Remembering Richard

This is how I remember Richard:

I think of him clad all in black, with a headset decorating the side of his face. Making sure the technical aspects of the theater were firmly in place, so the children onstage could be seen and heard. Providing the foundation.

I think of him patiently waiting for my parents' only-very-selectively-friendly dog, Jackson, to warm up to him, rather than writing him off as a "bad dog," as so many guests tend to do.

I think of him with soft voice and active eyes.

I think of him remembering the details, asking specific questions about the things that directly pertained to you.

I first met Richard when his daughter, my now much cherished friend M, was in a play. Through Rachel's Eyes was the first play I ever wrote. It was also the first play I ever directed. I was fourteen. M was eleven, and I had never meet her prior to the Through Rachel's Eyes audition. M, like her father, is quiet, with a soft voice and active eyes, constantly absorbing the details. I remember not only how seriously M took the show, but also how seriously her parents took it - here I was, a fourteen year old kid, setting rehearsal schedules and wrangling a multi-generational group into a community theater production... the perfect set-up for a farce, or at least a project to smile and nod at while secretly writing off... and yet Richard and his wife K (the one with the laugh that makes the whole room warmer - unlike her daughter or husband, K is never quiet with the laughter) treated the whole endeavor, and everyone involved, with complete respect, support and appreciation, throughout the process.

I remember, later on, meeting his son, D, and watching him grow from a quiet little boy who shied from the limelight into a young man who fills the stage, a young man who has already begun to so resemble his father.

I think of Richard sitting on the MYT Board of Directors with my parents, committing time and energy to ensure that not only his own children, but many, many people's children could benefit from the theater magic that MYT creates.

I remember last Thanksgiving. After most of the guests had departed my parents' home, the rest of us packed up some leftovers, piled into two cars and drove through the snow to visit Richard and his family. We sat in the cozy living room, drinking tea and sharing theater stories, holiday stories, life stories. It was such a lovely, familial night.

These are some of the most vivid ways that I remember Richard.

There are other memories, of course; I remember visiting him this summer, at the hospital, when I was in town for our friend's wedding. Even then, with as much sterile sternness as that hospital room tried to impose, we shared stories and jokes until he grew tired. I remember his blog, his candor about his battles, and the last post that still greets me each time I click the link on my blog that carries me to his. "Just like sands through the hourglass."

The sands passed through the hourglass faster than any of us would have guessed, back when he wrote that final blog post. And while the most recent memories will always linger, they are overpowered by the dozen years' worth of memories of the kind man, clad in black, who befriended my entire family, quietly making things happen, with a headset connecting him to the young actors onstage. Providing the foundation.

Richard passed away on September 16, in the presence of his loving family, K, M, and D. His loss is felt in so many lives. May his memory always be a blessing, for all of us.