Tuesday’s Tribute: Clint Ritchie

Jay and Deb’s writ­ing exer­cise, Tuesday’s Trib­ute, chal­lenges blog­gers to pause and remem­ber that it is not all about them. Rather, each Tues­day, par­tic­i­pants “shine a light on some­one else.”

He could charm the chrome off the bumper of your daddy’s 1957 Chevy. And he knew it.

A mock-up of the fic­tional Llan­view, Pa’s Ban­ner news­pa­per, pre­sented to Clint when he retired in 1998.

The first time he ever called our home, Big­Bob answered.  He told me later that he instantly rec­og­nized the dis­tinc­tive voice that began the con­ver­sa­tion this way:  “So this must be Big­Bob.  I hear you like to pop a brew and watch ol’ Clint Buchanan.” They chat­ted as if they had known each other their whole lives.  When I got home, Clint and I spent another two-and-a-half-hours talk­ing long dis­tance, get­ting to know each other. (I pre­vi­ously wrote about how we came to know each other here and here.)

For the past three days, I have been resist­ing the urge to dial his num­ber, hop­ing against hope that he will answer.  But he won’t.

My friend, Clint Ritchie, died this past Saturday.

I am a writer, but I am utterly inca­pable of describ­ing how sad I am that I will never again pick up the phone and hear him say, “Honey, how are you?”

I will miss his laugh more than any­thing.  He loved to call and tell me ter­ri­ble jokes.  And when I feigned dis­in­ter­est or dis­gust, he just laughed more heartily.  He’d say, “Now make sure you tell Big­Bob that one,” thor­oughly amused by his own antics.

As I thought about what I most wanted to write in trib­ute to my friend, so many mem­o­ries came flood­ing back of good times spent together in New York City or at his cher­ished Happy Horse Ranch. But the word that would not leave my mind was friend. Clint had a big heart and he was loyal. I always had the con­fi­dence and secu­rity of know­ing that if I needed assis­tance, Clint would “have my back,” unwa­ver­ing and steady. In the ver­nac­u­lar of “Grey’s Anatomy,” he was “my person.”

In New York City, Decem­ber 1998.

When I was under­go­ing treat­ment for a detached retina, I was blessed by the sup­port and encour­age­ment I received from friends and fam­ily. But Clint was the per­son who called most reg­u­larly to check in and cheer me up. I was required to lay on my stom­ach for more than two weeks fol­low­ing the first surgery. I was only allowed to get up to use the bath­room and eat, but had to keep my head down at all times. Read­ing was impos­si­ble, so Big­Bob put the tele­vi­sion and DVD player on the floor at the foot of the bed so that I could pass the time watch­ing movies or my favorite pro­grams with my good eye. He would leave the tele­phone there so that I could make or receive calls, and then go about tak­ing care of the boys and house. The days seemed end­less. I was uncom­fort­able and could barely sleep because of the fact that I couldn’t do any­thing so I didn’t get tired, not to men­tion the fear and worry I was expe­ri­enc­ing. Clint called me nearly every day — and sev­eral times on some days. He would say, “Honey, you are going to be fine. I don’t want to hear any neg­a­tiv­ity. You are going to get through this. I am visu­al­iz­ing your recov­ery now. I want you to visu­al­ize it, too.” He told me corny jokes and we chat­ted about what was hap­pen­ing in the world. He made it a point to call at 1:00 p.m. so that we could watch “One Life to Live” together. We dis­cussed how the show had changed in the years since his retire­ment and he shared sto­ries about his for­mer co-stars. His stead­fast pres­ence helped get me through those fright­en­ing days.

Clint Ritchie (1938–2009)

We some­times fin­ished each other’s sen­tences. It was not unusual for him to call me at the pre­cise moment that I was think­ing about him — or vice versa.

So I did not rush to the hos­pi­tal to visit him in his final hours on earth when his voice had been silenced; he could not respond. I knew he wanted me to remem­ber him as the self-proclaimed “good lookin’ sum-bitch” that he was. And remem­ber the way he always laughed when he said that.

I envi­sion heaven as the kind of place we most enjoyed being dur­ing our life­time, sur­rounded by the peo­ple, ani­mals, and things we loved. If that’s the case, Clint has embarked upon an eter­nal jour­ney through green pas­tures filled with beau­ti­ful horses, reunited with all of the ani­mals he loved so pas­sion­ately, espe­cially his faith­ful com­pan­ion, Lucky, for­ever exhibit­ing the charm that so endeared him — on and off-screen — to the many peo­ple who, like me, will always miss him.

Tech­no­rati Tags: Clint Buchanan, Clint Ritchie, One Life to Live, Tuesday’s Trib­ute

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