Richard Thomas Koboldt
8/13/47 – 8/9/24
My father, Richard Thomas Koboldt, affectionately known as “The Wolfman,” passed away on the morning of Friday, August 9th.
It’s a bittersweet time for me. On one hand, I’m relieved that he no longer has to endure the suffering he faced here on earth. But on the other hand, he’s my dad, and I miss him deeply. I believe that death is not an end, but rather one door closing and another opening into a new dimension. I find comfort in knowing that I’ll see him again one day.
In the meantime, I like to imagine my dad is already having the time of his life, hanging out with Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Janis Joplin, and George Harrison, surrounded by a musical bliss of light and energy. It’s a beautiful thought that he’s now part of that eternal jam session in the sky, free and full of joy.
My dad was born in Saginaw, Michigan, and like many young men of his generation, he was drafted into the Army during the Vietnam War in 1968. I have a book filled with photos from his days in the service, and every time I look through them, I’m struck by the harsh reality of war. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could come out of that experience unscathed. The truth is, I’m not sure my dad ever did, at least not entirely.
He carried the weight of that war with him, a burden that many veterans know all too well. The use of Agent Orange during Vietnam was a cruel and toxic assault on those who were already sacrificing so much. No soldier should ever have had to breathe in that poison, yet my dad did—defending what he believed to be freedom, even in a war that history now views through a complicated lens.
Despite all this, my dad faced life with resilience and strength, qualities that I admire deeply. His story is a reminder of the sacrifices made by those who serve, and the lasting impact of their courage. Though the war was fraught with controversy, the bravery of the soldiers who served in it, like my dad, is something I will always honor and respect.
Years later, my dad decided that Michigan just wasn’t big enough for his free spirit, so he did what any adventurous soul would do—he hitchhiked all the way to California. Now, this wasn’t your average road trip; we’re talking a full-on cross-country trek, the kind you only see in movies or hear about in wild stories from the ’60s. Eventually, he made it to San Francisco, where, according to him, he saw Janis Joplin perform in the park. Of course, considering the era and his general state of mind at the time, there’s a good chance he was a little, let’s say, “elevated” during the whole experience.
But that was just my dad—free-spirited and always ready for an adventure, even if it involved a few detours and some questionable memory recall. Whether or not he actually saw Janis Joplin, the story was so him—full of life, music, and a touch of the unpredictable.
After his wild, free-spirited days, my dad landed a job at GM’s Saginaw Steering Gear plant (local 467), where he worked for 31.5 years, all thanks to my grandfather finally convincing him to cut his hippy hair and grow up—at least a little bit. He worked 31.5 years, retiring in his early 50’s. What a dream!!!!
Dad started out working on the assembly line, and he used to joke that back in the 70s, the bong made its way down the line just as much as the car parts did. He’d say, “If you remember the 70s, you weren’t really living them!” It was his way of keeping the rebellious spirit alive, even while clocking in at GM.
He eventually wrapped up his career as a janitor, which, in his eyes, was the best gig in the whole plant. Why? Because it gave him the freedom to move around, do his own thing, and not be chained to the relentless production clock. For a guy who cherished his independence, it was the perfect way to end his working years.
In 1994, I decided to take a year off from Michigan State University and work at my dad’s factory. It turned out to be an eye-opening experience, offering me an inner glimpse into the tough working conditions my dad had faced every day. But more than that, it allowed me to connect with him on a deeper level, giving me the chance to step into his world and appreciate the hard work and dedication that defined his life. It was a time that brought us a little closer, and I gained a profound respect for the honest day’s work he put in for our family.
I remember the day my dad celebrated his 25th anniversary at GM. He was at the local bar, “The Evergreen,” raising a glass to mark the occasion. I stopped by to say hello, but I didn’t stick around. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what that milestone meant—what it took to work that long, the sacrifices he made as a man. I was still just a young, clueless kid, unaware of the significance of that moment. Looking back, I wish I had understood more about what it all meant and spent that day by his side.
I inherited my get-your-hands-dirty work ethic from my dad who said to me early in my career after graduation, “Never Walk into a new environment with your fancy suits acting like your better than anyone with your college degree. Put your blue jeans on, roll up your sleeves and get dirty with the front-line employees; the people whose buy-in and respect you will need if you ever want to be successful.” I have humbly lived by this motto. Towards that end, it helped me immensely when I went into operations management for GM in California in 2000.
My dad bought a house in 1972 at 25 years old out in Hemlock on an old farm field with 3.5 acres. He then married my mom in January of 1973 and then adopted my sister. I was then born in July 1974. If you see the pictures of the house in the beginning, my dad had black light posters all over. My mom eventually had him put them in the chicken coop.
He was a man of simple tastes but grand gestures, driving around in his trusty Ford F-150 like he was piloting the Enterprise. His home was his kingdom, complete with a 40’x20’ pool that made you wonder if he was secretly trying to start a small water park. And let’s not forget the 10’ satellite dish—an early adopter of technology who probably knew what the Martians were up to before anyone else.
His favorite pastime? Cranking up the tunes and letting his music serenade the heavens while he mowed the lawn. You could always tell when he was out there; the sky was practically rocking out with him.
As for the lawn, it was his personal masterpiece. Every tree, bush, and flower was meticulously planted by him, transforming what was once a farm plot into his own botanical oasis. The far back of the property was a Christmas wonderland, thanks to the hundreds of spruce and pine trees he and my parents planted. It was like living in a year-round holiday special—minus the snow, of course.
Ah, the classic childhood dilemma: sentenced to “room time” and hoping for a jailbreak. My childhood was like a mini-courtroom drama, where my room was the cell, and my parents were the jury. I’d sit there, biding my time, waiting for the precise moment one of them would walk by so I could launch my best plea bargain: “Hey, can you go talk to the other one and, you know, let me out of this kid prison?”
Of course, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I was in “jail” with a room full of Star Wars toys, a garage that could double as a toy store, a sandbox that practically screamed adventure, and a bike that was my ticket to freedom… except when it was broken, which was a lot. So there I was, locked up in paradise, surrounded by the greatest “material” wealth a kid could wish for. Who knew that a childhood sentence could be so luxurious?
He was a rock ‘n’ roll spirit with a hippy twist, embracing the persona of the Wolfman—tattoo-free but definitely larger than life. His friends had names that sounded like they came straight out of a comic book: Birdman, Monkey Legs, and Nipper. And me? I was Lobo, the little wolf, in a pack of cool nicknames.
Our household was a musical smorgasbord, thanks to him. With a collection that spanned oldies, Motown, 70’s jams, blues, early British metal, and the Beatles, our living room was practically a mini concert hall. He had a reel-to-reel, an 8-track, and a record player—basically a vintage DJ setup.
Driving with him was like being in a live karaoke session, where his off-key renditions were accompanied by the occasional swerving. I remember grabbing the wheel more than once, trying to steer us back on track while he belted out tunes. But that was part of the charm. My musical education came courtesy of his eclectic taste and the early days of MTV, embedding those iconic music videos in my brain like a soundtrack to my youth. How lucky was I to have grown up with such a rockin’ influence!
My dad had a lifelong love affair with beer and cigarettes. The man was practically a Marlboro commercial, minus the horse and cowboy hat. In a desperate attempt to get him to quit, I started writing “Satan Sticks” on his cigarette packs. You know, subtle teenage rebellion at its finest. He tried to quit, bless him, but those sticks had a hold on him stronger than any sermon I could deliver.
Meanwhile, my lungs were probably filing complaints from all the secondhand smoke. I swear, I could smell those cigarettes burning from my bedroom while he was in the kitchen—just a constant haze of tobacco that made the whole house smell like a combination of BBQ and a bonfire gone wrong. Nasty!
But here’s the funny part—despite the constant cloud of smoke, our kitchen was always stocked with food, and our garden was a mini-Eden, bursting with fresh fruits and vegetables. It was like living in a health-conscious ashtray. Only my dad could pair homegrown tomatoes with a side of menthol. If you needed a salad with a hint of nicotine, our house was the place to be!
Ah, childhood nights at the bar—probably more than a kid should experience, but hey, they were memorable! The Scottish Inn stands out as a shrine to those late-night escapades. Certain songs still play, and my mind is instantly transported to those nights of neon lights and laughter.
My dad was like a walking party generator, capable of turning any room into a dance floor or a stage for one of his legendary stories. His tales were always larger than life—sometimes so embellished they could have been classified as fantasy fiction. He could light up a room with his charisma and energy, and I often wished I could match his extroverted brilliance.
But here’s the kicker: while I admired his party-starting prowess, I also knew I didn’t want to turn into the “after a few too many” version of him. I figured I’d leave the party antics to him and stick to admiring from a distance—or at least from a responsible distance!
My dad was a true road warrior, orchestrating epic 24-hour drives from Michigan to Florida for our two-week family vacations. If there were an Olympic event for endurance driving, he’d have a gold medal hanging on the wall right next to those autographs from the Detroit Tigers’ spring training in 1984—the year they went on to win the World Series.
I remember those drives as a mix of excitement and “Are we there yet?” chants, with the occasional game of “I spy” to keep things interesting. We were lucky to catch a glimpse of baseball greatness and still have those autographs as a trophy of our adventure.
Most of our summers were spent enjoying the great outdoors at Higgins Lake or Tawas, where family fun was the name of the game. Dad’s commitment to ensuring we had a blast was as strong as his driving stamina. Reflecting on those days, I feel incredibly blessed for the experiences and memories he created. What a ride—and not just the 24-hour ones!
One of my most cherished memories is of my dad coaching my t-ball team when I was a young boy. He imparted a lesson that has stayed with me ever since. His approach was straightforward: if you didn’t win the game, you got right back out there and practiced harder. Victory came with its rewards—hot dogs, chips, soda, and a pack of baseball cards. But if you lost, there were no treats, just a clear message that effort and perseverance were what really mattered.
At the time, I didn’t appreciate it much when I came home empty-handed, feeling the sting of defeat. But those moments of disappointment were crucial. They taught me that success isn’t just about the rewards; it’s about the dedication to keep improving and the resilience to face setbacks. That simple, tough-love approach from my dad became a cornerstone of my work ethic, shaping how I tackle challenges and strive for excellence.
One fall day, we had family and friends over, all packed into the garage watching football. You know, the way we did back then—because apparently, the living room just wasn’t “football” enough. At some point, we decided to take a break and play a little basketball outside. But there was one small problem—my sister’s car was in the way.
Now, my dad, in his infinite wisdom, asks me to move it. Only one issue: it’s a stick shift, and I have no clue how to drive it. I mean, who really knows how to drive a stick? It’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube while balancing on a unicycle—who thought this was a good idea?
But Dad, being Dad, was determined to turn this into a teaching moment. He gives me the rundown: “Push the clutch in, turn the car on, and then just ease into the gas.” Simple, right? So, I follow his instructions to the letter, or so I thought. Next thing I know, I’ve accidentally released the clutch, stomped on the gas, and sent the car barreling through the garage door. Boom!
Now, at this point, any other parent might have freaked out, maybe even let out a few choice words. But not my dad. He just looks at the gaping hole where the door used to be and says, “Go get some plastic.” Like we’re just wrapping leftovers or something. That was the cool part of my dad—calm under pressure, even when his garage just became a drive-thru. He was fun, in that “How did we survive our childhood?” kind of way.
My dad spent a lot of time in the garage (the man cave) in the winters watching sports and burning his wood fire stove, drinking beers and hanging out with our 5 Siberian Huskies. His favorite was Nickolai, the only male dog. His garage was decked out with sports pendants, bumper stickers of all the amusement parks and other family things we had done, a Hulk Hogan poster, Motley Crue poster, Detroit Tigers poster, Saginaw Gears hockey team poster, and posters of beautiful models (remember Kathy Ireland or Cheryl Tiegs) promoting beer. In the summer he was busy grilling up some fantastic steaks, chicken, and burgers.
Ah, the glory days of wrestling at the Saginaw Civic Center. As a kid, I was blissfully unaware that the action in the ring wasn’t exactly real. But that changed dramatically one night when my dad decided to take “fan participation” to a whole new level.
There we were, down near the ring, and my dad, ever the showman, strolls up wearing a hat and brandishing a newspaper like it’s his secret weapon. He grabs the mic and shouts, “Legion of Doom are the baddest!” The crowd went wild, screaming and jeering, thinking he was the actual manager of the Road Warriors and Jake the Snake Roberts. Meanwhile, I’m standing there thinking, “Holy crap, my dad’s crazy! He’s a wrestling legend now!”
And if that wasn’t enough, there was the time he had me try to grab Andre the Giant’s stick as he walked by after defeating Kamala. Now, Andre was a mountain of a man, and I was, well, let’s say I didn’t stand a chance. But that didn’t stop my dad from urging me to give it a shot.
We also managed to catch Wrestlemania in Detroit, where I finally got to see Hulk Hogan, my hero, in action. It was the perfect blend of excitement, chaos, and sheer disbelief that my dad had turned our wrestling outings into such unforgettable spectacles. How blessed was I!
When I was around 15, I was at that age where I thought I knew everything—like most teenagers do. One day, I got mouthy with my dad over something trivial, probably chores or why I wasn’t allowed to sleep until noon. Anyway, in my teenage wisdom, I decided to take it up a notch and threw a punch at him. You know, as one does when you’ve watched too many action movies and think you’re suddenly Bruce Lee.
Now, my dad was only 5’6”, but don’t let that fool you. The man had 16-inch biceps that looked like they could bench press a small car. And let me tell you, he was fast—lightning fast. Before I even realized what I’d done, he blocked my punch like it was nothing, and in one smooth move, he tossed me onto the couch.
There I was, sprawled out, staring at the ceiling, thinking, “Wow, my dad’s tough. Maybe I should stick to arguing with the cat next time.”
Needless to say, I never tried that again. I mean, I wasn’t about to go 0 for 2. Besides, who messes with a guy who could probably knock out a bear with one arm while grilling burgers with the other?
During the late 90’s, I played guitar in a band called Figurehead that did nearly 100 shows a year across Michigan. My dad would be out until 2am with us at some of the local Saginaw shows and then still go out to Denny’s or the Texan. I loved that and to think he was in his 50’s doing that! What was even funnier is when someone hit on my mom at one of those shows and she said, “I could be more mom…and that’s my son Geoff up there on guitar.” HAHA!
In 2005, my father experienced a stroke that marked the beginning of a challenging journey. Over time, his health declined significantly—his mobility was limited, and his speech became slurred. Despite these difficulties, he and my mom demonstrated remarkable resilience, continuing their annual winter drives from Michigan to Arizona.
As his condition progressed, he was eventually diagnosed with dementia, followed by Parkinson’s disease. My mother, who had been his steadfast caregiver, found the demands of his care overwhelming. Consequently, he moved into a nursing home, where the impact of his illnesses was starkly apparent. The medication left him sleeping for up to 20 hours a day, and his cognitive functions diminished further as dementia took hold.
Witnessing this decline was profoundly heartbreaking. My father was far from perfect, but seeing him struggle with such debilitating conditions was a poignant reminder of the human condition. No one deserves to face such suffering, and the experience underscored the deep respect I have for his enduring spirit and the unwavering love of my mother through such trying times. She deserves a medal!
My last visit with my father was in October 2023. By then, it was hard to tell if he fully recognized me, but I sensed a flicker of recognition after a few visits. That final conversation we had, just after his surgery for a severe artery issue, was a moment of deep significance for me. I was grateful for the chance to tell him that I loved him, knowing it might be my last opportunity.
I had already planned to visit him again once he was out of the hospital. Unfortunately, life had other plans, and God called him home to become another angel. Even though the timing was not what I had hoped for, I find solace in the moments we shared and the love we expressed. His presence in my life remains a guiding light, and I cherish the memories and the chance to say goodbye, knowing he is at peace.
Due to most family members not living past late 60’s, early 70’s, it was amazing my dad made it to 76 years old… and a few days away from his birthday to turn 77. Who knew smoking and drinking and eating bad food could extend your life? LOL!
On June 30th, 2024, I took a profound step in my spiritual journey by getting rebaptized. In that sacred moment, I prayed for God to take my father, who had endured so much suffering. His quality of life had diminished significantly—he could no longer walk, his speech was minimal, and his mind seemed adrift in a distant place.
My heart ached knowing he was in such a state, and my prayer was a plea for release from his suffering. I wanted so much to bring him a Bible, to offer him comfort, and to reassure him that it was okay to let go. My intention was to bring him peace in his final days, hoping he would find solace in knowing he was loved and that his suffering could come to an end.
Though the timing of his passing was beyond my control, I find comfort in knowing that my intentions were rooted in love and compassion. His journey now rests in the hands of a higher power, and I trust that he has found the peace that eluded him in his final days.
I wouldn’t have ever had the life I have today in California if it weren’t for my parents sacrifice to help me pay for college. When I applied to MSU (my only choice) I didn’t know if we would be able to afford it. I can still remember my dad waking me up the day after my high school graduation party and saying, “Don’t worry. I’m going to help fund your education. You’ll be good for the first 2 years.” Thank God they did. Working at GM allowed me to earn an MBA at Pepperdine University (entirely paid for by GM), which spring boarded my career in Operations having held a myriad of titles from Supervisor, Manager, Director, VP and COO.
Without that education from MSU, I never would have gotten to California to get hired at GM. Without GM, I likely would have never earned an MBA. Without the MBA, I wouldn’t have been able to become a college MBA Professor. Without that, I would have never met my wife. Without my wife, there’s no Liam. The list goes on…. And I’m so eternally grateful for my dad.
My dad wasn’t the best with words (probably a German thing) but I do know how proud he was of me (he told me only once, maybe twice) and my education earned at Michigan State University gave him tremendous bragging rights at GM. It’s that belief that you just want your kids to have a better life than you had.
I have a letter saved that my dad wrote me after I finished high school. He didn’t have the emotional intelligence to tell me. It was a letter that basically told me I needed to grow up and cut my hair (the IRONY) but that he was glad I got good grades and stayed out of trouble. He believed in my potential, but I had to work hard.
One of the greatest lessons my dad taught me was that sometimes, to change the system, you first have to master it. He’d say, “Play the game—cut your hair, get your degree, cover your tattoos—and then, once you’re in, you can truly be who you want to be.” He often spoke of a friend who was an attorney—a free spirit with long hair, but one who knew when to keep it trimmed during school to achieve his goals.
What this taught me wasn’t just about conforming; it was about understanding the balance between authenticity and survival in the world of careers and jobs. My dad instilled in me a rebellious spirit—not to rebel for rebellion’s sake, but to challenge the status quo when it needed challenging. That rebelliousness might have gotten me into trouble from time to time, but more often, it earned me respect because I wasn’t afraid to stand up and be different.
Today, the world looks completely different from when my dad first shared that wisdom with me. The game has changed, but the need to navigate it with a blend of authenticity and strategy remains. As I reflect on his passing, I feel a strong sense that the time is near for my true, authentic self to shine in ways I’ve never allowed before. His wisdom continues to guide me, and I know that in embracing who I am, I’m honoring the spirit of everything he taught me.
On the morning of my dad passing, I went and told Liam while he was still laying in bed. He said, “I’m sorry dad. What was your favorite memory of him?” That got me thinking and all the reason I wrote down all this stuff you are now reading.
There’s not necessarily one favorite… there’s just a lot of memories. Some great, some good, and some ugly.
Life is short. Really short! Hug your loved ones tighter and tell them what they mean to you today, before it’s too late.
Dad, I love you!
xxxxx
Thank you to those who already called or text. There’s something very special about calling and hearing one’s voice during times like this and I recognize that takes courage for some people but know how much it meant to me and my family.
There will be no funeral but a small family celebration of life.
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