When Art Jones e-mailed me his column for the winter edition I never dreamed it would be the last Pips & Chips column he would write for Deadwood Magazine.

In retrospect, I believe he tried to tell me the last time I saw him at the regular "Art Jones Day" Friday breakfast meeting. Apparently my brain shifted into denial mode as it is prone to do when a message isn’t one I’m mentally or emotionally prepared to hear.

Art’s daughter found a draft of his final column in his computer files after his funeral. It read in part, "Recently I told the Deadwood Magazine editor this column will probably be titled ‘Goodbye Mr. Chips’ or ‘Art’s cashing in his chips.’"

He obviously revised that initial draft. In the version submitted for publication Art expressed his appreciation of assistance from Deadwood casino employees that enabled him to keep playing blackjack while contending with ravages of severe pulmonary disease.

His struggle for the next breath ended on December 16.

Officiating at the celebration of Art’s life,Verne Sheppard said, "There can be no greater tribute to a person than to know that lives were touched and changed because he passed through, no matter how briefly."

In 50-plus years of radio and television broadcasting Art Jones made a daily impact on listeners and viewers in a five-state area.

The ambidexterity that enabled the television weatherman to sketch "Willie the weather bird" with either hand was reflected in his off-air pursuits. He was a 20^th century Renaissance man whose inquiring mind and electic interests covered a wide range of vocations and avocations. He was a scoutmaster for 22 years, an avid outdoorsman and deer hunter, state senator, genial host and chef at restaurants he owned, woodworking hobbyist, and dabbler in the many "ologys" of science.

Art’s "retirement" in 1996 simply meant he had more time to "work at writing" and "play in Deadwood." He began entertaining print media audiences with his Pips & Chips column and other stories published in magazines and newspapers.

Although I’d known Art Jones for many years, it was through reading his "Memories in the Mist" compilation of stories about life experiences and characters he’d met along the way that I came to cherish the sensitive and sentimental man beneath the witty and affable public persona.

Art’s final gift to those he loved was a poem printed in his funeral program, written in collaboration with his daughter Roberta Mansfield:

Diminuendo Vita Fine

A friend of Art’s for nearly 50 years, Dick Hughes spoke for all of us by sharing one of his father’s favorite quotes, "I feel as one who walks alone, a banquet hall deserted whose fires are dead, and guests have fled, and all but me departed."

Like Verne Sheppard, I believe that somewhere on another plane there surely must be a broadcast studio where Art Jones is still telling stories.