William Pippin

William “Bill” Doyle Pippin, 85, of Tower Lakes, Illinois, died unexpectedly on September 11, 2026 — an ending far too abrupt for a man who had so many more stories to tell.

And Bill loved to tell a good story.

Sometimes that meant impeccable timing. Sometimes it meant a detail added here or there for effect. And sometimes, if pressed, he might concede that the story may be more fiction than fact.

That was part of the fun.

Bill was witty, curious, generous, and deeply interested in people. He loved a good tale, a good drive, a good Chicago dog, great music, particularly jazz and blues, and the kind of humor that could be either very clever, sarcastic, or silly. Preferably all three combined.

He was a devoted husband to Marion, his wife of 62 years, and immensely proud of the family they built together: three children, five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

Their story began at DePaul University, although Bill gave fate a little assistance.

He was a sophomore in 1960 when Marion arrived as a freshman. During freshman orientation, Bill ditched his fraternity recruitment post to blend into the incoming class after spotting Marion across the room. He scored the introduction, but not the date.

Fate reciprocated. Marion pledged Theta Phi Alpha that year. Guess whose fraternity lunch table was adjacent? Lambda Tau Lambda – Bill’s fraternity and a brotherhood that provided Bill with many incredible life-long friends, a connection to history (named fraternity historian in 1961 and Vice President the next). Marion was named ’62 queen of his fraternity that same year. Coincidence? We think not.

He proposed in a movie theater Marion’s senior year. Neither Bill nor Marion remember the movie—or even the theater—which somehow seems fitting. The important part - the proposal and marriage – had a run far longer than either.

And they never stopped loving movies. The Odessey was their last together, enjoyed with Steve.

Bill grew up with family connections stretching from Chicago to Groesbeck, Texas, where relatives knew him not as Bill but as Doyle. He spent considerable time there and, in true Texas fashion, learned to drive at about age 10.

He loved driving for the rest of his life.

That came in handy during a long career as a traveling salesman mostly for Boise Cascade, work for which Bill was particularly well suited. He was honest, he listened, and he genuinely liked most people. He could sell, certainly, but he was best at forming relationships. Many of the people he met through work became lasting friends.

The miles became part of family life, too. Once the kids - Chris, Sue and Steve came along, Bill and Marion sometimes brought them on his sales trips, turning business travel into mini-adventures—and long stretches of highway into the kind of funny, chaotic family memories that only get better with time.

He was not especially interested in cooking.

He even less interested in developing handyman skills.

He did, however, make a very respectable fried baloney sandwich. Pippin Sauce was a must.

He loved Chicago dogs, okra, and ham hocks, the latter known to his children by the considerably less appetizing name “piggy snorts.” He smoked cigars until his kids convinced him not to, proving that persistence occasionally worked on Bill – although his affinity to questionable pork products stayed firm.

As a devoted fan of Monty Python, he introduced his children at a young age to the Ministry of Silly Walks and occasionally asked them to “bring me a shrubbery.”

He loved the Dune books, estate sales, movies and plays. As a younger man, he loved his cars. As he grew older, history increasingly captured his imagination, particularly the intrigue of early US Politics (having soured on the current day shenanigans) and the Civil War.

He loved jazz and blues and spent many memorable Mardi Gras celebrations in New Orleans with good friends. He knew the best dive bars in the Quarter. He loved exploring.

Bill and Marion traveled around the world, drawn not simply to famous sights but to different people, cultures and experiences. Curiosity was one of Bill’s defining qualities. He was interested in where people came from, what they knew, and what stories they carried.

That curiosity eventually led him backward through his own family tree.

Genealogy became a passion, and Bill treasured the Pippin family reunions in Tarboro, North Carolina. Family history mattered to him not as a collection of names and dates but as a living chain of people and stories.

His own family history included loss early in life. His father, Calvin, died in 1958 when Bill was in high school. His brother Walter Joe was killed at Iwo Jima, and his brother Gene died in 2003, the same year as Bill’s mother, Rosemary.

Perhaps that helped explain why Bill seemed to understand that people—and time with them—mattered.

He was kind and generous. He was proud of Marion, proud of his children, and delighted by his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

He also had a mischievous sense of justice and fair play.

Back when phones had cords, no mute option, nor could they quietly go to voicemail, the telemarketers who called the Pippin house at dinnertime occasionally discovered this the hard way.

Rather than hang up, Bill would turn the tables. When do they eat dinner? What is their phone number? Letting them know he’d be happy to call then to finish the conversation. Eventually, the person who had interrupted Bill’s piggy snorts or beef stew would find themselves trying desperately to get off the phone with him. Bill considered fairness restored.

It was quintessentially Bill: funny, stubborn, inventive, and on principle.

He liked (many) people. He liked conversation. He liked discovering things. He liked going somewhere he had never been and learning something he hadn't known before.

And through all of it—the sales calls and road trips, movies and Mardi Gras, genealogy and history, Chicago dogs and piggy snorts, Silly Walks and stories that improved slightly with age—the center of his life remained remarkably steady.

Marion.

His children.

His grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

His friends.

His family.

Bill is survived by his wife, Marion; their children; Chris (Andy), Sue (Mark), Steve (Christina); five grandchildren, Mark Jr. (Lizzy), Meghan, Luke, Hayden, Maddie; three great-grandchildren – Trey, Bella & Lily, and his grand-pets Murphy, Pea, and Peanut. He was preceded in death by his parents, Calvin and Rosemary Doyle, and his brothers, Walter Joe and Gene (Betty) Pippin.

A family tree can record the dates of a life.

It cannot quite capture the sound of someone's laugh, the mischievous glint in their eye when unveiling the latest estate-sale weird find (that everyone is now expected to wear), the food nobody else wanted to eat, the ridiculous T-shirt they wore until it nearly disintegrated, the genealogy they always tried to casually slip into family events, or the way a ride in an ordinary car can become an extraordinary memory with a man who loved to enjoy a moment to its fullest.

Those things live elsewhere.

They live in the people who knew him.

And Bill left them a great deal to work with.

A celebration of Bill’s life—bringing together the family and friends who were part of his many stories—will be held this fall.

In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital —or, in keeping with Bill’s spirit, take someone you love for a drive, tell a good story, and don’t let facts spoil a perfectly good ending.