From Molly Stevens

I met Ricardo at Middlebury sometime between 1978 and 1979. Kim introduced us because, as she tells it, she wanted her friends to be friends. Whatever her reason, it worked (thank you, Kimmee!), and, ever since, my life has been unquestionably brighter, bigger, louder, richer and more fun for knowing and loving Ricardo. Looking back, I can’t imagine my college years without the force of Ricardo’s energy and heart. From the start, it was obvious that Ricardo was always moving, and so being his friend meant trying to keep up—or better yet, wanting to keep up. It was not one of those situations where I felt unwillingly dragged along (I’ve been in plenty of those); instead Ricardo’s forward motion was contagious. I wholly wanted to be swept along for the ride wherever we were going. Whether it was a dancing with the pre-lunch-funk-bunch in my dorm room at Hillcrest (“Don’t stop till you get enough, don’t stop...”) or a pre-dawn drive to the New Hampshire for a marathon hike, Ricardo amped up the energy wherever he went. He was a force unto himself. An absolute original. I will be forever grateful that I was lucky enough to get caught up in the wake of his radiant vitality and power for even a short time.

In addition to his infectious enthusiasm, I learned several important life lessons from Ricardo. First off, he turned me onto the pleasure and necessity of strong coffee (ah, the Mag D). He introduced me to the White Mountains. He showed me the way down Paradise. He made me understand how having a solid beat playing in your head can carry you all the way down a bump run. And most of all, he helped me see that everything doesn’t have to be spoken, and that sometimes—most times, really—dancing is enough. And yes, there was the funk. Always the funk.

After college, Ricardo and I went separate ways but loosely stayed in touch. I will never forget one particular phone call in the autumn after graduation. I had returned to my parent’s house after a few months wandering around Alaska. Ricardo was in Denver working at a real job. I had no job, no prospects and I was floundering. “You’ve got to get out of there, Moll” was all he said—once again, urging me to move forward, to point ‘em downhill, and he was right. I did pick myself up, get out of there, and took up the reins of my own life.

From then on, we saw each other only a few times before falling out of touch for about a decade. Happily, life events eventually brought our orbits closer with occasions like a college reunion (that ridiculous hike to Stark’s Nest in the thick fog and rain), my teaching trips to Salt Lake (where I so happily met lovely Caroline), Kim and Gil’s wedding (the Rev), and, of course, our somewhat irregular Utah ski trips. And each time it was always an electric happiness. That same powerful spirit and smile. That sparkle. And the funk. Always the funk.

In the present moment, I find myself fighting back feelings of regret—regret that I didn’t call more, didn’t email more, that I didn’t plan our ski trips better around his schedule—but then I realize that none of that would change anything. It wouldn’t make me miss my friend any less. It wouldn’t ease the pain in my heart. And, most importantly, it wouldn’t change the connection and love that I feel toward such an amazing and brilliant individual. I feel honored and blessed to be a part of this extended tribe of people paying tribute to our dear friend. Ricardo taught me to keep on moving, and I hope that one of my first steps forward out of this abyss of sadness will be to travel to Utah to celebrate with you all. Peace. Love. The groove will always be in the heart.

Molly

Vermont