Bob Pickett was born the youngest of six children by John Stanley Pickett and Elizabeth Lena (Weinzetl) Pickett at Hysham, Montana on May 21, 1932. Bob’s father died October 30, 1933 leaving a widow, who never remarried, with five children to raise: John, Betty, Jim, Elma, and Robert. Bob’s sister Mary died as an infant.
Bob spent his early years at Pomey’s Pillar where he attended 1st through 6th grade. The majority of his time was spent on the Weinzetle Farm with his grandpa and grandma. Some of his fondest memories were of his time with Grandpa who would “read” Bob the comics after grandma had read the daily news out-loud to both of them.
When Bob was 13, he moved to East Helena and milked cows for the Tony Vollmar Dairy where he earned his room, board, and a dollar a day. On entering Helena High, coach Lloyd Score went to the Vollmars and asked if they might allow Bob to play football for the Bengals. An agreement was reached where he could play but that his wages were cut in half for missing the evening milking. Bob went on to play in the East-West Shrine Game in 1950, and received a football scholarship to attend Montana State at Bozeman. After making starting varsity his sophomore season, and with the Korean Conflict in full swing, Bob enlisted in the Marine Corps. However, his football days were not over as after boot camp he “volunteered” to play for the Marines at Camp Pendleton. Bob was shipped overseas in the newly formed 3rd Division in 1953.
After the truce, Bob returned to East Helena and worked on the Paul Kleffner Ranch. In 1954 Bob married Patricia Frank and had one son, Leonard Robert Pickett. In 1959 Bob married Shirley Carpenter and had three children: Lorrie Lynn, Robert Lewis, Jr., and Lynette Renee’ Pickett. In 1967 Bob married Joan (Eckley) Wilson and daughter Valerie Deanna Wilson. Joan and Bob had one son, William Walter Pickett.
Bob worked as a mechanic for Maronick Construction, Helena Farm Supply, and in 1968 bought the Standard Oil service station in Helena. After selling the station, Bob worked as a mechanic for Associated Foods, bought and sold West-Side Welding, and worked for The State of Montana and the Bunker Hill in Kellogg. The closure of the Idaho smelter ended with Bob working in the oil fields of Texas until returning to Helena in 1983 after a near fatal truck wreck. In December 1983, Bob became friends with Bill Wilson, and worked his own auto repair and welding business until retirement. After retirement, Bob became a snow bird with annual trips to Apache Junction AZ, square dances, and occasional cruises with his close friend Mary Moser.
Bob was home for the summer when he passed away in Helena on August 11, 2014 after a swift fight with cancer. Blessed with the gift of conversation, Pickett made friends wherever he went. And as one to never let grass grow under his feet, he had friends everywhere. He will be dearly missed.
Bob leaves 16 Grandchildren and 12 Great Grandchildren: Leonard – Eric Pickett, Brooke Pickett, and Laura Washington; Lorrie – Shyla Gazloff and Kaylin Gazloff; Robert, Jr – Tana Pickett and Christy Pickett; Lynette – Jesse Chadwick, Colter Chadwick, Jayme Chadwick, and Miles Bell; William – Meghan Pickett, Tyler Pickett, Hannah Pickett, Emma Pickett, and Derek Pickett.
The family will receive friends from 9:30 to 10:30 a.m. with funeral services beginning at 10:30 at Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home, 3750 N. Montana Ave. Burial with Military Honors will take place at the Montana State Veterans Cemetery immediately following the funeral service. A reception will follow the burial in the social hall of the funeral home.
Service Schedule
Family Receiving Friends
9:30 a.m. to 10:30 a.m.
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
Funeral Service
10:30 a.m.
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
Burial with Military Honors
Following the Funeral Service
Friday August 15, 2014
Montana State Veterans Cemetery
Fort Harrison, Montana
Reception
Following the burial
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
Service Schedule
Family Receiving Friends
9:30 a.m. to 10:30 a.m.
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
Funeral Service
10:30 a.m.
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
Burial with Military Honors
Following the Funeral Service
Friday August 15, 2014
Montana State Veterans Cemetery
Fort Harrison, Montana
Reception
Following the burial
Friday August 15, 2014
Anderson Stevenson Wilke Funeral Home
3750 N. Montana Ave
Helena, Montana 59602
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Alice & Bill Dove says
Our hearts go out to all of Bob’s extended family on the loss of someone so special.
Bob was a special man to so many. With Heartfelt Sympathy, Bill & Alice (Kleffner) Dove
Kyle Kuntz Family says
Bob and family – So sorry for your loss. Remember all the good times and keep him close in your heart.
the mt-1 says
Bob and family- I am sorry to hear about Robert s passing, We first met thru my father in 1983 and made many trips to see him at home….Peace Kevin
Gina says
Dear Lorrie, Bob, Lynette,
Thinking of you and all of your family at this time of loss.
My prayers are with you.
Love,
Gina Beneventi Tweden
Jack Smith says
Bob was one of the “True Grit” leaders of the Class of ’50. What you saw, was what you got.
A self made man who could excel at so many things. I always saw him as a happy, strong man with deep roots who was not born with a silver spoon, but found ways to excel.
Bob was loved by so many. I’m sure he is in heaven just dancing up a storm.
Sincerely
Jack Smith (Class of ’50)
richard radcliffe says
it was a pleasure to know bob and he will be missed my thoughts and prayers go out to his family
Dan McGowan says
Leonard, Bob, and family:
Your father was a part of our family. He and “Fast Eddie” were the best of friends. I so enjoyed your father; he was always ready to BS; he didn’t mind telling you like it was; and he never hesitated to help. If it wasn’t for Uncle Teardrop, my 41 Dodge would have still been in pieces. My thoughts and prayers are with you……..Remember the good times!!
Your son says
My Father’s Best Story
He was a teller of stories, my father, and I have a story to tell on him. I have many I could tell about his faithfulness, his abilities, or his love of family. But, those are not the ones for today. As with any good story with a witness, there are other story tellers who can attest to its truth, as well as stop you to say, “Let me tell you the part he left out”.
Anyone that ever met Pickett was instantly aware that he was blessed with the gift of conversation. Just sit and watch a minute, and it most likely became clear he was also a fearless fighter. This is a story of two lives lived by one man; always the conversationalist and always the fighter.
Story tellers from Dad’s early days; men like Charlie Kleffner, Daker Duke, Danny Cloninger, Dick Tomcheck, and Gene Richeson will have the stories of Pickett when he wore a younger man’s clothes. Men who knew him from East Helena, the Corps, hunting camp, and the deep sea fishing trips. These were men that heard his stories and watched his full body laughs that left him short for air.
They also have witnessed boxers, brawlers, strong men, singles and in groups, that came looking for dad. Have seen the East Helena Volunteer Fire Department called to the VFW to apply water to a situation to help cool tempers…only to have the hose taken away and turned on the volunteers. They saw these other men who had heard about Bob Pickett from East Helena, heard he’d be the one talking, built like a brick shithouse, and open to anyone who wanted to take a turn. You see, dad was a fighter who took all comers.
These seekers showed up ready to give a whoopin’. They came on their own or from the provoking of their friends. They came fighting for their reputation, fighting for their home town pride, or a chance to feel alive. They left defeated, unable to lift their bodies at their will. They left with unsteady hands, fogged thinking, and eyes swollen and black like a mouse lay draped over each eye. These were men who came with no hope, only they didn’t know it.
If this awkward attempt at a story was the end, it might barely be entertaining, definitely not worthy of a time such as this. But, you see, there is a second half to this story.
One night on a deserted road in a Texas oilfield, dad rolled his 76 Ford down the embankment and found himself nearly beat to death in a cab whose doors wouldn’t open. Dad crawled out the back window where he thought he would just lie there in the bed of the truck and die. As dad lay there, someone came to him and told him there was a plan and what he should do, to crawl up the bank and lay beside the roadway. He did. Eventually he was found by a little old man and lady who pulled up in a rig that had a camper. They laid him in the back, and took him to the hospital in Giddings. The doctors tapped his extended stomach and the blood shot to the ceiling of the operating room. He was so busted inside that all they could do was try to stabilize him and send him on to Austin. Soon after this encounter on the road, dad got sober and started the second half of his life.
There are also men who could attest to the second half of this story, men like Frankie Collins. Others: laborers, counter men, truck drivers, business men, surgeons, lawyers (men from all walks who will remain anonymous) they will have the stories of Pickett when he wore a sober man’s clothes.
These seekers too had heard about Bob Pickett from East Helena, heard he’d be the one talking, not quite a brick shithouse, and open to anyone who wanted to take a turn; a turn for a better way, a turn with hope and peace. You see, dad was still a fighter who took all comers.
Unlike the men from dad’s younger days, these men showed up after they’d already taken a whoopin’. They came pre-beat by a fight of their own doing. Men fighting to not lose their children, fighting to not lose their marriages, men fighting to not lose their very lives. They would show up at our door, defeated, unable to bend their bodies to their will. Men with unsteady hands, fogged thinking, and eyes sunken like two bloodshot piss holes in the snow. These were men who came with no hope, and they knew it.
They came Easter morning, Fourth of July, all times day and night. Dad would answer the door; they would mutter apologies for the intrusion, the lateness of the hour, the interference of the day’s activities. Dad would look them square in the eye and ask them one question: “Are you ready to fight this thing?” At a yes, they got a fearless fighter on their side. Off to Galen Hospital, Fort Harrison, the Club House, or to some other meeting they would go. Dad would carry them along, he would help them take their first steps, and finally run alongside. Dad was always there with a good story and a fearless dose of what he knew to be true. The truth he knew was that there was a fight. A really hard fight. But, with a willingness to get back up, the right people, and the grace of God, a fight that could be won.
This was a fight my father carried to the last bed he ever slept in. Not often a man in his final two days uses his energy to talk with a defeated soul, look him in the eye and ask, “Are you ready to fight this thing? Because it can be beat”, and then tell him a story with hope and a future.
There was another fighter who was blessed with the gift of conversation. He too had a life changing encounter when someone came to him on the road and told him there was a plan and what he should do. He was asked not to change who he was, but to change what he was doing. These words, his words, are the words my father could say if he were here today.
2 Timothy 2:7-8
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.”
Always the conversationalist, always the fighter.