For the Savannah, Tennessee Central High School Class of 1980, losing a classmate near the end of our senior year was hard. For me and our friend group, it seemed excruciating. Even now, in the middle of our “middle-age,” hearing about a classmate’s passing doesn’t come any easier.
Rickey Stanfield, 1980 CHS senior photo.
Rickey Stanfield passed away on Saturday, April 25, 2026, at 64 years and 18 days old. To me, that feels too young. He was 55 days older than I am, and for many of our classmates, probably a few days or months on either side. Sixty-four still seems too soon to go, but I know God knew the right time for Rickey to come home.
He endured a brief, yet difficult battle with cancer. I suspect for many years Rickey didn’t realize those bad cells were inside him. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to let his family and friends down. In my mind, Rickey won his battle. Why? Because of his phenomenal attitude.
I saw several sides of Rickey during the three years that we ran around together. I’m certain that those closest to him saw many more. What I remember most is the genuine love he had for his family, friends, and community.
Meeting Rickey Stanfield
I tried hard to remember when Rickey and I first met. We both attended North and South Elementary, though maybe not at the same time. I wish I could find those old yearbooks, but they’re packed away somewhere, always out of reach when you want them. When our paths reemerged at the beginning of our ninth grade year at Hardin County Junior High, that’s when my memory reels with Rickey begin.
It was late summer in 1977. The boys wore Levi bell bottoms, and now that I think about it, so did most of the girls. Our hair hung somewhere between the middle and bottom of our ears, and the girls had fly-away styles that hinted at the big hair of the 80s. The worst of the disco days was behind us. A lot of great music and memories lay ahead.
What I remember most is how Rickey fit in with everyone. He grew up with the “shop boys,”the kids from the 10 former k-8 county schools that existed pre-1976, but he also mixed easily with us city kids in our small town of 6,500, that was acclimating to the rise of a new Wal-Mart and the demise of downtown’s Ben Franklin dime store.
Football might have ruled fall, but basketball was the common denominator that pulled us together. Those 12 elementary schools formed deep and often bitter rivalries that carried over into our freshman year. Our class was filled with hardwood talent. Some of our rural classmates didn’t bother trying out for the team. The five p.m. drive home after practice was too far or inaccessible. I do recall Rickey playing lots of basketball in those formative years.
CHS, Class of 1980
Our sophomore year stands out in my mind. Memories of Rickey from that time are especially clear, transitioning from black and white to color. We were minnows in a pool of larger upperclassmen. That was also the year most of us started driving or riding around, making endless trips between the old Greyhound bus station and the Co-op at the end of Wayne Road, with stops at Pizza Hut and Sonic along the way.
That was also when we learned where a 15-year-old could buy beer on the weekends. I can’t even count how many times I drove through town during those years. Some of the guys had four-wheel drive trucks for off-roading somewhere between Pickwick Lake and Bruton Branch. Rickey loved his truck and I enjoyed riding around with him.
As I write, more memories keep coming back. To keep this from turning into a book, here’s what stands out most to me about Rickey:
Rickey was a ladies’ man. I can’t quite explain it, but he had a cool, confident style that reminded me of James Dean. He was rarely without a pretty girl by his side. My admiration runs deep, my friend.
We never did anything truly bad. There was the usual high school mischief, but nothing too bold—except for one time.
I can’t remember if it was Rickey, Kirk Crotts, or Michael Franks, but someone had the bright idea to take bricks from a construction site (property theft) and use them for target practice on mailboxes (a rather serious federal offense). It was fun until they got caught. The key word for me is “they.” Luckily, I had a date that night and wasn’t with the boys the night they got busted somewhere around our junior year. Honestly, I’d probably still be grounded if I had been there. Rickey’s dad was a police officer and that didn’t help either. I remember they got a serious talking-to from some federal postal agents and had to fix a lot of mailboxes. Rickey took his punishment well. I bet he even made new friends of the homeowners we vandalized.
Darryl Worley Hasn’t Forgotten His Roots
On a cloudy and cold Sunday afternoon in January of 1980, Michael, Rickey, and I were riding around town when we saw a car full of out-of-town girls. Naturally, we wanted to impress them. Imagine that. Michael drove, Rickey sat in the middle, and I was riding shotgun. After a few laps, we caught up to them at the intersection of Harbert Drive and Wayne Road. The girls were stopped at the light in the right lane. As Michael pulled up next to them, I ducked down so all they could see was Rickey sitting next to Michael. I could hear the girls giggling as Rickey started pounding the back of my head. I wonder if he carried the same memory?
On February 17 of that year we lost Michael. Our lives changed forever. The next few days were a blur. Rickey, myself and four others I can’t recall were pallbearers. Somehow, we prevailed and moved forward. Years later Rickey honored his best friend when naming his son.
Graduation came and went. Some of us went to college, while others stayed in Savannah to farm, work at the paper mill, take construction jobs, or work on tow boats. During my freshman year at UT Martin, I hurt my back in a rodeo accident and couldn’t move in my dorm room. I needed help but didn’t know who to call.
My parents were out of town, and I needed someone to drive me from Martin to Savannah. I’m not sure how I reached Rickey—probably by calling his parents’ house. In those days we had everyone’s numbers memorized. Thankfully, he was home. A few hours later, Rickey and another friend showed up, got me out of my dorm, and drove me to the hospital in Savannah. Those Miller ponies made the painful trip a little easier. I hope Rickey knew how much I appreciated his help. I’m confident that dozens of others, probably hundreds, experienced that same generosity.
Saying Goodbye
The years flew by. Slowly at first, then picking up to a rapid pace as we turned the calendars page each year. The next time I saw Rickey he had injured his arm in a para-sailing accident. He suffered major injuries and almost died as a result. To is credit, he didn’t allow his injuries to dampen his spirit.
Facebook helped many of us reconnect. I reached out to Rickey in October of 2022 when Ricky Hardin and several of our classmates organized an impromptu baseball reunion at Russ Hopper’s cabin in Pickwick. I texted Rickey to come by. To me, it was about visiting with many of the guys we grew up with. He replied, saying he had company coming so probably wouldn’t make it and to give everyone his best. Father Time continued his trek.
It had been several weeks since I checked my Facebook feed and finally scrolled through my feed the day after he passed. When I saw Holly Jeter’s post that we had lost another classmate, I had a feeling it was Rickey. Holly and I chatted that afternoon and took a stroll down memory lane. When I told Holly the UTM story, his reply was quick. “Well, that was Rickey. Always willing to help someone.”
Rickey worked his construction job until the summer of 2025. He and his wife Keri had opened a food truck, Hogz N Henz, a few years earlier with the goal of cooking and selling barbecue when Rickey retired. I wanted to confirm a few details and Keri was kind enough to return my call in the midst of her chaos. She laughed when I asked if the food truck was their full time job.
“Heavens no, but Ricky loved cooking and wanted to use whatever money we made to help others,” remarked Keri. “Rickey paid rent and bills for people in need. He always wanted to lend a helping hand, even when we had to sacrifice.”
The last time I talked to Rickey was in late December, after my mom passed away. He called to offer his condolences and some barbecue. I knew he was battling cancer, yet had no idea what he was going through. His spirits seemed good and hearing his kind words was all I needed from an old friend.
Rest well, Rickey Stanfield. I’m sure you’ll have even better stories to share when we meet again.