and called him a friend. Some people just stood out, and we coveted those of the adult world who did. Ron was a larger than life character; a young husband, dreamer, entrepreneur with electric eyes and smile, a real male swagger with a soft side. Balding just a bit, which made him seem older, added something. He seemed Hollywood cool with a sort of Woody Harrelson zany meets Matthew McConaughey laid back mix. Respectfully – “too cool for Rantoul,” was for sure and part of our bonding scene. Ron moved with a personal, animated physical energy of “Let’s Go” or “We gonna do this?” He was a personal coach before such a term was known. He motivated you just by being himself, which was certainly hyperactive. No one yet used terms like ADD or ADHD. Ron had more of a controlled passion with a managed distraction problem. When laughing, he lit up the room, smiling and smoking cigarettes like he was inhaling the excitement and taking even greater joy in it all. He was a very BIG kid at heart, or at least he was when we met him. The very picture of a young man with the world ahead, and not much older than the Ron you see in the younger photo of him here. Unfortunately, the photos I have don’t capture the guy I remember in full, just barely. He was more handsome, particularly in his manners, his exuberance. Larger than life in those respects. Ron loved us kids, for sure. He made us happy, and his confidence in us put us higher up in ourselves. It meant the world, truly. He was the quintessential “good guy.” We could tell him anything, go to him with anything, and he never wavered in his listening, his advice, or calling us out on our B.S, all alongside girl talk, dirty jokes, or whatever the banter of the moment. As I sit here now, it’s hard to conceive that when I was 15, Ron was only 23, but he might as well have felt 35 or 40 to us. It’s how he carried himself.

Ronald “Ron” Wilfong, before I knew him, was somewhere ready for life. You can see the spark, the moxi, definitely the bravado!

Our friendship story, in a way, begins with 2 young paperboys: Todd Widener and myself. I started with The Rantoul Press, but the “real money” was with The Champaign-Gazette, where I believe Todd already reigned supreme, and then I eventually graduated up to. Todd, with his generally smarmy smile and sarcastic, fun demeanor, held the much-coveted “business district” or downtown Rantoul paper route. The tips were insane and seen as “good money.” Todd didn’t let us forget it either. Eventually, he was moving on to something else, I forget what, but at some point in 1983-1984, he passed the baton to me. I was kind of over the moon. Todd trained me for the next couple of weeks, all done on Schwinn Phantom Mag Scramblers, and eventually the route was mine, and if memory serves, I worked it until I was 16 or 17. A lot of cold mornings, a lot of Prince, Billy Idol, W.A.S.P., Scorpions, Bronski Beat, Jesus and Mary Chain, along with The Cure, playing in my Sony Walkman headphones as I traveled through ice, snowdrifts, stinging rain, and brutal summers. It was pure youth.

Part of the unifying of friendships between Matt, Todd, me, and later with Ron, was comic books. Particularly, Todd and I were more the collectors of the teen friend circle, at first. Matt never so much, but was always up for the trip to Ben Franklin 5 & 10 in downtown Rantoul, or Champaign’s Book Nook.  At first, the closest thing we had to more of a comic book shop in Rantoul is where one man was simply trying to make some side money selling his generally valuable comic books, Paul of Paul’s Appliance. It was more of an odd side room, disheveled, but you could find very cool stuff and it was great fun to explore. Side note, my mom is still Paul’s appliance customer as of this writing (Mom just gave me the news they’ve closed! Sigh).

Eventually, my classmate, Larry Carnahan, his parents, along with his younger sister Lori and younger brother, David, arrived in Rantoul just before Christmas of 1985 and opened up a full-fledged comic book store near the main entrance to Chanute Air Force Base. This was a calculated move, as basically in the one stretch of shops from the base entrance to the store, you had Gary’s Emporium selling the world, their comic shop, Funny Book Factory, then a classic 1980’s arcade neighbors to a total hobby shop with a large type slot car race track, RC planes and models. Somewhere beyond was a Domino’s Pizza and a tattoo shop. All life’s blood culture basics for those stationed at Chanute. Larry’s family comic book shop, Funny Book Factory, was an institution of a kind, and they struggled but had fun while doing it all, living in the back of the shop together. It was truly a family business. Looking back, this kind of business outside of large cities was still quite niche and nothing at all like what you find today. They lived somewhere between a traveling family comic-con circus and a Renaissance Faire, but it was all kind of nerdy beautiful. After a move to another location, the family shop flooded during a storm, and they lost a lot of materials. According to Larry, many devoted clients showed up to help; they recovered and reopened, diversifying to the base BX along with a shop in Champaign. When Chanute AFB closed in 1992, the town lost its wind and hasn’t quite been the same. Not really. Improvements, but just more commercialized, less “town” somehow. There are certainly no more comic book shops. Larry’s family went back out West, where Larry still resides. The above-mentioned businesses by the main base entrance were demolished, so I have no photos quite yet to share, but I will add in due time, and thank you to The Rantoul Historical Society for helping me in this quest.

And make no mistake, I am oddly out of the comic book game. Matt, never really a collector, is now dead, and I cannot speak for Todd’s comic book life today. It’s hard to say when exactly we all met Ron, or at least more personally than just a face around Rantoul, but I will say he had several gigs at once. I recall in the paper route life, he bartended at the fated to never die – T & T Tavern, but it seems like I first laid eyes upon him as a very much out-of-place cashier at Walgreens on S. Century Boulevard. Looking back, one cannot accuse Ron Wilfong of ever having lacked a work ethic. At first, Matt and I became familiar with him when coming into Walgreens to source our link to the outside world for New Wave music and fashion – Star Hits Magazine. Ron sort of took a shine to us because he picked up on the fact we were a bit different in our life modes, and certainly in terms of fashion sense. Star Hits Magazine was, at the very least, an inspiration for our mutual hairstyles. Shout out to Gary’s Unisex and the salon women we tormented with its pages! That said, at first, Ron just gave us his reserved but always benevolently curious and amused face. He was both the type to open up, greeting you with a welcoming comment, or would let you show yourself to him because he sensed that was the move and something you required. His observational and sensitivity powers were 2nd to none in that way. Funny how a guy who loved playing the goofball used that as a tool to show you his depth.

Rantoul’s very “sketchy” Walgreens in the 1980s. (Not Actual)

However, the most memorable first moment of Ron Wilfong’s greatness to our youth crew was when we got wind that PLAYBOY decided to publish the controversial pictures of a young Madonna. The 2nd moment of connection came later, with Ron becoming a comic book salesman, but we’ll come back to that. I’ll spare you most of the wantonness of teenage boys and the quest for images to behold of women’s forms without dress. Occasionally, in the small town of Rantoul, you’d find a discarded nudie mag in the road, or a field, or some nervous adventure of plotting to look at someone’s father’s stash while they weren’t home. Not to embarrass anyone, after all its, been 40 years, but those props, whether known or not, go to Mr. Widener, and Chris & Michael Martin’s father, Bruce and if memory serves, Mark Lindsey’s police chief dad for their stacks hidden here and there. If you knew or know any of them, you know those dads were very much unique types of “men’s men.” Pretty sure one or more of them admonished us for the unapproved hijinks.

The Contraband

All of the same, part of our adolescent excitement with the forthcoming Madonna issue played well into our comic collector aptitude and our desires to just see Ms. “Lucky Star” Madonna, nude. For us it had all of the danger of a Cloak & Dagger quest, for as much as we’d all seen the PLAYBOYs & Penthouse in veiled plastic, discreetly disguising them in mainstream stores, and certainly located out of the reach of children, none of us had ever walked into a store to buy adult material! Could we pull this off? How? When? We didn’t really know anyone older who would be that cool. We literally sat around at length to plot this mission, discussing all of the ins and outs. Who among us looked the oldest, was the tallest? I mean, Todd had a mustache of sorts, right? Rumor had it, the issues were limited and would fly off the shelves. And I recall vividly, namely with Matt, we practiced going into Walgreens, particularly on Sunday, knowing it would be slow. We ran the scenarios, even contemplating where any cameras were, or how we might put one or more into my newspaper bag, or how one of us might buy something while the other slipped out with at least one. We even practiced by daring the others to act older and take one off the higher shelf and read it like it was no big deal. You know “feign it til’ you gain it.” This was all getting very serious, and we knew the date of real action would be the circulation hour: July 15, 1985.

Enter accomplice – Ron Wilfong.

To say he wasn’t onto us would be a deception. Even without knowing yet that Ron was a collector himself, we were all already comrades in the day’s endeavor or would be made so. And my guessing, on that fateful day of confirmation, Ron had probably nabbed a first copy of the PLAYBOY issue right after stocking the shelves. I seem to recall him saying as much.

For those who knew Ron in this period, you’ll know he enjoyed plaid or checkered shirts and looked good in them. He also made himself unique in that he’d wear a brown vest or a black leather vest. It was a biker-type vest in a way, but more Western. Somehow, with his blondish wavy hair, taller physique, and boyish good looks, he pulled off the combo. I’d liken it to the garb one would encounter of a pub owner character or a tailor at a Renaissance fair. It was his own thing, and it worked.

As some things about 1985 are indeed vague, while others remain vividly clear, I can only offer that the Madonna Playboy adventure day was a Monday and sweltering hot. When one looks at hot spot maps of that period, you have Death Valley, Central Illinois, and where I live now, in Savannah, Georgia. The team? I was the daring front man, naturally. Matt Petersen and I were hip-joined so yes to him as well, and Todd Widener was probably there, but will await him to confirm. Some part of me has a vague notion of Ty Tammeus here for part of the summer visiting his grandparents, but I find as I get older, I’m fond of adding him posthumously to these adventures since when we were Freshmen, he moved to Colorado and I never quite got over it. All of the same, I’m sure we at least included him in a boastful long-distance phone call immediately after.

When Ron began bartending at T&T Tavern, I cannot rightly say less it may have made him favorable to Todd as paperboy first, myself later, but I feel there were 3 of us in Walgreens that day because you needed the support of the bros to go in, and at least 1 to watch our bikes outside, albeit Rantoul was safer in those days. Having built myself up in this situation many times over in my brain, playing it out, I decided commitment wasn’t an issue, and the performance of this was key, and to go in with a sense of ease and no return. I had to manifest the Madonna PLAYBOY. I’m unsure if I simply tested the waters with 1 copy or 3, but some relief and some greater worry occurred when seeing Ron on the cashier deck upon entering. We knew him to be cool, but how cool? I was nervous. There was still some no-nonsense aspect to Ron, and his job could be on the line if this ever came back on him, even if perhaps just several years prior, he’d been in our teenage shoes. Ron was anything but daft and really, ready for anything. As I placed the contraband down in front of him, to amuse himself beyond my trying to conceal a beet red face, Ron casually picked up the issue with both hands, sat back on his hips, and inspected it, bopping his head with a kind of comical delight, looking at all of us with a knowing, approving glance but didn’t want to draw to much attention and disturb the mission. Ron was tactfully “cool” like that. While pretending (I think) to search for a bar code, you know, making us sweat it a little, he calmly examined the price, commented on how the value was already past the printed price by at least twice, quickly tapped a few keys, took my cash, returned some change and rested 2 fists downward on the counter; a move I’d see him do many times later in the months ahead. Finally, he did that Ron thing of nodding his head like it was all good and said, “You guys have fun and a good day,” chuckled, turned away, and went back to working. Ron knew, but didn’t know, how to he’d just become the coolest friend-adult that any of us presently knew. Thank you, Ron, for playing your part so well that day.

T&T Tavern – Architecturally, “Alaskan trading post”  but the warmth i0)))s all on the inside.

His prominence in our young lives would soon jump higher when he began working at a now long-defunct used bookstore at 111 Garrard Avenue – The Book Worm. It’s also funny that Rantoul was so small then that a guy like Ron could hold 3 jobs, all within 2 city blocks. When acquiring Todd’s paper route, if not slightly before, from the book-loving perspective, Ron and I became daily and regular faces to one another. I can’t even recall if they took the paper; I presume they did, but I often conducted my route, so it was the last spot I landed before going home. And I often stayed til past dark, immersed in every kind of talk between customers and calls from his then-wife. I feel bad about having forgotten her name. I suspect she was the mother of his son and daughter, but above all, I recall his fierce love for his wife. We’d talk about girls to him; he’d revel in the topic, but never stepped much into it as he was so in love with her, their life – his life. His commitment to convictions was evident, and it likened us to him even more. It also never hurts when befriending someone with the same wicked sense of humor, if not even more daring. Ron knew we were more kids than he was, but once a trust was forged, he let loose with everything under the skies, and not surprisingly loved Monty Python, from which all comedy must derive. Anyway, let it be known, we filled that little shop with rich and ribald conversations, intellectual bookish talk, and so much laughter and brotherhood. I never stopped cherishing it, or Ron. Sadly, he never got to know how explicitly, but I hope some memory cell in him warmly flickered with it now and again. Surely it did, and he deserved that.

Note the Pyramid or Acute Angle nature of his connected work locations. Spiritual!

The Book Worm, Rantoul, IL, – where the comics lived and the comical did too.

The day of days, however, was when he beseeched my opinion on a particular business matter from behind a sales counter far too small for him as he sat atop a well-worn wooden stool with a taped-together cushion he constantly leaned back on to the wall behind him and leaned forward to punctuate his thoughts. Kind of like a personal rocking horse. I recall when he’d lean back, and put both hands up in the air, sometimes leaning them back on the wall to balance the stool ever so delicately, it was like he was floating on his thoughts. This was his main pilot position, and where he seemed most comfortable – a proverbial happy place. One day he humbly offered, “So do you think if I set up some comic books in here for sale, that it would work? Like, would you be a customer, tell some buddies?” I felt delighted, and this grown-up kid, Ron, with his goofy wide ear to ear grin, couldn’t have been more pleased at my response. I mean, sure, you had the odds and ends collectors like my crew, and yes, we blew way too much paper route money on such things, but we both agreed the benefit of nearby Chanute AFB would provide the steadiest flow, and news would spread. Paul of Paul’s Appliances had some solid stuff, but it was in the back of an appliance store in an odd room of sorts. The aforementioned Funny Book Factory was still cool, but there was room for Ron’s vision. Plus, it was like our big bud was opening up a store where we’d have some input, could call more of our own if just by way of friend proximity. It was kind of like we were all getting in on the ground floor of a cottage industry, and in some sense, we were. If memory serves, he and his wife were expecting their first, and Ron, as provider, was out to do that. Anyway, you could still tell this was a very measured decision. He had to run it by the owner, and eventually it began. I don’t quite think he gave it a name or had a true sign, but I am thinking eventually there was more window advertising presence. Good way to draw the youth crowd, too. Needless to say, comic books became the latest and greatest excuse to go by and hang out with Ron Wilfong.

One of the greatest bonding and excitement hours was when the Annual Overstreet Comic Book Pricing Guide came out. It was considered the Bible of pricing, somehow had every comic book that ever existed listed, and in hand was like the thickest graphic novel ever printed. In some ways, it was a predecessor to the look and feel of paperback books now, like a hybrid of hardback and paperback. For a paperboy, $13-14 extra bucks was a lot, but you couldn’t not have it, and I read it from top to bottom, forwards and backwards, getting high from the ink for at least the first month. When carrying mine to see Ron, generally the next day from mailing, we’d practically toast them like wine glasses, as it was our version of Christmas morning. And that’s when the hot debates began, and much discussion was had about whether Overstreet was on or off the mark. It inspired me to buy Golden Age books like Tom Mix, or Atomic Man, or whatever it was. This was well before the Internet. You were invested in only what you could read in front of you in such a tome or catch a glimpse of within your actual perceptual realm. And it was everything.

Ron was wisely opinionated and knew his craft. I listened and placed great value on his insights because, well, that’s just what Ron invoked – admiration, respect. He had things to offer young minds. Somehow, comic books spoke to his moral sensibility and concepts of right and wrong. Not everyone was like that. Ron didn’t let you get away with saying foolish things or insulting, disrespectful things. He was a kind of meter, and could say it in a stare, but it was never not the face of your friend. Ron’s soul belonged to comics like he had been born out of one. He loved an energized conversation about artists and writers of comics and wasn’t afraid to tout what he knew or his view, very much the historian. He’d regale you with takes on the Comics Code Authority labeling and how much crazy, dark stuff used to be around or tell you about how Marvel Comics began in 1939 and back stories of Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Jack Kirby. We’d get into fun back and forth as to who drew X-Men or other books better – was it John Byrne or John Romita, Jr, and even so, wasn’t Frank Miller somehow in a corner all of his own like some Edgar Allen Poe artist with his issues of Daredevil and later Ronin graphic books? I thrilled Ron after a Comic-Con return in Chicago, having chased Frank Miller inside an elevator to get him to sign my Daredevil #158 and the world’s fastest artist, Sergio Aargones, to sign Destroyer Duck #2, the first appearance of Groo, The Wanderer. Ron laughed when telling him that I’d handed it to Mike Grell (Green Lantern) to sign it first and Grell looked up towards Aargones and around the room, remarking with great humor – “I’ll sign it, but I didn’t draw it!” We also shared wonder moments with the advent of certain comics and artists arriving on the scene in unexpected ways, like Alan Moore’s cultish “The Saga of The Swamp Thing” and his work on “The Dark Knight,” along with what is now considered one of the Top 100 novels of all time, the graphic novel, “WATCHMEN.” There was Neil Gaiman’s groundbreaking “Sandman” series and when Bill Sienkiewicz came on the scene with his artistic take on THOR and The Amazing Spider-Man, later Spawn work, it was as if an alien had come from Mars and began to draw comic books for the first time. The scene was getting other worldly in a hurry and let it be known –1986 WAS THE YEAR OF YEAR TO BE ALIVE, and both Ron and I got to be good friends around what felt like a Renaissance hour for not just comics, but comics made sophisticated art. It was like they were growing up, and we got to be more validated as “cool” or “adults” or whatever it was. We just felt a little better than everyone else, and that was OK.

Somewhere in this, my father, Jim Scott, took notice of my love for classics, art, old movies & odd stuff. He taught Industrial Arts or “shop” at Rantoul Township High School and once offered me a 1950s drafting desk from the high school, I repainted it, made it my art desk, and still have it 40 years later. My father, a lifetime investor and studied learner at doing it, along with my mother, saw me faltering in this but took stock in my knowing comics had growth potential. I don’t remember the exact conversation in terms of who initiated what, but there was a day that my father and I went to see Ron in the shop, and my father, in a very serious manner, picked Ron’s brain about the investment potential. Ron had such a professional demeanor, showing my dad all of the respect in the world, shaking his hand and gave my dad an honest dissertation on the investment pluses. And like a friend, worked the deal for both of us as he knew I wanted those comics as much as he needed to sell them. It was a true, win-win. If Ron remembered me for anything later in life, it was for being one of his best customers ever. In one fell swoop, my father had written a check to him that gained me The Amazing Spider-Man #4 onward, and an entire X-Men collection starting with #4, both complete collections to the current hours of my life. Many others I’ve forgotten, but they were solid copies, all worth a small fortune today and not invaluable then, but mere pennies by today’s comic culture. Anyway, at least 2000 comic books came home, and by the mid-1990s, I had 25,000 comics which were all sold away too soon when I was ironically, stuck in debt. Its also uncanny today, in 2025, next to the former site of The Book Worm location is the relatively recent new location of the Edward Jones investment business my family has used since I was a kid. One business still going strong, one long gone. Small town stuff indeed.

When I received a scholarship to go off to art school in Savannah, I remember going into Ron’s shop for one of the last times and poised on his stool, he held up a copy of The Rantoul Press which had announced my scholarship to The Savannah College of Art and Design. Ron held up the paper like a proud dad, looking at me like he was seeing the next great All Star going off to training camp – “Way to go buddy! You excited? That’s big stuff man!” He started walking around the shop like an excited wrestling coach, wide eyed with envy and pride. I think he was more excited than I was and per always, was Ron’s way of reminding that you needed to embrace the feeling and use it for your life. Ron and I had our goodbyes. Maybe it wasn’t that day in particular but shortly before I left. I remember the last look on his face and the distinct expression of being proud and bit wistful. He sort of hid the bittersweet part because it wasn’t his style to rain on a parade but looking back, he was a little remiss to admit that he was saying goodbye to a friend. You could kind of tell but just like the heroes in stories, he knew it was rite of passage time. All but 18, I really had no concept of what lay ahead or how quickly the years would get claimed. I can recall one phone call to him from Savannah and it was fun to hear his voice and do the bro talk. Ron was obviously smoking on the other end of the line which honestly always worried me even if it seemed just a part of him. I still have one of those pocketsized, landline telephone index books with his name and number in it from maybe 1985, hard to say. But it meant something for me to keep it with his name in it like some official friendship record.

Sadly, I cannot say for certain that I ever saw Ron again, nor spoke to him in person. I’d gotten into some juvenile legal trouble I had to face down when returning home to Illinois so my first several trips back were checkered by it and admit didn’t surface much when there. When eventually coming home for the holidays under more normal circumstances, l recall driving by The Book Worm to peek, but at some point it seemed like the Ron Wilfong element was gone and thus some youth chapter, forever closed.

In ways, I made both the right bet and the wrong one, moving so far from home. I suffered secretly over much and had extremely tumultuous mental and spiritual struggles while also building up a life. Though I gained new parts of myself, I lost touch with family, friends, and others like Ron. He had been like a cool, older brother. I’d like to have continued that dynamic, and that one is on me. But yes, Ron was off being a father and living that very essential path. I’m sure it all seemed faster for him and Rantoul became like a blur in the rear view. Over the years, I would ask Rantoulies about Ron, and at first, there seemed to be confirmed sightings of him slinging drinks at T&T Tavern still. Something about that felt lost, but I hoped he was having a good time. Eventually, I stopped asking but kept his memory close. I rarely went home until my later 30s and 40s. So much life happened in between.

Ron in perhaps, 2017?

When the internet came around, I loved it for research and tracking down friends. Periodically, I’d look for Ron and found addresses in Kentucky where I have lots of family ties and this made me happy to consider him there. As Facebook appeared, I continued to scour for old connections, Ron among them, eventually finding a face that seemed familiar but had to stare in hard to catch a glimpse of my friend I knew 30 years earlier. I thought, “OK, I’ve got a beat on him.” He looked past marriage, some hint of grandkids, but maybe not in the best of health or circumstances. Even so, a reunion felt nearer. When 2020 went down, my business tanked, and I didn’t flirt with old friend-finding again until recently, when I sadly discovered Ron had passed from this life in 2022 at 60 years of age! I suppose this type of moment has become universal for many. I cannot lie, I take them hard. It’s like an unfortunate anti-superpower. I’m a mutant of memory and sentimentality. No comic book for that! Or wait – could there be? Hmmmm….I wonder – an obscure but coolly illustrated graphic novel at best.

Ron’s Play on Van Gogh – What was it about this painting that spoke to his sense of life?

When looking at Ron’s Facebook page today, I sent a friend request as a symbolic act, scrolled and “Liked” his comments as if it was like old times. His page header grabbed my attention as it was like a computer remake he’d done of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night,” but one central star looked like he’d made it into a black hole and I wondered what that was all about, bringing to mind a song I’m sure he knew – “Black Hole Sun.” From his posts, I saw he still had that same soul I remember or that remained true to him when sharing quotes like “Freedom, Beauty, Love. Words To Live By” and “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” Yes! There was my friend and I knew we’d have been friends again and our souls hadn’t stopped being friends just because of this small thing called time and space. Ron, at least in 2017, was still enjoying life and making a difference. Past that, other than the obituary, completely unknown. And no, I didn’t know him past 18. Nor he, me. The conversation I believed we might have one day as older gentlemen, never came. Our spirits were brotherly, family. Hell, his birthday of April 16th to my April 21st, we were astrological neighbors. Taurean and Aries meet like old war buddies after the first “Hello!” I wonder if I had not been such a mix of anxiety and depression, those things that plagued me, never mind the highs and lows of Ron’s journey, what we might’ve offered each other. Even if just some corny jokes or commentary on the rise of comic book culture. No doubt we’d have come away recharged and repeated that more often. These things are often the tolls paid for our lives, whether we mean for them to be or not.

Ron w/friend Lashaune Brockman that he described as “”one of the good people.” She passed away in 2020.

So yes, there are regrets, even if I know Ron was about his friends and family, having none, especially when it came to him. That I know. Even so, what I chose to do with my own sense of loss was to have a conversation about Ron Wilfong, here. At minimum I want his family and friends to have another record, his grandkids something to stumble upon to get a greater peek into the life of a far younger fellow that will always be in some sense, a comic book vendor in a very small town, a guru of countertop talk, and a rare infectious spirit that touched my life, the life of many young dreamers while he was chasing his own. And yes, hopefully by leaving this, it will prompt the type of smile or laughter he relished and sense of love that he embodied, and I hope many of them will recognize it here.

Ron Wilfong was golden. Fly high, my brother, and see you on Arulu and among those of The Sacred Land one day! EXCELSIOR! Ron’s Obituary HERE