Hundreds say goodbye to Bob Boardman

The  fiddlers, penny whistles, harps, guitars and mandolins played,  the Lower Elwha S’Klallam drummed and sang Saturday as hundreds of people came to the Lower Elwha tribal center to say farewell to a man who touched many lives on the Peninsula. Bob Boardman was part of many circles here, from the wooden boat community, the woodworkers community, Centrum and Fiddle Tunes, the hiking community, the medical community, and the contra dance community. He was a man who was genuinely loved by all the various circles he touched, he influenced perhaps hundreds of young musicians, helped thousands of sufferers of diabetes work on controlling their disease,  and his untimely death, gored by a mountain goat in the park that he hiked and loved, was a bizarre end to a very special life.

I met Bob only briefly as part of Voices of the Strait, when he showed up for the showing I held in Neah Bay. I had heard of him for years.  He was out there apparently on part of his medical work, teaching diabetes education to the tribe. We talked before the showing, he saying that he  had heard that  I played mandolin. We talked at length about our various interests in Irish and Brazilian music. We parted with me inviting him over when he was next in Port Townsend, to play together. He died weeks later.

My wife met him in the 80’s, as he was part of the wood working and wooden boat circles in PT. She met him again years later, as she sent diabetic patients to him, and they talked together about writing grants to do comprehensive diabetic training on the Peninsula. She had the highest respect for him, as she said, that he never was a snob about his crafts, or his work. He was kind to all newcomers and professionals alike.

These are only a few of the huge number of tributes to Bob, shared today, among relatives, friends and clients. The Lower Elwha singers wrapped Susan, Bob’s wife, in a traditional robe, in which she seemed to find the strength to give a short talk about their life to the crowd. Members of the clinic that Bob volunteered at, which treated primarily veterans, got up and thanked him for his efforts in healing the wounds of war, both mentally and physically.

The hole he has left in the fabric of our small society here on the northwest corner of the United States, cannot be filled. He lived much larger than one man normally can.  Over time, the wound heals, and others take his job, and play his music. But there is no replacing Bob Boardman. I’m honored to have briefly met him, and to have  become part of that circle of friends.

“When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men”
Rumi’s epitaph 1273 AD.