Tribute To Randy Gunnoe - by Deborah (Risk) Tobin

Paul Randall Gunnoe

1949-1994

by Deborah (Risk) Tobin

I’ve been staring at a blank computer screen. I write and delete hyperboles like “amazing,” “extraordinary,” “a rare and beautiful spirit.” The words are true and even modest, but Randy would hate them. “Come on Deborah, you know I’m all warts and blemishes – no holy man. Reserve those words for the Dali Lama.” Yet, if holiness is a measure of how much a person deeply touches another then Randy was one righteous soul. He knew how to give and he knew how to love.

Recently, I attended a funeral in which there were five eulogies praising a certain prominent man for his brilliant accomplishments. However the words unspoken were most powerful. There were no I-love-you’s or we’ll-miss-you’s or sentiments spoken from the heart; so unlike the outpouring of love and gratitude from the hundreds of Randy’s best friends attending his three memorial services. Randy -“sorry buddy, you’re going to hate me for saying this”- could make you feel like you were the most important person in his life. That’s because in the five minutes or five hours you were with him, you were his most precious friend. He had this quality of just being there, without distraction, without role playing, without pretense that made you feel special - the kind of feeling that you could carry with you for a long time.

Some facts about Randy: He was well-traveled, mostly in the States, Europe and Brazil , and used these journeys to broaden his understanding and appreciation of other cultures and people. He had this rare capacity to see every new encounter as an opportunity to learn and grow. I imagine that’s how he became so free of judgment and criticism, so able to accept you as you are.

He was a successful therapist and youth worker, establishing creative programs such as “Up the Creek” a cool “bar” for street kids and drug addicted youth in Boulder , Colorado . He was a mental health activist leading popular support groups on such topics as men’s identity and death and bereavement. He was a man who loved aesthetics. Plants, art, and music were constants in all of his homes - homes with open doors, a warm fire, and the welcoming aroma of Chef Randy’s gourmet dishes simmering on the stove.

He lived in a body too small to contain his enormous spirit, wisdom, and humor. He survived cancer and a near life-threatening beating from a brutal mugging, only to succumb several years later again to illness. Throughout his suffering, he never stopped working, dancing, entertaining, making people cry with laughter, growing, thinking, and loving deeply. And he never – and I mean never – complained. He laughed at life’s absurdities and courageously refused to play its victim. He could dazzle you with wit, but never used humor as a weapon.

He requested that I speak at his funeral, and when I asked him what he wanted me to say, he smiled and said, “Tell them I always loved to travel.” There was nothing melodramatic or self-serving in his confrontations with illness. He always met things just as they were. Death, for him, was just the last stop on the journey of life. “Hey, let’s face it. Life’s a terminal illness and there ain’t no escaping. So might as well enjoy the ride.”

To give you a final glimpse at his simple and honest approach to life, I will leave you with this quote from a letter: “I am sad — deeply disappointed that I see my friends having a future, and I get angry and bitter at times. Other times, quite honestly, I look forward to death. Not in a poor me, suicidal way — but in a celebratory, relief kind of way. My life has been rich. . . and hard at times. Whose isn’t?”

What follows is a smattering of pictures I took from across the years:

This is Randy as some of you may remember him, CHS, 1966