Remembering Ted Esquivel

Autumn Lindberg got used to being interrupted with her dad, Ted Esquivel, at the grocery store when people would come up and say they remembered a story he’d shared years ago.

That’s what happens when you’re a professional storyteller.


Actor and storyteller: Ted Esquivel as the Player in the 1992 Good Company Players production of “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.” Photo / GCP

Esquivel, who died June 8 at age 62, knew what he was doing when it came to stories, his daughter remembers. His trick was to get the audience involved. In one classic tale of his, about a fox who gets his tail chopped off and has to jump through a bunch of hoops to get it back, Esquivel would divide the audience into sections and have one play, say, the river. He’d point at them from time to time and ask them to put up their hands to suggest a whooshing sound.

‘He got people so engaged that people would remember those stories years later,” Lindberg says.

Mr. Esquivel plied his trade at the aptly named (for him) Storyland in Roeding Park, as well as various elementary schools, private schools and camps, and youth parties and adult parties as Santa Claus, says longtime friend William Raines.


He attended several national and international storyteller conventions, including one in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Along with telling stories, Mr. Esquivel was known for his robust local theater career.

He was known for his “joy of life and performance,” Raines says.


He met Mr. Esquivel when they were students at McLane High School. “We were invited to do a walk-on part for one of the school plays to be performed at Roosevelt High School,” Raines says. “It was then that he was smitten by the theater bug — a passion that lasted his entire life.”

Mr. Esquivel performed at Theatre J’Nerique, Fresno City College and Woodward Shakespeare Festival. He was probably best known as a longtime veteran of Good Company Players, where people still talk about his roles in such favorite shows as ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead” and “1776.”

John Masier, who worked with Mr. Esquivel on a number of productions over the years, recalls an anecdote from the 2003 production of “1776”:

He’d just had gastric bypass surgery and was losing weight. He loved it, but it also was sapping his energy as his body adjusted, and he was playing a musical lead (Ben Franklin) when we were still doing six shows most weeks. One evening he was completely exhausted before the show even started, and we knew it was going to be a long night for him.

At one point late in the show, Franklin has a particularly powerful and dramatic monologue. Ted stood up, got halfway through, then stopped, considered for a moment, and announced in the most dignified and Franklinesque voice, ‘I can no longer stand.’ He was done. He sat down, we went on with the scene, and the audience never knew they’d missed anything, or that the actor who’d entertained them for two hours could barely stay on his feet.

Eric Estep, who was also in the show, shares another story:

Sunday matinee (April 13, 2003, to be precise), our John Adams fell ill mid-show. Ted (as Ben Franklin) saved the day with at least five minutes of brilliant improvisation, asking each congressional delegate where they stood on independence.

Lindbergh spent a lot of time with her father watching him at rehearsals. (“Kiss Me Kate” and “Rosencrantz” were among her favorites.) “My dad taught me to read by cuing his lines,” she says.

She also spent a lot of time with him in the car. Her parents were divorced when she was quite young, and he’d drive her from San Jose, where she was living, to Fresno. They used to spend time on the road playing games. One of his favorites was the “questions game,” where neither could say anything but questions. “It was amazing how it could keep me entertained for hours,” she says.

Recently he had moved into senior housing in downtown Fresno. He asked his daughter for help to furnish his new unit. He died just before that could happen, most likely because of a heart condition, she says.

Her father did not lead a conventional life. Storytelling was his passion, and he found a way to make it his life’s work. “Dad didn’t have a day job,” she says. “Which is pretty unique, I think. Dad lived very simply, to say the least.”

Add to that an irreverent and playful spirit. Greg Taber, producer of the Woodward Shakespeare Festival, remembers Mr. Esquivel’s portrayal of Leonato in the first season production of “Much Ado About Nothing” back in 2005.

“He was an absolute joy and a complete treasure,” Taber says. “He would show up at rehearsal out at the amphitheater each night and wander about muttering to everyone, largely in language that you probably can’t print, and entirely facetiously, about how much he hated the whole thing, couldn’t take one more minute of it, and was going home. For a wildly disparate group of artists trying to come together to do something on the scale of WSF, he was a solid and reassuring presence.”

Jennifer Hurd-Peterson played his character’s niece in that show. She was impressed with his performance — but also something else.

“‘What amazed me more is when he came to my class and told my kids stories,” she says. “They were mesmerized.”

A memorial fundraiser has been established in his honor via GoFundMe to benefit Storyland in Roeding Park.

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Covering the arts online in the central San Joaquin Valley and beyond. Lover of theater, classical music, visual arts, the literary arts and all creative endeavors. Former Fresno Bee arts critic and columnist. Graduate of Columbia University and Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Excited to be exploring the new world of arts journalism.

Comments (7)

  • Stephen Barile

    I first met Ted while in a City College production of JB (the story of Job), he was the voice of God, and I was Nickles the devil. Ted rode a motorcycle in those days. We also appeared together in a 1975 production of Romeo and Juliet, directed by Donald L. “Doc” Gunn, at City College (the first major production in the “new” theater). Ted played Mercusio, I played Tibalt. After our sword fight (last scene, first act) and my death scene at the hands of Romeo, first scene, second act–R & J is a 5-act tragedy) , Ted and I would put our street clothes over our costumes and drive over to the White Castle Bar, on Blackstone and have a few beers. Then we would return to the theater for our curtain-call. We did this for the entire run of the show. Doc never found out. We had a lot of experiences like this over the years. We always laughed a lot.

  • Wayne Steffen

    Thank you, Donald, for this tribute. I did not know Mr. Esquivel, but it is obvious that he meant a lot to Fresno’s art scene as well as to his many friends and loved ones. People like him may never reach the “big time,” but they bring life, joy and meaning to their communities, which is nothing short of wonderful.

  • Jim Tuck

    Although Ted and I crossed paths many times through the years, the only time he and I shared a stage was in 1993 in the Fresno Children’s Playhouse production of THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK. I was a rank beginner, having not been on a stage since MOUSETRAP at Roosevelt High School in 1965. Ted was so helpful to the middle-aged novice, both with suggestions and praise. I always enjoyed conversing with the other “voice of God,” and am saddened that he’s no longer here.

  • Donald -Thanks so much for this wonderful memorial for Ted. His death is truly a sad loss for this community. I haven’t seen Ted for a number of years now but in the early 80’s a small group of us had a regular storytelling gathering. Ted would often come sharing stories and encouraging all of us as we learned and explored the wonderful world of storytelling together. He was truly a mentor and friend. I loved his overalls with THE STORYTELLER written across the top! My son grew up hearing his stories at Storyland and later in our storytelling group.
    Bless him truly for all his gifts, generously shared for so many years!

  • Debra

    What a great tribute, Donald. I only knew of him through the theater community but it is heartbreaking that he is gone.


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