I was a patient of Dr. Van Rheenen for many years.  I appreciated Dr. Van Rheenen's intelligence, and also his fantastic sense of humor.  My previous doctor had an office right near Peet's Coffee in Menlo Park, but my previous doctor passed away, so eventually I began seeing Dr. Van Rheenen.  Dr. Van Rheenen's office was so comfortable.  I felt very welcome every time that I met with Dr. Van Rheenen.  Dr. Van Rheenen always offered me a cup of Peet's coffee when I would visit with him.  I felt that the coffee was our communion.  Sometimes when we met, Dr. Van Rheenen would have his lunch while we were having our meeting.  As I remember, Dr. Van Rheenen's lunch would usually consist of a small container of yogurt and perhaps a piece of fruit.  When my father was sometimes recovering from an operation at Stanford Hospital, Dr. Van Rheenen would visit with my father.  My sister, Katie, was friends with the Van Rheenen family, and my niece, Rachael, was friends with one of the Van Rheenen daughters.  I really felt a strong connection with Dr. Van Rheenen, and I will truly miss him.

I was a patient of your Dad’s for a while--reading the tributes here, I thought someone should weigh in on his professional life.  Since the therapeutic relationship is finite, we were out of touch. I hadn’t heard anything about his diagnosis and final illness, although we were still regularly meeting when his health first began to slip.  Through it all, he remained positive, determined to persevere.  His optimism in the face of adversity seemed to me his defining characteristic.  He led by example and with humor--- laughter his secret weapon in all things.  I was supremely sad to hear of his passing.  I would have liked an opportunity for a final goodbye, but when considering what might be said, it occurred to me that it had all been covered over the course of many discussions. He would say to live my life well because everyday is a gift, to cherish my relationships as he so cherished all of you.  And I would say thank you RVR, for all of your support over the years. He would nod and chuckle, no doubt glad that at the end of the day, I wasn't asking for a refund.  I'm so very sorry for your loss. 

It was less than a handful of times that I had the opportunity to hang out with Rick, but the impression and love he left on my heart and soul will last a lifetime. He exuded the type of warmth and kindness that drew you to him.  That very special "Je ne sais quoi" spirit that the entire Van Rheenen family has.  It's quite possibly the reason why many of us have felt like we are part of their family--because everyone in their family welcomes us with open arms.

I remember when I flew back to Berkeley in 2008 for Derek's CAL Athletic Hall of Fame induction ceremony.  I didn't have a +1 and did my best to "be cool" as I spoke to various guests, some of whom I had met during my time at CAL, and others whom I had never met until that evening.  I knew it wouldn't be the most comfortable setting choosing to attend the event alone--but I'll never forget how comfortable I immediately felt when I saw Rick.  We had met before in passing during my years as a student at CAL, but this was the first real opportunity we had to engage in a meaningful adult discussion (I guess you become a "real adult" after you graduate college!).  

The pride he had in his eyes and heart for Derek's accomplishments was palpable.  He was truly touched that individuals from all parts of Derek's life were there to celebrate him.  And he beamed when I told him how impactful and meaningful Derek has been in my life--as his student, as his mentee, and as his friend.  Rick’s children are undoubtedly a huge part of the legacy that he has left behind—and what a beautiful and lasting legacy they are.

That weekend at the Van Rheenen Big Game tailgate, I had more time to continue my dialogue with Rick.  In fact, I remember it clearly because I had just started dating my now-husband, Chad.  There is always a sense of uncertainty and nervousness when a new relationship starts, but Rick was able to, again, put any sense of anxiousness at ease.  It must have been the psychiatrist in him that knew I needed reassurance that life and love always find a way of working itself out.  I adored his calm and gentle spirit, and it’s clear that I was not alone in this affection—he was clearly beloved by all who knew him. 

While the years and distance have taken me away from seeing Derek and Vince as often as I would like, my love and affinity for the Van Rheenen family has only grown as time has passed.  I did not know Rick as closely as many of you did—but I do know this:  Derek is one of the best men I know.  Derek was raised by his parents and learned his morals and values from them.  According to my logic, then, that makes Rick one of the best men, too.  Thank you, Rick, for the gifts of your presence and wisdom to this world.  And, thank you, Rick, for the gifts of your children to this world.  Your legacy continues to live on through the unconditional love and kindness that is inherent to their spirit.

I first met Rick when he dropped by my classroom after school one afternoon in 1972. He was a tall figure with longish black hair, a 60's look, and a big smile. He started with a handshake, and thanked me for sparking his son Brian's interest in school. I think I told him Brian seemed pretty turned on to school the first day, so he must have gotten his enthusiasm at home. Rick's open, easy manner and sharp sense of humor allowed us to form a mutual appreciation-pact almost instantaneously. I soon met Rick's wife Kathy, Erin and Derek, all precious lifetime friends. I was 25, a new teacher in Woodside, fresh from three years of teaching in Oakland and feeling a little insecure about what the immediate future would hold. He made me feel good about myself with his compliment.

When I made a class assignment to report on a culture different than their own, Brian explained that his family had just moved to Woodside after living in Nigeria, and that there were hundreds of cultures in Nigeria.  He said he would do a report focusing on just the most influential ones. I remember thinking... Wow, Brian is only in 7th grade and he's talking about doing a report based on a firsthand experience few Americans would ever have.

In our first meeting Rick talked about working as a doctor in the Peace Corps in Nigeria. His service  came at the end of the Nigerian Civil War, a horrifying tragedy Americans knew  from haunting images  of starving  Biafrians. Instead of dwelling on the war he was upbeat and talked about African wildlife, the richness & diversity of the cultures, and what a great experience it had been for his family.  We talked about Brian's report and how hard he was working. Rick was proud of his son. By the time our conversation came to a close he had volunteered to visit the class and do a a presentation on Nigeria. He was on his way out of the door when he spun around and exclaimed that he didn't want to upstage his son's report.  A week or so later Brian turned in his report which  explored in detail, the beliefs and culture of the Hausa, Yoruba and other groups.

Rick showed up with his slide show a couple weeks after that. He was true to his word.  His presentation didn't overlap his son's and in giving the talk he demonstrated he knew how to capitivate  a classroom of 12 to 14 year olds.  He took us down paths in the rainforest to remote thatch-roofed villages.  He described the abundance wildlife, and of poisonous snakes: cobras, mambas, vipers, but he spent much of his time talking about puff-adders. Puff-adders kill more people than all the rest. According to Rick the snake's sluggish-refusal-to-move-strategy works well for snake, not so well for people. Unlike other snakes, the puff-adder is likely to lay on trails camouflaged in dry leaves where sooner or later something will come by that was the right size to eat. Rick likened the puff adder's way of hunting prey as "imitating a turd" only this was a turd that could bite. His "like a turd" analogy made the class laugh; he'd captivated them all.  Rick finished by explaining the use of anti-venoms and how much time a doctor has from when someone is bitten, until anti-venom must be given in order to save their life.

The last time I saw Rick was about ten years ago. My wife Sherry and I were invited to Erin's place in San Francisco to celebrate the publication of her book on Costa Rica. I hadn't seen Rick in twenty years. In a way it was deja vue all over again. He gave me a compliment for mentoring.

Rick  was a warm and friendly person, and a great storyteller who could entertain a crowd of any age.  When it came to one on one he could make you feel important because he really listened, and cared.

--Eric Hoffman

The first time I met Rick was in about '78. I was a young Chaplain at the largest maximum-security prison in the country, living and working there full time. It was a war zone, and I was immersed in extremely serious life and death matters, day and night.

Erin took me to meet her father. After some awkward attempts at finding common intellectual ground on the Great Issues, Rick nonchalantly asked me out-of-the-blue, ‘So... what are you driving these days?’ It was like a Zen Master who, in one swift stroke, brings the young novice, filled with self-importance, back down to earth, completely reorienting his priorities.

He was just being his natural, warm-hearted self, but that had a profound effect on me. The three of us spent the rest of the evening drinking and enjoying one another, and talking about normal stuff...  like automatic versus manual transmissions!

From that moment on, Rick and I we were good friends! - and I've always felt like I'm part of the Van Rheenen family.

He is greatly loved, and missed.

So many wonderful memories when thinking about my dear friend Rick. But this particular story is at the very beginning of our everlasting friendship.

I first met Rick on a ski trip with our wives in beautiful Lake Tahoe in 1983, the first of many ski trips we would talke over the years. The first night we had a fabulous home cooked dinner, great wine and wonderful conversation. And I thought to myself, the stories about him were true. A great guy.... warm, intelligent, friendly. Someone you will like immediately.

Well, the next day we were waiting in line to take the chair lift up to the summit, and Rick looks over at me and says, "I know what I want to get you for your birthday". Now I am saying to myself, he really is a nice guy and there seems to be the potential for a good friendship. But I just met this guy and he is already talking about buying me a birthday gift? A bit odd, but ok fine. Then he points to this skier in front of us with the absolutely ugliest ski cap I had ever seen in my entire life, and Rick says, "I'm going to get you that hat. Just having met him the night before, I'm not sure if he is joking or serious. Then comes the smerk, then the chuckle and then his wide open mouth laugh. Intro.....the Doctor of Humor....Rick Van Rheenen. It was a beautiful moment and the start of an incredible friendship that I will cherish forever.

You will be "Forever Missed" Ricky. Love ya like a brother. 

When I was eleven we loaded up the blue Ford station wagon and drove to Guatemala. Dad had been studying anthropology at Stanford, and in addition to his work on the Hopi and Zuni Indians of the Southwest, he studied the early civilizations of MesoAmerica.

Consequently, we stopped repeatedly along our passage through Mexico, to visit ruins along the way. Often these were far off the beaten track, and required significant detours. Dusty and rutted unpaved roads left my siblings and I sweating and nauseous in the back seat. Still dizzy and filthy as we walked through these ruins, Dad would regale us with stories about the Olmec, Toltec, and Aztec civilizations, and the differences in their architecture and artwork.

I have long forgotten which group was known for their giant carved heads, and who built the round columns, but what I do remember is the sequence of these civilizations, and the debt each owed to their predecessors.

The passing of our father leaves behind a similar legacy in the form of a love, and lust, for travel, and for learning. Our debt is our collective desire for adventure and exploration. This fascination has, in turn, been passed on to my own two daughters, as the cycle continues.

I will be forever appreciative of the gift Dad has left us. For wherever we are in this world, we are home.

I remember the day Derek and I visited the Filoli Gardens with Rick. It was a beautiful California day with bright blue skies and generous warm rays of sunshine. As usual, Rick looked dapper and garden ready with his blue cotton shirt and wide brimmed straw hat. The Alzheimer’s disease was well into its fourth year of taking Rick away from us one memory at a time. We had not seen Rick in a few weeks and it appeared the disease was relentlessly marching forward and robbing Rick of his cherished memories at an ever increasing and alarming rate. That day we arrived, Rick greeted us with his warm smile and a barrage of compliments:  “Look at these Dudes!,” he said and then proceeded to complement our wardrobe—our shoes, shirts, jackets. He told me he liked my hair.

We had decided to pick up sandwiches for a picnic that we would have in the gardens. Rick still had his warm and gentle manner and was excited about lunch, exclaiming, “I could eat a horse!” On arriving at the gardens, Rick clasped his hands behind his back and walked through the gardens as a wise and worldly man. I had seen him do this many times before while touring the museums of Florence or the underground Catacombs in Paris, the stride of a man who had toured many a garden, museum, or park throughout the world. That day at the Filoli Gardens, Rick still had his wonderfully peaceful style and pointed to many things throughout the grounds he thought we would be interested in. Sometimes he would point out the same item more than once, which was fine with me, since he spoke in that soothing “radio announcer’s voice,” always a pleasure to hear.

Once a true master of social graces, although diminished, Rick was still charming to the women docents. He charmed them with little jokes and compliments that only Rick could come up with and deliver successfully. We did learn however, through many posted signs that there was to be no picnicking allowed in the gardens. Not to be deterred, we convinced Rick to “break the rules” and found a clandestine, cool spot amongst the trees. As we kept a low profile while eating, Rick seemed to revel in the fact we were being a little defiant and ate his lunch openly, proudly and happily.

There was a band playing as we walked back from the Gardens to the car. The music was upbeat, joyous, adventurous and full of life. It reminded me of Rick and his contagious love of life and of all the beautiful places around the world he had experienced. As we moved farther and farther away, the music began to fade. It sadly reminded me of Rick and his life. The slow fading away of a man many cherished and respected. I will fondly remember Rick’s love, understanding, caring, and his amazing sense of humor. He will be sadly missed but his love of life and of people will continue to play on forever in my memories.

My father wasn't preachy, choosing conversation over lecturing or proselytizing. He rarely told his children what to do or how to behave. I think he had a similar style with his friends and his patients.

But one moral lesson he taught us remains with me. I vividly remember him calling for kindness to the less fortunate, particularly fellow students in our classes who were maligned, teased and made fun of. Kids can be mean and schools are often sites of collective cruelty. 

My father's teachings seemed often to take place while we were all in the car. He talked with his children as he drove, eyes on the road but focused on us doing the right thing by those less fortunate. One of us might bring up a kid in school who had been ridiculed. He would calmly interject, 

"Be nice to Billy Stinkbottom. He is having a tough time right now and could use a friend and some support.  You don't need to join in on making him feel bad. One day you will see Billy and he will come up to you and say, 'You know. I remember you. I remember how you stuck up for me when I really needed a friend. I thank you for that.'" 

We teased my father about this mantra he repeated to us, but we all tried to live by his lesson as best we could.

Years later, at a 25th high school reunion, a man approached me who I hadn't seen in years. I barely recognized him.  He smiled, said he remembered me and shared the words my father had professed almost verbatim.

Thank you, Dad. 

So many memories of my dad are crowding my heart, but I will settle for just one for now.

As the Alzheimer's took hold, dad became a gentler person, and was easier to communicate with even as he lost his memory. When we could still go for walks together, we often hiked up to the satellite dish on the Stanford campus, and I remember telling him about a situation I was having at work. He was struggling even then, but he listened carefully, and made several penetrating comments and suggestions about the situation and how I might want to handle it. Decades as a psychiatrist had honed his listening skills and insight into how people behave in this crazy world, and that knowledge persisted for a long while. I so appreciated his generous and careful listening over the years.