In Memory of Rick Buesch
Composed by Clark Riley and recited at the Memorial gathering 
for Rick Buesch at NTHS football field in April of 2001

    At a time like this there is a community of feeling like very few other occasions.  Sadness and sympathy for Tom and Ginger, the nieces and nephews, all of Rick’s family here and afar. The desire to share and support, to try and help in the midst of feelings of helplessness. Anger, perhaps. The feelings that Rick should not have done this.  He did not need to do this. What can any one of us do with this?

      I have a concern for Tom and Ginger’s tomorrows. I dare say we all here have concern for their tomorrows.  We have concern for ours as well.  If it could happen to another, one of us, could it happen to us or to ours, ever, just maybe.  In part, that's why we want to understand, I think.  To isolate it by explaining it, make it unique and controllable, rather than a very human thing that happens to the likes of us.

      But I don’t understand.  The older I get the less I understand. I really don’t understand how a human being gets to the point where he or she might do this, just that they do. The whole push within me, I think naturally within all of us, is so much toward survival throughout our lives… staying alive, sometimes even at cost to others. We fight for it, don’t we?  I simply cannot figure out how Rick got there, knowing Rick.  The pain must have been incredibly intense and absolutely isolating.  My shock, our shock, and bewilderment was complete.

      I cannot understand, and therefore, I don’t judge.  I don’t know what was going on inside of Rick, but I do know that depression can become so overwhelming that one's own personal world simply closes in, and that being in touch with reality, being available to normal feelings and to others, is truly lost; all normal, rational thought ceases, one's view of things becomes strangely distorted.  One is not even available any longer to the help and care of others. And everyone has his or her own breaking point.   Knowing Rick, I can even believe that he did what he did thinking of his family and friends, thinking that it was better for them all this way instead of some alternative. Intentions and reality don’t always coincide when one is as devastated as Rick must have been.

      So ours is not necessarily to understand why, but to try and understand Rick’s pain and to feel sorrow for what has happened and to forgive if you think forgiving is necessary, and certainly not to judge.  There are certain things to be learned from this for all of us. I don’t know what was going on in Rick, but I personally do know that depression is a slippery slope that one slides down over time until indeed there may be great difficulty in returning.  But if along the way one is able to reach out and share one's troubled spirit, to ask for help, to receive as well as give, one may not sink so deep into that bottomless pit.

      That is perhaps where Rick maybe made a mistake, early on.  If so, that is also where many of us make mistakes even now.  Not reaching out. We are all, Rick and you and I, products of a culture, especially here in communities such as Winnetka and Aspen, where admitting inadequacy is unacceptable. We don't mind if others admit to trouble, but not me. We don’t trouble others with our troubles. We go on pretending otherwise, no matter how deep the pain. We are the strong, the competent, and self-sufficient.  And all around there are those more than ready to understand, willing to help.  Maybe we can honor Rick's passing by risking being a little more human, a little more open, by letting one another in more.  By sharing, talking, scary as it may be. As a wise man once said, we need to let others into our troubled heart and then bear one another's burdens.(The Apostle)

      So let this heavy sorrow lower our guard a little.  Let it cause us to take a new look at our priorities.  We are so easily drawn into forgetting what we know deep inside, forgetting about what finally counts in life.  And times like this tell us again, remind us of what really is important, where life really is.   Let us listen and take this to heart.

      And let us shake ourselves loose now from the questions and emotions of these last few months to concentrate on what truly counts about Rick.  It is never the passing that finally counts.  It is the living and the giving.  And Rick did give. Rick was an unselfish and unheralded giver.

      Rick was born at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston, Illinois on November 29, 1944. His childhood home was 607 Willow Road in Winnetka, just a few blocks from where we stand now. From about first grade on, he would summer and vacation with his parents, Lois and Andrew, with his sisters, Suki and Ginger, and his older brother, Tom, at their home in Aspen, Colorado, which was much littler back then. In these two places Rick grew to young manhood, and graduated from the New Trier High School in 1963. He was a star athlete, a fierce and powerful competitor and fabulous teammate. He was a top wrestler. He was a star football player. He was repeatedly the team captain and always a leader to be proud of. In his senior year during a highly acclaimed season, he guided his team with spirit and drive to spell binding wins, the ultimate game being a smashing victory over archrival Evanston. His was a spectacular exhibition of strong will and athletic prowess, of training hard and wanting to give it his all. He sang as a troubadour and in Senior Choral, went to parties (though begrudgingly at times), struggled with his studies, laughed in the locker room and in the hallways, was head over heals in love with Kim, broke bread with his friends, loved nature, was a crack shot with shotgun, rifle and bow, hunted and adventured in the great outdoors, which he loved, worked with zeal on the cars, and drove his Chevy and cycle too fast. He lived life fast even back then.

    He gave to his country, serving as a Lance Corporal in the U.S. Marine Corps in Viet Nam in the mid 60s. He fought valiantly, was recruited into covert action and did his duty with honor. He witnessed atrocities, lost many friends and loved ones, and felt the worst horrors imaginable. He was a much-decorated hero during a time of confusion and madness. He gave to his fellow soldiers then and later, marching in support of fellow veterans for their recognition, all across this country, joining in their spirit, torn up by the love for their comradeship and the tragic sorrow-filled duty that they and they alone could share.

      Soon after Viet Nam Rick married Valerie, lived in Paris and New York. And he gave to that marriage, I think, all he could give. Fifteen years ago, however, he returned to his beloved Aspen, alone.

    He gave to his community, helping establish the Viet Nam Veterans’ Memorial in Aspen, serving as a sheriff in Pitkin County, working with excellence and explicit attention to detail. At the jail where he worked for many years I remember asking him about the current inmates whose pictures were posted on the wall. He knew all about them, and what they had done and much more. He knew their families and what they needed to do to straighten out their lives. It was so impressive to me, and Rick thought nothing of it. You could tell he cared for them and his co-workers. He gave to his fellow deputies, sheriff, and the many others who worked side by side with him. He gave his loyalty to business partners and to struggling ventures. He gave of his heart. Everyone in the community knew Rick. Whether it was a troubled youngster, a fellow worker or an old friend needing a shoulder to lean on or to cry on, or a stranger in need. He was always there to help, to give of himself.  

Some scenes from the gathering at the football field at NTHS to remember Rick... Click on an image to see full sized view
Clark Riley,  Tom Buesch's fiancee, Tom Buesch's son, Jeff, Ian and Tracey Zimber, Pete Voysey, Clark's wife,  T J Dunn	Bernie Kamenear and Dorothy McLean	Jeff Zimber, Allen Stern, Rick Paul,  Pete Voysey,	Jeff Zimber, Sue Giallombardo, Fred James, Kim Ketola, Kerry Ketola, Allan Stern, Pete Diltz

    He gave to his many friends of his attention and hospitality, his willingness to help in time of need, when others had career problems.  Rick was always ready to go out of his way to do some little thing for others.  No task was too small, beneath him.  He truly loved to do for others.  He was a very considerate, thoughtful, helpful man.

      He gave to his family.  Family was of great importance to him.  He spoke to me of his mom Lois and their travels together, of her encouragement to him. He spoke of the tragedy of his father Andrew and his early and untimely death, how they would disagree and then mend and how much he wished that he had been able to be with him before he died instead of in Viet Nam. He spoke of the agonizing loss of his sister Suki and of his beloved niece Fay. He spoke to me of Tom and Ginger, and their children. How life could be so tough some times. How he worried about you all. In his heart he was always there. Giving.

    How will you remember Rick? I shall remember Rick for a smile. It was not a big or frequent smile, but a gracious, genuine smile when it came. It occasionally came with a sparkle in his eye, making it a humorous and sometimes mischievous smile. Today I cannot see him in my mind’s eye without that smile.  He comforts me in a listening way with that smile. He waits for me to close my eyes and he is there, truly interested and caring and, of course, giving.  He had that smile for everyone, was gracious to all kinds, the small and the tall.  Jeff Zimber reminded me just this week of Rick in a top hat on a motorcycle with a big cigar sticking out of his mouth. What an image. And I see that smile with a sparkle in his eye.

    How considerate he was to everyone as they came and went in his life, even the simplest soul he treated with dignity and respect. Rick was a smile in our lives.   And while we mourn his absence deeply and regret his passing oh so much, we must now find in our hearts the room for gratitude for all that he was and for all that he did give that was good in our lives, and that will go on being good in our lives.  

      Finally, we are here because we want to renew faith in the face of this loss, indeed, even in the face of the way he left us. For finally we all make mistakes or are frail in one way or another. 

    In the end, I believe in my deepest heart that we all know the love and grace of God. I thank God for this because it is a love and grace that understands more than I do, that knows the heart, everyone’s heart, a love and grace that never lets go, never lets us go, because we are God’s children.

    Rick and I spoke of faith together. He was spiritual and close to the earth, to nature. He was of eastern not western thought in many of his ways, in his way of looking at the continuum of life. In many ways our beliefs are similar.

      I believe that at the heart of this universe are not an empty void or a cruel fate, but a loving parent who does watch over us on life's strange and sometimes confusing way, and who welcomes every son and daughter home at day's end, no matter what.  I believe Rick is with us now… and that he is at peace.  And we can learn and give ourselves more fully and faithfully, to one another and to life, to make up a bit for the emptiness, and to give and receive more deeply with one another until our day is done.

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Rick:

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Rick respected the Native American ways; Clark recited this Native American prayer in his honor:

O Great Spirit

          Whose voice I hear in the winds,

                         and whose breath gives life to all the world,

 hear me! I am small and weak, I need your strength  and wisdom.

Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes

      ever behold the red and purple sunset.

Make my hands respect the things you have made

      and my ears sharp to hear your voice.

Make me wise so that I may understand the things

      you have taught my people.

Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every

      leaf and rock.

I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother,

      but to fight my greatest enemy – myself.

Make me always ready to come to you with clean

      hands and straight eyes.

                      So when life fades, as the fading sunset,

                                       My spirit may come to you without shame.

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