When Jean Shepherd died Oct. 16 at the age of 78, it barely caused a stir In Cincinnati, even though it is the town where his reputation was firmly established and where he managed to place a euphoniously named restaurant, Shuller's Wigwam, on the notional map. Shep, as friends and fans inevitably called him, has been variously described as a raconteur and master storyteller who could make a gray little place on Lake Michigan, Hammond, Ind., come alive with his often bizarre childhood tales. It was through the now-debauched medium known as radio that Shep weaved most of his lyrical magic, but his talents were simply too grand to limit to one format. For Shep was more than a storyteller. He was really more like a jazz musician, sidling up to the microphone to offer verbal riffs on whatever inspired him at that moment in time and space - whether it was his tenure in the army with a mess-kit repair battalion or hanging on the street corner with his preteen menagerie of Flick, Schwartz, and Brunner - and following the muse wherever it led. The rap would start, meander through dozens of bars, and conclude just as the lights dimmed, with occasional detours to provide the artist with an opportunity to perform a kazoo solo on "Yellow Dog Blues." That link with jazz was made immortal in 1957 when Shep did the voiceover on one of Charles Mingus's greatest artistic achievements, "The Clown," which remains available today on CD. As always, the voice is steady and clear, with the Midwestern twang he was unable to completely abandon, accompanying the tugs on Mingus's upright bass. Despite his mastery of radio and his jazz inflections, Shep might today better be termed a performance artist. He was always on stage in one way or another and mastered the entire gamut of media. In addition to radio, he hosted a popular PBS television series, Jean Shepherd's America, wrote extensively, and staged one-man shows that are legendary. Most people will undoubtedly know Shep for the now classic 1983 film, A Christmas Story, which seems to play on television ceaselessly through the Yule season. The screenplay, penned by Shepherd, who also does the narration, relates the story of young Ralphie and his yearning for a Red Ryder BB gun, which he hopes to find under the tree on the morning of Dec. 25. It immortalized his friend Flick as the lad who got his tongue stuck to an icy flagpole. It was and remains a wonderful movie, based primarily on Shep's first book of short stories. In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, which was a collection of writings that first appeared in Playboy. The best of those yarns, Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories, still in print, is laughoutloud funny, worthy to be compared with the best of Mark Twain and S.J. Perelman. But the road Inevitably leads back to radio. Shep got his start talking on WSAI - AM in Cincinnati in the early 1950s. He moved on to Philadelphia and then New York. Where he enthralled listeners for more than 20 years from his late night slot on WOR-AM. I know. Because I was one of the listeners he enthralled. For several years, Shep's voice was the last thing I beard at night, that and the cantering theme song that both opened and closed the show. And I remember dozens of episodes. When a friend of his, Jack Kerouac, died In 1969, Author Jean Shepherd, in an undated photo, got his start on radio, but the movie A Christmas Story is perhaps his most widely known work. Shepherd devoted his entire show to readings from On the Road, with a solo jazz trumpet performing in the background. It's hard to imagine any broadcaster doing something like that today. The real treats came on Saturday nights, when Shep would perform from the Limelight, a club In Greenwich Village, and spin off humorous, Imaginative stories for two hours. One that has always stuck with me involved an army softball game he participated in during WWll in New Guinea. It was hot, and eventually one of the players announced that he was removing his shirt. Soon everyone did so, and it wasn't too long before everyone's pants were removed. Eventually, of course, the group was embroiled in what might have been the world's first naked softball game - until the general drove up in a Jeep with his young daughter in tow. Relaying the gist of a Shepherd story, however, can never do it justice. The devil was in the details, the voice, and the point of view. It's a perspective for the ages now. Shepherd's dead. Flick lives. Bill Straub is Washington correspondent for the Cincinnati Post.