Passing of an Icon: Jackie Randal Richardson, RRP

Passing of an Icon: Jackie Randal Richardson, RRP
“The Jack of All the Trades”

by Alan N. Schlaifer
Law Offices of Alan N. Schlaifer, P.C.

“I never met a man I didn’t like.”
--Will Rogers

That quotation could easily have been from Jack Richardson. For his 20 years at Trades Publishing, and many years before, it had been a cornerstone of his unique personality.

Trades publications include Resort Trades, Resort Trades Management & Operations, Golf Course Trades, Landscape Architect Trades, and Parks & Recreation Trades. Jack Richardson held the title of Director of Publications.

During his years of service, Jack helped his customers and colleagues in many ways. In the eyes of those he served and his colleagues, he was “the salesman supreme,” in the best sense of that term.
In an age of specialization, he was good at specific tasks. But he was also the rare person who could see the proverbial “big picture,” and respond in many ways that truly made him “the Jack of ALL the Trades.”

Jack had hundreds of friends at all levels, from top executives to neophytes, in all aspects of the resort industry who he served as a salesman and goodwill ambassador for Resort Trades. He liked them, and they felt the same way about him.

Whether in person, on the phone, or by email, he supported them with good cheer, with a positive outlook, candid advice, in-depth knowledge, intellectual curiosity, sound judgment and humor, which his friends and colleagues enjoyed.

In an industry so dependent on sales, he remembered – and liked - virtually everyone, male and female. And in a society obsessed with the seemingly oxymoronic “virtual relationships,” Jack’s solid foundation was from friendships formed and maintained over the years in person at conferences, by phone, and yes, even by email.
For his colleagues, including me, and family and friends, Jack was the ultimate “sounding board.” His storehouse of wisdom was, as they say in the MasterCard ads, “priceless,” and he would never “sound bored” when listening to you.

At a time when too many people are obsessed with cell phones, emails, and instant messages, Jack remained an excellent listener. As you grew to know him, he became your confidant, your trusted advisor, one of your best friends. You treasured his golden advice, his sincerity, and his gracious manner.

Before I began writing one of my monthly articles, he was typically the “go to” person, to see if a topic might be of interest to you, our readers. He had a finely honed sense of what might work, and what would not.

One example was the story on non-smoking policies that appeared a year ago. Marriott had just announced it was switching to no-smoking policies at all of its American properties last fall.

As a former smoker who had quit, Jack brought both the smoker’s and nonsmoker’s perspectives to bear on the issues at hand. He loved to ponder the legal and business aspects.

In a process reminiscent in the best ways of law school, he would pepper me with questions: “How is a resort going to treat smoking owners who bought before restrictions were imposed? What kinds of charges, if any, can they impose? What are the rights of smokers and non-smokers? Have you talked to executives with resort management companies, architects, developers, about this? What do they think? How do they handle these issues?”

And so much more. Whether it was smoking, environmental issues, telemarketing, the Internet, or myriad other topics I covered over the years, Jack was always informed and had insightful questions.

Jack and I shared admiration for an American hero of World War I, Sergeant Alvin York, the subject of Sergeant York, in which Gary Cooper played him and won an Academy Award for Best Actor. York, a renowned sharpshooter who almost single-handedly had captured a German battalion in the French Argonne region with 4 officers and 128 soldiers, had lived in Pall Mall, just a few miles up the road from Jack’s hometown. While York hit the target with bullets, Jack did so with questions.

York, his fellow Tennessean, came home to a Congressional Medal of Honor and ticker tape parade, but turned down huge endorsement fees (today’s equivalent of millions of dollars).

Like York, Jack did not need special rewards when he helped someone obtain a high-paying job. His request was just that they might at some point buy an ad. Long before the gurus created fancy phrases, such as customer-centric, Jack focused on serving his customers, colleagues, friends and family.

When you write a document on your PC, you know how easy it is to miss typos – much more likely than when you print it out. Jack was the extra pair of seemingly all-knowing eyes for me and others before a magazine went into print. There again, he hit the target.

With so much work done at my office, or even on the road in the U.S., and occasionally Europe or elsewhere, my weekly contact with Jack was usually by phone or email.

What a pleasure it was each year to sit down with him for a fine dinner during ARDA’s Annual Convention, whether in Las Vegas (as at Thomas Keller’s Bouchon at The Venetian) or Orlando. Good food and wine, together with stimulating discussions, always marked the evening.

For two decades, Jack was a bridge from the Trades to the American Resort Development Association – ARDA – recruiting members, attendees at the Spring and Fall conferences, and so much more.

The geographic and industry range of his associations was incredible. When he said he knew someone, whether in Memphis, Minneapolis, or Montana, or even farther away, he meant it. A veritable human Rolodex, he used this skill with literally thousands of the people he met during his life.

Others take courses, read books, and surf for webinars on how to build relationships or remember people. For Jack, all of this and more, such as modesty and a gracious manner, were part of his DNA.

He was born in Jamestown, Tennessee, about 40 miles north of Crossville, the son of Malcolm and Vida Richardson. His career included stints in the Navy during the Vietnam War, for Ford Motor Company, and in the music industry.

Outside work, he enjoyed going to his houseboat with wife Elaine, a professional caterer (whose company had a clever name Jack loved: The Mad Platter), eating her tasty dishes, singing karaoke, getting together with friends and family, and reading. His own cooking, in which he took great pride, included “gourmet” spaghetti and meatballs.

The lighter side of life was always a key part of his personality, whether in opining on the absurdities of politicians, or surfing the Net on September 19, “Talk Like a Pirate Day.”

This facet of his personality included an expression of tongue-in-cheek philosophies. “If you want to be rich, do what the rich people do. Look at what poor people do, and don’t do that.”

Jack’s own riches included a deep spiritual side, seeking to grasp the meaning of life, especially in recent years. Regular church attendance and study were parts of this facet of his life.

On October 9, Jack passed away at the age of 67, from lung cancer. His funeral on October 13 included soulful country music (“When I get to where I’m going) of the type Jack enjoyed, and poignant remarks from his minister and Tim Wilson, President of Trades.

He is survived by his widow, Elaine; his mother, Vida; of Jamestown; a brother, Rodney; a sister, Patricia Cunningham; two daughters, Beth James and Heather Richardson, and had one grandchild and two great grandchildren. Jack’s father, Malcolm, and brother, Ray, predeceased him.

Jack remembered all of us, and we will remember him. We will recall his indomitable spirit, good cheer, kindness, and other fine qualities. These are memories that his passing must not diminish.

By taking to heart these attributes and living them as part of our own lives, we will be paying a great tribute to this fine man, who so many of us miss so much.

And if, as we suspect, Jack is looking down at us now from vantage point on high, we are sure that his knowledge of how much he positively affected us is putting a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.