The following remarks were delivered at a memorial service held for Bud Rue, on October 30, 1993 at 2:00 PM in Milanville, Pennsylvania.

Joni Maylone

Clarke and I have never known a finer man, and a man so alive. Clarke met Bud first, where they taught at Montclair High School. We liked him right away. Bud had a way of broadcasting loud and clear. He was more than vital. He was boisterous, almost every sentence ending in a laugh. We were drawn to him sometimes like he was the sun itself. And now after 24 years, almost all of our memories are noisy ones.

There is Bud in his classroom. You walk by and hear him before you see him. Then he's at the blackboard, talking and slamming numbers onto the board. The chalk breaks, and in a half of chalk dust he shouts, "Aw, geez, the heck with it!" He turns to the class, tosses the butt of chalk to a student and says, "Bobbie, come up and finish this." They all laugh, Bobbie comes right up, and you know you're catching a glimpse of a master teacher.

Then there's Bud, at a party for teachers and students at the Rue house, introducing Annie to us like she was his prize-new, mail-order bride.

Then two months later, they had befriended us so thoroughly that, with our daughter Jennifer being born, Clarke raced to their house, wanting Bud and Ann to be the first to know. We really learned, first and most from Bud and Ann, that being parents would be OK, because they were so loudly, warmly, recklessly reassuring.

There is Bud, leading us in a caravan, in January, to see this crazy place on the Delaware River that seemed to be great for the new camp and free school we wanted to start. There was the House, the Dorm, the Rec Hall, the cottage. But what seemed to excite Bud the most, to raise his voice, fill his chest with pride, and to light that "treasure-in-trash" gleam in his eye, was the Chicken Coop: "Think of all the possibilities!" And with Bud, you really could always think of all the possibilities.

There is Bud in a Spring planning meeting for Innisfree. He's talking to excited and skeptical-but-hopeful parents. His arms are up. His head is shaking "No," as in "No, I don't have all the answers." But is voice is sounding "Yes," as in "Yes, I know this will be wonderful."

And there's that first Innisfree summer, with a thick throng of bright memories. There's Bud and Ann, coming up to our cottage late at night. Our daughter is asleep, and 80 people around the place are starting to quiet down. The four of us are playing double-canasta, and are engaged in a highly improbable act of pretending that we are parents who have tucked everybody in and are in benign control of this hairy horde of teenagers. Bud, as usual, has planted himself opposite Joni, so he can be her partner for this double-canasta. That way, he can talk about the affairs fo the day, pay extremely scant attention to the gam,e play his cards with gay and reckless abandon, give up his valuable card-piles to Clarke and Ann, hear Joni shreik with horror, laugh uprorariously, and wak up the baby.

There is Bud in Honesdale. He's found a warehouse that sells dry and canned food real cheap, because it's all what is called "train-damaged." He is up and down the aisles with two shopping carts, shouting with glee, loading macaroni for millions, and you'd think he was staking claims at Sutter's Mill.

And there is Bud near summer's end, up on the hill in the trees. We are gathering wood for the winter -- about 30 kids and maybe six of us older people who by now have shet most of our claims to adult status. But not Bud. He had the joy, freshness, energy and openness of a child, but always kept his strong sense of responsibility in gear. He was the most natural of leaders, and was being that on this day: He saw the need to do something, jumped in to do it, worked harder than most, made hard grunt-work seem fun, and hoped you'd join in. So there we were, with the chain saw, all those kids to shout to and laugh with, loading up that amazing old station wagon with wood. And there is Bud, happy as the day is long, bounding out of the woods, striding down our hill.

Dear Bud: oh, what a paradise it seems.

Now, having Bud gone from us is simply not acceptable. And it is entirely right to be mad and defiant about this, because he gave us so much, that he will always broadcast, loud and clar. This is a paradise, and we do celebrate the immortal spirit of Bud Rue. All of us can carry on, not only with our clear, bright memories of him, but also with his golden qualities, now more clear in ourselves.

Look at Tom; Tom has Bud's questioning, his iconoclasm, his integrity, and his civic seriousness. Look at Dave; there is Bud's honesty, sportsmanship, gentlemanliness, and practical eye. Look at John; there is Bud's wit, love of ideas, glad carelessness about material possessions, and sheer relish for sensual pleasures. Look at Ella; there is Bud's generosity, his laugh, his love and wonderful way with kids, and his great, high heart. And Annie, God bless you and keep you, you have him all.

We should say, like Charles Dickens, "God bless us, everyone." And if his spirit and his golden qualities flow on through us, into our own kids and our friendships, and on and on, then there is a Paradise, more lovely than this Delaware. There is immortality.

Thank you, Bud. On and on.