Go ahead, say ‘who’? I’ll understand. He was a co-worker, and a friend, and … well, read on. I thought I owed it to the guy, having waxed poetic about Bill Friedman, a far better known local individual who died almost the same day, at almost the same age.
REMEMBERING BOB BUXTON:
By Barney Lerten
Nov. 16, 2008
Two men, Bend residents of similar age, passed away recently – within a day of each other, actually. I knew them both, in totally separate circumstances. Many knew Bill Friedman, and I was honored to speak Saturday at his public memorial service, a simple gathering in a scenic park by the river.
Far fewer knew Bob Buxton – and even many who knew him didn’t know much about him. I am not yet of the age where I read the obituaries/death notices daily – may I never grow that “old” in my sphere of interests – so it was in a touching, honest piece by Janet Stevens in Friday’s Bulletin that I learned of Bob’s passing, at age 71, a year shy of Friedman.
The brief death notice in the paper, when I looked it up, simply noted his passing and said “no services will be held.”
No surprise. Bob wouldn’t want the fuss.
Now that I think about it, Buxton and Friedman did look a bit alike – gray hair, big glasses (like mine), a gray beard by the point in life I knew them.
But while Bill was comfortable in the public arena, and had married twice (at least?), Bob was a single man throughout his life, who had his pleasures and joys (dune buggying at the coast, taking long trips in his rig, and as a philatelist – that’s stamp collection) but was definitely what many would call, by and large, a loner, even amid the often cacophonous din of The Bulletin’s newsroom.
Don’t get me wrong – Bob could be very friendly, and caring, and work hard at keeping up a friendly conversation. But nobody would call him a party animal. Many might use the term curmudgeon, or even a grump. But he was who he was, and he was great at editing the wire and building pages at The Bulletin. He was a stickler for getting it right, as am I. So in that sense, we’re kindred spirits.
I first got to know Bob as a gruff voice on the telephone during my years with United Press International’s Portland bureau, when he (or his boss, Bob Chandler) would call about a typo or error in the wire report, or to ask where the hell the daily midday stock list was (something we had to call someone to get and manually punch in back then, probably the last thing holding up putting the then-afternoon paper to bed and presses to roll).
I always tried to do as they asked as fast (and typically frenetic) as I could, never knowing that it would help lead me to my next job when, as the last UPI reporter in Portland and next-to-last in the state, a boss in LA I barely knew called me up in late 1990 to tell me I was “the best person (they’ve) ever had to lay off.”
Ouch.
Months later, unemployment about to expire, I called Bob at The Bulletin to see if there were any openings. (My wife’s folks lived in Bend, so that would be a plus). He said there was, put me on the phone with then-City Editor Jeff Nielson. Long story short: I came over for an interview, two women turned down the job for various reasons, and I was in (first beat: Redmond, Sisters, religion and agriculture if I’m not mistaken….)
Much like Janet’s piece in the paper, I must note that while we worked in the same building, and were friendly with each other, Bob and I didn’t become close friends. Not really of the same generation, but he could harrumph with the best of them, and joined in the sometimes tacky, frequently crude humor you find in just about any newsroom. (Later, after his retirement, we fellow Bulletin refugees would chuckle over an error or two in the paper, as if to say, that wouldn’t happen if we were there.)
In recent years, Bob had turned to me a few times for advice and assistance in the foreign (to him) world of personal computers. He wanted one primarily to go on eBay and bid on stamp collections. Unfortunately, I have just enough tech knowledge to be dangerous, and am a lousy teacher – too easily frustrated, especially when I couldn’t make things work.
Bob was fighting several health problems in recent years, but still managed to find things to chuckle about and enjoy – a good NASCAR race on TV, his cat Fred (a friendly gray fellow that I think was a Russian blue).
I tried not to feel sorry for Bob being alone – he had some friends, some mutual, some not. But I felt more than a bit guilty for not visiting or at least calling him up more often.
We did chat online – he learned to use instant messaging, and his screen name fit his dune buggy affection, as ‘DoonDood1.’ (Mine is ‘computingfool’ – will skip the story behind that this time, too much about me already.)
So anyway, Bob, glad you’re out of pain now. You’ll be missed by those who knew and appreciated your dry humor, your smile and your friendship. May your celestial travels put you behind the wheel of a really nice rig, hitting the heavenly coast, a great diner, a NASCAR track or wherever your heart takes you.
Leave it to Barney 
