A tribute to Rick Watson

When we lose someone, it seems like our first reaction is always the same.

I wish that I had more time to spend with [insert name of friend or loved one].

The permanence of the loss immediately hits you in an unbelievable way.

With Rick, I wished that we’d fished together more. I wish that I’d gone to see him play music more. I wish that I’d gone out to his house just to hang out and see his bees.

I wish I’d called for advice more. It always helped.

When I started working for 280 Living in March of 2008, Rick was already contributing his column.

When I became the publisher and owner of the paper just three months later, Rick was someone who I could count on for more than just his column.

As we grew, Rick wrote features. He wrote sports stories. He wrote advertorials for special sections. He took photos. He took assignments for other publications that we opened. He was always willing to help.

He was a friend who I could call for business advice as well as personal advice. And it was always sound.

I remember an especially difficult time for me in personal life where I went fishing with Rick and talked at length about the situation. I could slice it and dice it every way there was to look at it.

And Rick listened and listened. He also saw both sides of the issue. And he said something that has always stuck with me. I thought of it almost immediately when I found out that he had passed.

“Life is short. And it doesn’t matter how long you live, it’s short. You can be 88 or 22 and it is short.”

To me, this meant that the best that we can do is to treat people with kindness and make the most of the time and resources that we have. If we do that, we can have no regrets.

That’s what I think Rick did.

He was always a friend, and he was always considerate. I could not imagine someone knowing Rick and not liking him.

One of the things that I admired the most about Rick was that he was a man of many interests.

He wrote stories and he wrote songs. He sang and played guitar. He’d fly fish. He kept bees. He was interested in photography. He was interested in digital media.

I’m sure that there were many things that Rick had a level of proficiency at that I didn’t know about. I thought of him as a Renaissance man.

Truth be told, I didn’t spend a ton of time with Rick in the 12 years that I knew him. I spent much more earlier than I did later.

His role in our company became less as he did other things and we got busy. Our conversations became less frequent.

When I recently received an email from him with his monthly invoice on a Friday afternoon, I replied to set up a fishing trip.

"Thanks, Rick. Want to fish in the next few weeks?

I haven’t been to the Sipsey in years, but I have been thinking about it recently.

Dan"

"Sounds good. It’s been too long for me too.

My schedule is flexible next week except for a Tuesday afternoon.

Let me know what works best for you.

Rick

Sent from my iPhone"

That was Friday, July 10.

I didn’t reply in the next few days.

I woke up on the following Thursday, July 16 and sat on my back deck drinking my coffee and listening to the morning birds. I thought that I needed to reach out to Rick and pick a day to fish.

The office wouldn’t miss me for one day or morning. It has been a stressful run for small business owners like me, or humans on earth in general. It would do me some good to get out and see my old friend. I might possibly catch a fish.

I went into the office and started my day. I got a call on the office line, which never happens. It was Rick’s wife of 45 years, Jilda.

She was calling to tell me the news that I’d found out just a little bit earlier.

“Rick loved you like a little brother,” she said. “You were going to go fishing. He was so excited.”

I will miss my friend. And I hope that next fishing trip with Rick can wait for a good long while.

Life is short. No matter how long you live, it is short.

Dan Starnes is the owner of StarnesMedia, which publishes 280 Living, HooverSun, Vestavia Voice, Homewood Star, VillageLiving, Iron City Ink and Cahaba Sun.