In Memoriam


Frederick C. Rimmele III, M.D. '94 of Marblehead, Mass., was a passenger on United Airlines Flight 175. He was a professor of family medicine at Beverly and Hunt Hospitals in Danvers, Mass. He is survived by his wife, Kimberly Trudel; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Rimmele Jr.; his sister, Karen M. Connors; and his grandmother, Mrs. Frank Kunzier.

Dr. Rimmele's wife, Kim Trudel, shared this look at her husband: Frederick C. Rimmele, III, 32, of Marblehead, Massachusetts, died September 11, 2001 on board United Airlines Flight 175 while en route to a medical conference in Monterey, California. Fred enriched the lives of all whom he met, and will be sorely missed by family, friends, and patients.

Fred was born and raised in Clifton, New Jersey and attended Montclair Kimberley Academy. Fred graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Amherst College in 1990, where he also rowed on the crew team and edited Sabrina, the campus humor magazine. He completed his doctoral studies at Duke University School of Medicine in 1994 and served his residency at the Maine-Dartmouth Family Practice Residency. He briefly entered private practice before joining the faculty of the Family Practice Residency based at Beverly and Hunt Hospitals. In 1997, Fred married Kimberly Trudel, an executive in the software industry.

Fred was an Eagle Scout, amateur naturalist, faithful church-going Episcopalian, a consummate Scrabble player, a dabbler in the stock market, a hopeless romantic, a homebrewer, and a loyal friend. His disposition was naturally curious and inventive. His playful personality intertwined seamlessly with his firm moral compass and his natural ability to lead.

Fred and Kim's four year marriage was a blessing and joy to them both, and to all who knew them. Though they hiked the Swiss Alps, toured the Irish countryside, birdwatched in the rainforests of Belize, and canoed the backwaters of Maine, what they loved most was to be with each other, walking hand in hand.

"Frederick," as he was called by his immediate family, had a special bond with his mother, also an avid birdwatcher. Visits to family in New Jersey always included time with his mother to travel the New Jersey shore in search of new birds for his 'life list.' His love of nature was rooted in his scouting experience, which he shared with his father. Fred and Kim shared many fun times with Fred's sister and brother-in-law, who also live in the Boston area.

Fred was a caring and respectful physician and teacher; a deeply spiritual person who translated his beliefs into action. Choosing academic family medicine reflected his beliefs and enabled him to share his passion for healing. His colleagues remember him as an excellent clinician who was impeccable in his pursuit of detail; a true caregiver whose commitment and irreverent sense of humor carried him and his colleagues through many hard times. His students remember him as "always being there for them." A perfectionist; he demanded excellence and at times seemingly superhuman performance ­ though never more than he was willing to do himself.

Fred was a compassionate and gentle person, with an adventurous spirit and generous heart. He always had a smile on his face and a kind word for everyone. The tragic circumstances of his death are a grim reminder that life can be terribly unjust and itsunfolding difficult to grasp. Fred's death will leave a great void in all the lives of those who knew and loved him. The love he shared freely will be cherished.

He is survived by his wife, Kimberly Trudel; his parents Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Rimmele, Jr.; his sister, Karen M. Connors; and his grandmother, Mrs. Frank Kunzier; and loving aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Fred's family wishes to thank the community for their support, their prayers, and sympathy and extends its sympathies to all who were involved in the tragedy on September 11.

Dr. Rimmele was part of a close-knit group of medical students who were together at Duke in the early 1990s. One of those friends, Kate Kevill, is a pediatrician in New York City:

His nickname was "Caveman"-which he reveled in. Like he was a primitive fellow, which in some ways he was. We'd laugh: "Fred happy." "Fred sad." He was also very sophisticated, but for his more primitive side, he got the nickname of "Caveman."

He made a gourmet stuffing, he'd do homebrew, he'd cook. He was so funny. He was one of the most genuine people I'd ever known. When he was happy, he was Very Happy Fred, just beaming. And when he was unhappy, he was Very Unhappy Fred, and he was one of the few people who wouldn't bother to hide it. How are you. oh, rotten. When he was unhappy, he seemed to take joy in finding ways to express this in a witty way. I credit him with coming up with the term "academic bulimia," which was his way of describing our first year of medical school.

Fred was an Amherst man, and I went to Williams. We became fast friends because of it. We were the only ones who cared about our own rivalry, but we also cared that we'd come from colleges that valued learning and using your mind.

The other ways he found for expressing his general distaste for medical school and the Triangle was writing in "The Septic Skeptic." It was a column in the school newspaper, Shifting Dullness. He was a contributor and co-editor with our friend Greg Lucas (M.D.'94). "The Septic Skeptic" was Fred's column. Greg actually took out an old "Septic Skeptic" and put it on a wreath that Kim had at a small prayer service the night before the memorial service. Hundreds of people came to the memorial service, but they had a smaller group at the church the evening before. We ate and drank and reminisced about Fred. It was actually in some ways a lot of fun-it felt like a party where we were awaiting the guest of honor. Kim had a wreath, and she asked people to bring something that reminded them of Fred in some way to put on it, and to say a few words as they did it. It was very, very beautiful. People put on various things; I think Moshe put on a fishing hook, Greg put on a column from "The Septic Skeptic." It was just very funny. I think Fred wrote that particular column after the Triangle had been selected one of the top places to live in the country, and Fred had a few things to say about that.

Despite the fact that he was a bit grumpy in med school, he was a very funny grumpy, and he was very kind. He just wanted to be done with the business of med school. At Duke, they did teach us very, very well. He did make some great friends, and we had some wonderful times. We had a tight group and we often ate together. Fred often cooked, or I'd call Fred. At the end of med school we lived in the same apartment complex, and he'd call me and say, "What's in the fridge?" Or I'd call him and say I had too much food in the fridge. He was very good for that.

The memorial service was beautiful. They had the most beautiful wedding I've ever been to, and the most fun wedding, and the most beautiful memorial service. It was good for me to go and spend time remembering Fred, and missing Fred, and being sad about Fred. I'm the only one living in Manhattan, and for me, it's just so much. And I'm a physician, and there have been public health issues, and my friends have all lost friends, and my brother lost a friend, and the city smelled, and the world was at war, my Muslim patients were getting yelled at in the street, there was just so much. It was nice to just go and concentrate on Fred. Even though it also made it more real, which wasn't so good.

We had a lot of people from med school that actually went to his memorial service. There were only about a hundred of us, and I think about twelve came. We were a tight class. I think everybody on the class must have heard from somebody in the class. We got an e-mail from a classmate in Australia, and she sent an e-mail saying how sad she was. We all realized that we should make a point of getting together more when we're alive, which I think is a point that was driven home for all of us. Look how happy we are.

Fred was actually somebody who was very good at keeping us connected. He said to me one night when he called that he was in the middle of his address book-which makes sense, "K" for "Kevill." I asked Kim later, did Fred really go through his address book? He did. He would just stay in contact, he was good for getting news.

Grumpy as he was in med school, he was happy as a clam in residency. He loved Maine, he loved being a doctor, and most importantly he fell in love with Kim. He was intolerably in love. The nickname his fellow residents gave him was Fred "I'm in loovvve" Rimmele. When they were courting, Fred was in Maine and Kim was in Boston. I'd say to him, Fred, doesn't your girlfriend have a name? Because I can't call her "my honey."

They married four years ago, in some small town in Maine, on a lake. And their wedding was designed to be like a weekend where they spent time with their friends and their guests. Unlike some weddings, where you go, you travel for a day, you see the bride for five minutes, Fred's wedding weekend, they just had fun activities in Maine. On the lake, the day before, dinner the night before that was like a clambake or something, then they had the ceremony and we all hung out for the rest of the day. We went swimming, we ordered pizza, and then they went on the honeymoon. It was a fun wedding to go to. And it also told you something about their priorities as a couple.

The only other thing I have to say about Fred is also about our friend Greg Lucas. Fred was due to be the best man at Greg's wedding. And Fred was so happy to be the best man. He'd never been a best man before, and our friend Greg is a wonderful guy. One of the last conversations I had with Fred was when he called to say he was going to be Greg's best man. He was so intent on doing it right, what he was going to say.

It was especially sad. The memorial service was September 24th, and Greg got married on September 29th. Though Greg, thankfully, looked very happy at his wedding. And Fred was remembered, really, every step of the way. Greg included him in a toast and a prayer at the rehearsal dinner, he had Marion and Steve (Mass, fellow medical school graduates from the class of 1994) and myself, those of us that knew Fred, light a candle with Greg at the altar to symbolize Fred's presence. The minister even worked Fred into the homily. The toast at the dinner was given by the bride's brother. The bride, by the way, was Duke Med '96. He also remembered Fred. So Fred was remembered in a very happy and festive way.

Another of Dr. Rimmele's best friends, Moshe Usaid M.D.'94, gave these remarks at the memorial service:

I met Fred early in medical school, and we interacted quite a bit on an academic level as we each developed our interests in Family Practice. We continued to talk about professional issues as we went on to develop our careers, but I don't think about medicine or professional aspirations when I think about Fred.

I think about fishing on the Eno River. A river which, as some of you know, doesn't seem capable of supporting fish of any size. In fact, if my success is any indication, there are no fish in it, but Fred always managed to pull a few out, although they always found their way back into the water.

I think about stopping by and checking on developments in Fred's aquarium. He was always particularly interested in discussing the behavior of his various newts and of his Plecostimous which, as all of you who knew Fred in those days are aware, is a sort of sucker fish.

I remember varied cooking extravaganzas, and Fred's introducing me to the possibility of raising fancy mushrooms in a log in your closet.

I remember Fred's various schemes to explore southeastern swamps, some of which he roped me into, some of which he didn't, but all of which benefited from his descriptions of them.

I remember Fred as a faithful running partner who always managed to get me out of the house and through a run. Somehow the fact that he complained bitterly about Durham weather didn't discourage me at all, as in the final analysis it didn't discourage him.

In fact, Fred complained about Duke, Durham, the Southeast, and the medical establishment quite a lot, but his criticism was always constructive, good humored, and delivered in such a way as to be well received. In fact, he raised his orneriness to high art as the curmudgeon-in-residence of our medical school paper.

Most importantly, I think about the fact that although we spent our time since medical school on opposite ends of the East Coast, Fred always remained close. He always kept me abreast of what was going on in his life, he not only impressed me with his own actions and observations but inspired me to be a better, more thoughtful, more constructive person myself. As he started to build a life with Kim he gave me, my wife and my kids the opportunity to be a part of his and Kim's lives as well. Whenever I and my crew made it up to the Northeast, Fred would do his best to make it to our neck of the woods.

Fred's strength as a friend was not unrelated to his interest in fish and food and cooking. He filled a room with his size and exuberance, but more importantly with his curiosity, compassion, and conviction that everything, big and little, counts and is interconnected. I don't think that Fred considered himself a wholist in the way that it is often described in medicine today, but in a deep, important sense, he really was one. He was a Renaissance man.

There's no way to put what happened twelve days ago in perspective. It's just too horrible. Nothing I can say or think makes it okay. But it is some small consolation to me to think that what is most important is what we do for the world while we are in it. It's obvious that Fred as a physician, as a teacher, as a friend, as a husband, did more than some of us do in long lives.

My life is better because of my time with Fred, and he will always be part of me. Through me, Fred influences my own family, my friends, and my patients. My family and I are particularly grateful that Fred bought Kim into our lives, and that is something that these terrible weeks does not change.

We all miss you, Fred.

Peter Ortale '87 of New York City worked for Euro Brokers. At Duke, he lettered in lacrosse and was a member of the residential group B.O.G. He was a member of the Duke University Metropolitan Alumni Association. He is survived by his wife, Mary Duff-Ortale.

From Peter’s friend Tom Gannon ’86: Peter’s sister Mary Ortale and my sister Deanna were high-school classmates at Nazareth Academy in northeast Philadelphia and very close friends. Mary and Deanna were a year behind me in school. I got to know Mary really well during those years. Mary, Deanna, and their circle of friends were over our house many times. I remember going to dances and hanging out socially with that crew. I just have this recollection of Mary Ortale as always laughing, smiling, and having fun. I always enjoyed her company growing up. Her personality lit up a room, which was truly a reflection of her upbringing.

I do remember being somewhat bewildered when my sister told me during her senior year in high school that Peter Ortale was going to be coming to Duke on a lacrosse scholarship. I didn’t even know she had an older brother, let alone a brother in the same grade. Nevertheless, since I got along with Mary so well, I figured I’d probably click with Peter once I finally met him.

From the first time I met Pete, there was a strong bond of mutual respect. Peter and I shared a similar background growing up. He recognized that and, like me, he was very proud whence he came. In our day, northeast Philadelphia was a series of different neighborhoods of working-class families with strong parental influences. Good families, good values, good kids. Each neighborhood had its own playground and sports teams. The neighborhoods weren't fancy but they were full of character and people who valued hard work. Gritty people, tough people. Neighborhoods that lived and died with the fortunes of their hardnosed blue-collar Philadelphia sports teams of the mid-Seventies and early Eighties. It was at the end of one of my drives home with Peter that showed what an influence a certain Philadelphia sports figure not only had had on him, but also on his parents. It’s something that I never forgot.

Peter OrtaleAs kids, sports was our lives. Pete played for Frankford Boys Club, which was feared leaguewide for its fearless and hardnosed players (we called them dirty). This gritty style would serve Peter well later in life. I played for Somerton Youth Organization, which was in the country as far as Frankford was concerned. As we got to talking, the arguments began whose teams were better, whose were tougher, the typical city rivalry stuff. We could only confirm that we had played one game against each other, a battle of football titans in the fall of 1977. The result: Frankford 6, Somerton 0. However, I think we may have been the team to hold them to the fewest points all year! I always insisted that if I’d had some help and didn’t have to run the ball on every play, we would’ve beat them. He’d just laugh and shake his head.

Although our backgrounds were similar, it was apparent that he was different. Different in a good way—he had something special going on. He wasn’t some cookie-cutter kid. He had his own style, he cut his own hair (or his roommate did it), and his entire wardrobe (including sneakers) was from a thrift store for less than $10. But you know what? It worked for him. Blessed with striking good looks, incredible athletic ability, and an inner confidence that was unflappable, he always commanded respect from both guys and girls. His underground look made him cooler and gave him an edge. He wasn’t trying to focus attention on himself. He was just being himself.

I have to admit I was initially shocked that he was so different from Mary, his sister. However, after getting to know him, he really wasn’t different on the inside. He just had a different style and a calmer exterior. I always attributed some of it to going to high school at a Quaker school (William Penn Charter) where free thinking and individualism are encouraged. I think it was a positive influence. Without question, he influenced me to question what was “normal” and acceptable. I always was thankful for that.

My dad let me take a car to Duke my sophomore year (so he didn't have to drive me anymore). It was the beginning of the Tom Gannon /Peter Ortale/Maurice Glavin roadshow up and down I-95 from Durham to Philly. I had a Chrysler Laser straight out of Knight Rider. It talked to you (“your door is ajar”). It was as roomy as a matchbox. I’d start driving and Pete and Maurice would fight for the passenger seat as the back had NO leg room. It was from these trips that I have many of my fondest memories of Peter. Fall Break, Thanksgiving, Christmas—six-and-a-half, seven hours each way between October and Christmas—you learn a lot about someone. I learned of his philosphy, his music, his person. I always felt lucky to be hanging out with him. He had that effect on you.

From Maurice Glavin:I surely remember my first thoughts as the second plane crashed in to the WTC. If anyone could walk out of that horror it would be Peter Ortale. He was the proverbial cat with nine lives. I saw him do things on the lacrosse field that others of us could only dream about accomplishing. He was small yet tough. It seemed like everything was a challenge for Peter.

Dr. Berlin, the DUAA physician, used to say to Peter that he was only the second kid he met that was actually from Philadelphia, "the city." Peter was everything one expected from a city kid. He worked hard at everything, his schooling, his lacrosse skills, his appearance and his love life-not necessarily in that order!

Over three years as roommates we laughed, we cried and we ran what seemed like a million miles together. He taught me how to shop at thrift stores, which my mother never really appreciated. He majored in political science and loved philosophy, especially Mr. Gillespie's classes. He was convinced if we took classes together we would get better grades because we both liked to win. He took Russian because he wanted to experience something different. I chose to skip that one.

We endured endless hours in car rides back to Philadelphia with Tom Gannon and Mark Gillin. Our time was mostly spent arguing about who was the best American author, the best philosopher, or the greatest athlete ever. These conversations were interspersed with "who will pay for the speeding ticket for going 75 in a 55 mph zone" discussions. Our conversations spilled over to our room at BOG or into late nights at our Central Campus apartments. We talked about our dreams and aspirations. We had a thousand get-rich-quick schemes, which turned out to be the banter of 20-year-old boys pretending to be men. It did pass the time.

We ate over a hundred hamburgers in the RAT (Ratskellar) after practice because the Blue/White dining room was closed. Peter tried to teach me that salads at the CI (Cambridge Inn) were good for me. I did not waver on that point. He reassured me that as we walked from the lacrosse locker rooms to our dorm room at Wannamaker, that I wouldn't get cut my freshman year. He used to say, "We've come to far not to succeed now." "How true, how true," I would say to my new friend.

Peter was a young man filled with the need to experience as much life as possible in the shortest period of time. I think now, how ironic. He was a goal-setter from the first day I met him and was relentless in his drive to achieve. History tells me that my heartache will heal; this time I am not so sure. I was once told that the joy of our lacrosse victory over the Tarheels in 1987 would fade, and that still brings a smile to my face. I'll bet Peter still smiles too-after all, it is one of his "goals achieved."

One family's grief

Ken and Sharon Ambrose lost a beloved son, Paul, to terrorists. But they say the nation also lost a future leader to these 'senseless acts'

By Rebeccah Cantley-Falk
The Herald-Dispatch at Huntington, West Virginia

HUNTINGTON -- An American flag posted outside Ken and Sharon Ambrose's home in Pea Ridge swayed in the wind Wednesday as crisp, brown leaves fell on the sidewalk leading to their front door.

Inside, Bill Ambrose, Ken's brother, pointed out a family portrait taken when his nephew Dr. Paul Ambrose appeared to be about 5. The child with blond hair and crystal blue eyes sat in front of his parents and his older brother Scott.

Ken and Sharon Ambrose held hands Wednesday as they talked about their son Paul, a victim of the Sept. 11 terror attacks on America. The couple sat on a couch in their den, which was filled with memories of their son's life.

A homemade card with a child's wavy handwriting sat on the coffee table. Paul's hand had held a blue marker as he drew tulips on the card and wrote "A Mother's Day Gift For You."

On Sept. 11, 2001, Ken and Sharon Ambrose lost a son. The country, however, lost an up and coming national leader in health care. At 32, Paul Ambrose, was a senior clinical adviser in the Office of the U.S. Surgeon General. He had a mission, his parents said.

Paul Ambrose worked with issues such as immunizations, healthy lifestyles, medical school courses and racial and ethnic disparities in health care. His mission was to improve the health of a nation.

"We're hoping people will see a little bit of Paul and that the nation will realize what a great loss it has been to our society and to the world through these senseless, senseless acts," said Ken Ambrose, chairman of the sociology and anthropology department at Marshall University.

"These were very worthwhile people in the middle of very worthwhile lives," Sharon Ambrose said of the thousands who died in the attacks.

Paul Ambrose, a 1995 graduate of the Marshall University School of Medicine, was a passenger aboard the hijacked American Airlines Flight 77 that terrorists crashed into the Pentagon. He was on his way to Los Angeles from Washington, D.C., to attend a conference on obesity.

Paul Ambrose had been working on a national campaign to combat obesity, said Sharon Ambrose.

In the couple's den, Paul Ambrose's framed diplomas lined the fireplace hearth. After his time at Marshall, he spent three years as a resident at Dartmouth College, where he formed ties with former U.S. Surgeon General C. Everett Koop. Paul Ambrose was later instrumental in bringing Koop to the Tri-State to discuss obesity and other health concerns.

Among the framed diplomas in the Ambrose den was the master's degree in public health Paul earned from Harvard University.

"I think Paul had a love of people, a love of this state," said Sharon Ambrose, chief operating officer of St. Mary's Hospital. "I think he had many things to do to keep the health care system moving forward."

The Ambroses started a scholarship fund in their son's memory with the hopes of helping other young, passionate doctors, they said. Paul Ambrose was passionate about everything he did, his mother said.

"Fishing, going to the gym, rock climbing, skiing, whatever it was, he was enthusiastic," she said.

Recently engaged

After achieving professional successes in his young life, Paul Ambrose, a man with light brown hair and piercing blue eyes, recently found the woman he wanted to marry. Paul said goodbye to his fiancée, Bianca Angelino, when he left on the morning of the attacks.

The couple had been engaged only a couple of weeks, Sharon Ambrose said. Before Paul left he told Angelino, "I miss you already," his mother said.

Angelino called the Ambroses when the terror attacks began to unfold in New York, Ken Ambrose said.

"She was saying that his flight left earlier, and we assumed he was out in the Midwest," he said.

As the day dragged on, the Ambroses never heard from their son. Paul Ambrose had left his cell phone at home. His mother kept calling, waiting for her son to pick up and say, "Ambrose here," she said.

"You could hope he was late or he gave his seat away," Sharon Ambrose said.

The aftermath

The Ambroses received official confirmation that night that terrorists had taken their son's life. The reality of the tragedy is still difficult for the couple to grasp. Sharon Ambrose still feels like her son should come through the door, she said.

In the days following the attack, the Ambroses attended the national memorial at the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul in Washington, D.C. The family also went to the Pentagon and left flowers. Angelino left Paul's government ID badge and two roses.

"That was the first time we had been with other families of the crash, and that was very helpful in the sense that they were experiencing the same thing we experienced," Ken Ambrose said. "The kinship. It was painful, but it was helpful."

Paul Ambrose's death was the second time the Ambroses' hearts were broken by the death of a child. Paul's brother Kenneth Scott Ambrose died in 1998 after developing blood clots in his lungs. Scott Ambrose also was 32 when he died.

"We're relying on each other," Ken Ambrose said, as he reached for his wife's hand.

The Ambroses don't know what the solution is to terrorism, they said. They only know that their country must take action.

"You're still at the point that it's inconceivable that people would do that," Sharon Ambrose said. "What is the deterrent for people like that?"

"Whatever it takes to put a stop to the loss of life and terror," Ken Ambrose said. "But I don't know what that is."

Used with permission of The Herald-Dispatch at Huntington, W. Va.

Community celebrates life of fallen star

Emotion-charged ceremony to honor Dr. Paul Ambrose lasts nearly 2 hours

By Tim R. Massey
The Herald-Dispatch at Huntington, West Virginia

HUNTINGTON -- In an ideal world, Dr. Adam Wooten would be rehearsing his best man's speech for his lifelong friend's impending wedding.

Instead, the young physician was recounting the incredible life of 32-year-old Dr. Paul Ambrose to a theater filled with grief-stricken family and friends.

The occasion was a memorial service Sunday afternoon at the Joan C. Edwards Performing Arts Center for the rising star of public health whose life ended Sept. 11 when terrorists hijacked the airplane he was riding in and crashed it into the Pentagon.

"I told people that my best friend was going to be the youngest surgeon general," Dr. Wooten told the teary-eyed audience of about 900 people that included Gov. Bob Wise and U.S. Sen. Jay Rockefeller, D-W.Va.

He spoke of his friend's "pathological modesty" despite his many accomplishments that had earned him a master's degree in public health at Harvard University and a job as a senior clinical adviser in the Office of the U.S. Surgeon General. He was a 1995 graduate of the Marshall University School of Medicine. "I lost my best friend," Wooten said. "My life will never be the same."

Other speakers -- from Deputy Surgeon General Ken Moritsugu to Dr. Donald Kollisch of the Dartmouth School of Medicine -- spoke of a handsome blue-eyed man who was passionate about everything he did and a physician who cared deeply about public health.

Despite the overwhelming sadness that pervaded the auditorium, the emphasis of the service was celebrating Ambrose's life by establishing a Paul W. Ambrose Memorial Scholarship with the Marshall School of Medicine. Cleveland, Ohio, lawyer John Drinko has donated $10,000 to the scholarship to ensure that it is endowed, university officials said.

"This should not just be an ordinary scholarship," said Dr. Bob Walker, a close friend of Ambrose and his parents, Kenneth and Sharon Ambrose, and chairman of Marshall School of Medicine's Rural Health Department. "This should be a fund for someone who is like Paul, someone willing to do something different, to take a chance.

"Paul took risks. He was not a traditional guy," Walker said.

The celebration that lasted nearly two hours was charged with emotions, from gasps of grief to chuckles of joy. In addition to the personal remembrances of friends and family and several stirring songs by Broadway performer Mark McVey, the event concluded with a video of Ambrose's short, but eventful life. MotionMasters of Charleston produced the video free of charge.

"It's amazing that one person could touch so many lives," observed Kenny Thibadeau, a friend from Washington, D.C., who worked out with Ambrose at a health club. "I thought of him as my best friend, but Paul had so many friends. I just knew him for a short time. A lot of people here knew him for his whole life."

Dr. Jack Adams, a psychiatrist who worked closely with Ambrose when he was a student, spoke for many in the audience.

"I can't remember a time when I cried for an hour and a half without stopping," he said at the end.

Hundreds of people began lining up outside the theater nearly two hours before the 2 p.m. ceremony, and waited in line for nearly two hours after the service to personally give their condolences to the Ambroses and Paul Ambrose's fiancee, Bianca Angelino. Many wrote checks to the scholarship fund in memory of the terrorism victim.

"Evil cowards have ended his life, but they have not killed his spirit," said Dr. Gary Patton, chaplain of St. Mary's Hospital.

Used with permission of The Herald-Dispatch at Huntington, W. Va.

A. Todd Rancke '81 of Summit, N.J., worked for Sandler O'Neill & Partners. He was a member of Phi Delta Theta fraternity. He is survived by his wife, Deborah; his daughters, Christina and Brittany; his son, Todd; two sisters, Pamela Rancke Schroeder B.S.N. '75 and Cynthia Rancke Biennmann B.S.N. '78; and a nephew, Steve B. Schroeder '00.

A memorial fund has been established in Todd's name: The A. Todd Rancke Memorial Fund, Hilltop Community Bank, P. O. Box 800, Summit, N.J., 07902-0800.

Todd's sister, Pamela Rancke Schroeder '75, shared these thoughts:Duke was so special to Todd. He was married in the Duke Chapel. Our family was there for that, and to have had a wedding down there was special. His in-laws live outside of Durham, about a half an hour out, so he was able to come back to Duke quite often, and go to Chapel.

My son (Steve Schroeder '00) was at Duke, and he would come see him play baseball, bring his children to the game. We have some beautiful pictures of the family in Duke Gardens. His one son still wears a Duke T-shirt all the time. I have a son at Georgetown, and I said, Todd, I have to get you a Georgetown T-shirt. He said no.

They were able to be around Duke quite a lot. It was like a home, and the kids all think they're going to Duke. His brother-in-law went to Carolina, and Todd was ruthless on him. We would all watch the game together, but whoever was winning or losing really took a beating.

Duke was a special place. He had a lot of great memories. He did meet Debbie there-she did not go to Duke, she went to another school in Carolina. Then they met seven years later on a business trip; they were both up in Canada and saw each other again. The wedding was beautiful.

It was always a special place, to have a wedding there, and to go back and go to Easter Sundays there, and I think Todd was lucky that his in-laws lived there, he could just go back and walk around and share with his kids and go to Chapel and go to baseball games. For his children to run on the quad with their cousin-it's just such a special place.

Debbie just told me that somebody is getting her tickets to a Duke basketball game (in New York) with the children. The kids were all telling me that they're going to a Duke basketball game. He used to take them to that game. He was a big fan.

We just framed the little card that they did for the service on Founders Day. Debbie has the diploma and the picture of the Chapel. We're just going to have to figure out how to keep his memory alive through all of these things.

The outpouring-we've had calls from people from Duke from all over the country that saw his name and called us and wrote us. It's touched a lot of people. It's really touched the Duke community.

It just breaks your heart to see these young girls and these young children. It's really devastated these young families. Debbie is really overwhelmed, Todd used to do so much. they'll miss him a lot, and so we just have to keep it alive for them. Little Todd spent the night Friday and Saturday night at my house-I have four boys and he loves to be with them.

We're lucky, we're all right here (in Summit and nearby). I lived down the street from Todd-the children can come and walk right by my house on the way to school. And the communities have been wonderful.

It's been hard for me to go out because I see people for the first time and they have a very difficult time when they first see me. My husband says, Pam, you have to let them reach out to you.

Still, when I see things on TV, I still will sit there and the tears just come. It's going to take us a very long time to realize that they're truly gone. They're young, and he was just so full of life, and with his children. it just breaks your heart to see those children. It's just sad how their lives have changed so quickly. They'll be okay-hopefully they'll be okay. They would ride bikes with him, he could take them everywhere, he'd bring them to the football games, he'd bring them anywhere with them on his back, he coached the basketball, he coached the soccer. he was really a hands-on father.

Little Todd, when something comes up, I can see him wipe at his eye, and I think he's afraid a tear might come and he can't go there. We're surrounding them. Debbie, she doesn't think she can do it but I've told her, you can do this. Eventually, I hope she'll go back to Duke. In her own time, that might be a special place for her to wander and feel close to Todd. She'll be able one day to go to the Gardens or the Chapel and feel close to him. Just walk the Quad. And I think her children will too. Because Duke was such a part of him. It will remind them of him. And we'll just have to tell them how crazy he was at Duke. He was an awesome dancer. he still was, and he would be at a party and those Duke songs would come on.

My son Steve went back for Homecoming, played in the alumni baseball game. He couldn't believe all the people who came up to him and talked to him, all over the campus. It was heartwarming to him to see the reaching out.

It's fun to talk about him. Two weeks before he died, we had my sister's 50th, and he did a toast. We have it on video, though I haven't been able to watch it yet. And we had an engagement party the next weekend, so we had two big get-togethers. Todd was full of life. And he danced. We teased him about that, because our husbands can't dance. His sisters loved to dance with him.

I'm glad for his wife and his children that their grandparents live down there. They'll be able to go there again and walk around where they were with him and feel close to him.

The biggest thing for my parents has been the notes from people who knew him growing up, who share their stories. We're going to do scrapbooks with the letters that we've gotten, and give to the children. The family would love to hear special stories about Todd.

Rick Seidel '81 was a friend, classmate, and post-Duke roommate of Todd's. A few weeks after September 11, he sent this letter to the magazine.

The Duke community lost six alumni in the horror of September 11, and one, Todd Rancke, was a friend of mine. We spent a fair amount of time together our last two years at Duke, including our last two spring breaks. I realize hardly anyone who reads this will have known "Rancks," but we all know someone like him. Ask anyone to describe Todd, and they would immediately say "a good guy." It seems in all the memories I have of him, he's smiling and laughing.

We played a lot of basketball together. I've always believed you learn a lot about a person by playing ball with them, and Todd was a "pass first" guy who you always wanted on your side. After graduation, we both ended up in Charlottesville at U.Va. for grad school. We played ball in the city league, and briefly shared a house one year.

Then he went back to New Jersey and I went to California-we hadn't been in touch since.

Since I learned of his death yesterday, on September 30, I've struggled to come to grips with his being gone. I've learned he has three young children. I've looked through my photo albums from Duke and cried. Todd was a good guy-no hard edges, and probably could have used some. I wish I'd called.

Anyway, I somehow feel his death places a greater responsibility on me to live my life-and maybe on you, too. I now understand-really understand-that tomorrow may not come, and that what I do today needs to be done so that I have no regrets if there is no next day.

How? First, I must pursue the career, the activities, and the people that evoke passion in me. It is so easy to fall into a career, for example, that is comfortable, or begets comforts, yet is uninspiring. I was trained to achieve, to succeed, and the process of getting there was of secondary importance. September 11 and Todd's death make that not good enough any more.

Second, I need to do more to nurture my relationships, because I know more than ever that it's the people in my life that make it special. Todd was one of those people, but we both let things fade as we pursued career and family on opposite sides of the country. I wish I'd called.

The final realization I have is the need to make sure I'm giving something back to others. Todd gave me a lot-he was upbeat, enthusiastic, and nonjudgmental. That he should be taken away, that someone so positive should disappear for no good reason, leaves me grasping for a way to fill the void. As I look now at my two-year-old son, so excited by each day, so constantly curious, I'm reminded to do more for those around me. I have no illusions about changing the world, but rather the need to make sure I'm doing my part to make it better.

The Duke community lost a good guy on September 11. His name was Todd Rancke, and he was my friend. I wish I'd called.

Christopher Todd Pitman '93 of Skanateles, N.Y., worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. At Duke, he was a member of Delta Tau Delta fraternity. He is survived by his father, Eric Pitman, and his sister, Erica "Tippi" Pitman.

Just a month before his death, Todd had established a memorial fund at his prep school alma mater, Hotchkiss, in memory of his mother, Janice S. Pitman, to assist scholarship students and their families with extraordinary expenses due to family emergencies-a fund which now also bears Todd's name.

J. Robinson “Rob” Lenoir ’84 of Locust Valley, N.Y., worked for Sandler O’Neill & Partners. At Duke, he was a member of Alpha Tau Omega fraternity. He is survived by his wife, Susan Haack Lenoir ’84; his son Andrew, and daughter Courtney; his parents; a brother; and a sister.

A trust has been established for the Lenoir family: The Rob Lenoir Memorial Trust, c/o Prudential Securities, 800 South Gay Street - Suite 2605, Knoxville, TN 37929.

Susan’s parents, Allan Haack ’56 and Edith Haack, visited Susan for Parents’ Weekend just three weeks into her freshman year. Mrs. Haack recounts the story of the first time Susan’s parents “met” Rob:

She informed us that she had a new “scope,” and she wanted us to see him. So on a Sunday morning we had to go sit on a bench on the main quad so we could see Rob Lenoir walk by—having set our alarm at the motel to be there. She had good taste—she picked a good one.

Allan Haack talks about the importance Rob placed on his children’s education at the Greenvale School, and how he is being remembered by the school: This past weekend was the Greenvale School fall fair weekend. On Sunday, the school sponsored a Run for Rob. Five hundred people participated in it, and Rob’s brother came up from Chattanooga to run in the run. The headmaster of the school announced that the funds raised by the run would be used in two ways—the donation of a memorial bench with Rob’s name on it, and to fund a program for character-building for the whole school, because they felt that Rob had such strong character. He worked very hard for that school.

His sister-in-law, Allison Haack Glackin ’83, shared these thoughts: Rob was an enthusiastic and playful person. There was never a dull moment when Rob was around, and he always had that extra level of energy for playing with his children. Rob body-surfed and boogie-boarded at the beach. He would jump on a trampoline with his two kids, niece and nephew just to see how high he could get the kids to bounce, or he would have a highest splash cannonball contest in the pool. When you were a former Duke football player, you do have a competitive advantage in these endeavors! Rob always got a competitive game of Scrabble going after family dinners. Rob was a master of TV theme song trivia. I’ll always think of him singing the theme song from The Jeffersons at the top of lungs on a karaoke machine. He was simply fun to be with. Rob had four big loves in his life—his wife, Susan; his two children, Andrew and Courtney; and Duke. Duke provided Rob with a fabulous education, was where he made lifelong friendships and was where he met his wife, Susan. In looking back on family videos I was amazed at the amount of Duke paraphernalia that shows up—Duke sweatshirts on adults and kids, Duke ball caps, Duke cheerleader outfits on the little girls, Duke golf club covers, stuffed Blue Devils and more. These were just visible symbols of Duke loyalty in our family. One of the most meaningful gestures of Duke friendship came the evening before the memorial service for Rob. Former Duke ATOs from all over the country called Susan on a conference call to offer their support for her and their fond memories of Rob.

Michael Morgan Taylor '81 of New York City was a bond trader at Cantor Fitzgerald. He is survived by his parents, James and Claire Taylor; two sisters; a brother; two nephews; and a niece.

Michael's brother, Jim, wrote these remembrances: Michael knew something was terribly wrong. From his computer on the 104th floor of the WTC's north tower, he instant messaged a trader in Chicago: "Something just exploded here. No kidding." It's the last time he communicated with someone outside the building.

He arrived in New York City in 1984 with degrees from Duke and UCLA, dreaming of making his first million on Wall Street. He made friends easily, but only a few knew what made him tick. The small-town boy from western Pennsylvania had made it to the big time.

The oldest of four children, Michael learned early to work hard to master his latest obsession. He earned a spot on the varsity golf team following hours of practice in the bunker. He scored the best round of his life over the Labor Day weekend, shooting a 73. It was the last weekend my parents got to see their first-born child.

Back in the 1990s, Michael bought a Porsche 911 Carerra. One problem, though: he didn't know how to drive a stick shift. His friend Jerry tried to teach him how to ease out the clutch, but it took thirty minutes of starting and stalling just to get up one hill. Realizing he needed more than Jerry's guidance, Michael recruited a golf buddy who happens to be a professional driver on the NASCAR circuit. Michael made a deal: Teach me how to drive a Porsche, I'll teach you how to drive a golf ball off the tee.

Boy, did he love Duke basketball. He rarely missed a televised game. Last January, our father was recovering from a serious heart surgery. With Dad propped up in the bed and Michael by his side, they watched Duke make an amazing comeback against Maryland. Looking back on this night, I see the parallel between the game and my dad's health. Duke was down by ten late in the game and they came back to tie and win in overtime. Earlier that day, my father had nearly died on the operating table. He fought back, went through physical therapy, and has since made a full recovery. My dad's health problems rocked Michael. He nearly lost the most important man in his life.

He was great with one-liners. Every so often, a quick retort provided a rare glimpse into his soul. He hadn't golfed much this summer because of a dating relationship. One of his golfing buddies asked him "Mike, where you been all summer?" and he replied "I've been in love."

I call these stories "Michael Moments." Anyone who lost someone in New York or Washington has their own "Michael Moments." These flashes in time bring us joy and a reason to smile. For me, it's a time to remember my brother's mischievious grin, his playful nature, his nervous pacing around a room, or his attention to detail.

We cannot let the events of September 11 overshadow our "Michael Moments." We hear so much now about "9/11." Let us remember another 9/11-Ecclesiastes 9:11.

"I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all.

Moreover, no man knows when his hour will come: As fish are caught in a cruel net, or birds are taken in a snare, so men are trapped by evil times that fall unexpectedly upon them."

The author of Ecclesiastes had so much, but in the end, it all came down to relationships, with God and with others. Terrorists can bring down buildings, but they cannot bring down our relationships. Don't let their their cowardly actions steal your own "Michael Moments."

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