My Friend Ralph

Written By: Luke Osteen | Issue: 2016/01 - Winter

Last November I called a friend in Seattle to tell her that Ralph deVille had died. She’d been in the habit of flying to the East Coast to attend one of the ikebana workshops at Ralph’s The Stone Lantern.

Think about that for a moment – a woman traveling across the continent to visit a shop in a town of 924. 

If you’ve strolled through The Stone Lantern, you’ve met Ralph (whether you were introduced or not) and you know why his place had earned an international reputation. As the owner/major domo, every inch of the gallery was a reflection of him. 

When you step inside, you’re beguiled by the hint of incense and the faint sound of water splashing in the distance. Everything is at once exotic and strangely inviting. Of course, you can’t help but notice the Asian treasures that adorn every inch and corner of the place.

That’s all Ralph.

He adored the presentation. Everything, and I mean everything, was just-so-carefully arranged by him. That’s how you’d find Ralph in the shop – wearing an apron and fussing over a display or meticulously pruning a wizened bonsai cypress in the back room, or unveiling his eye-popping collection of netsuke to a selected customer. The look was everything to Ralph and the almost uncountable details that inform every bit of The Stone Lantern were at the heart of his business. 

During one surprisingly languid conversation I had with him, surprising because you could never predict when Ralph would be able to take a moment to chat, he explained how a bonsai master who’d spent years cultivating and shaping her creations would be able to lie in bed at night and recount every bend, every whorl, and every twisted root of her work, nearly down to the microscopic level. 

It was only later that I realized that’s a perfect anatomization of Ralph and his beloved shop. 

Because he was quiet, most often speaking in almost whispers, you’d sometimes miss the level of passion that informed Ralph’s everyday existence. He was committed to finding the best, the finest, in himself and The Stone Lantern.

Of course, that generosity of spirit couldn’t help but spill out from the margins of The Stone Lantern. Ralph was known in the Highlands community as a man who was absolutely committed to preserving and enhancing the quality of life of this little mountain town. You can still see that resonating in the vigor of the Highlands Chamber of Commerce, the astonishing Highlands-Cashiers Hospital and the remarkable natural treasures safeguarded by the Highlands-Cashiers Land Trust. 

Heck, you can see it reflected in the lives of his beloved wife Lynn and their three wonderful children – John, Anne and Susie. 

Ralph was kind to me, too. Once, when I’d been entrusted with the care of a $40,000 orchid, (how’s that for a Highlands kind of story?) he shepherded me through a process that threatened to collapse my mind and nerves. Somehow, the plant and my sanity survived.

Another time, facing an impossible deadline, Ralph helped me to understand the intricacies of Shingon Buddhism. It was complex and nearly over my IQ level, but he patiently went over it and over it until clarity dawned and I was able to write my article. 

Once, I was able to make Ralph laugh. I’m talking about really laugh – it was no accomplishment to get Ralph to chuckle or give a wry half-smile. This was epic, on the order of The Red Sea Parting. That was a great day – no, year – for me, seeing this quiet, straightforward man come apart with laughter. Who knew?

I’m going to miss Ralph. We’re all going to miss Ralph. His talents, his very life, were of such a singular focus and of such sterling quality that a woman would fly across the country just to revel in their radiance for a few days.

And you know how you meet someone and you know, you just know, that their personality, their essence, isn’t going to go away at the end, blow away like dry topsoil? 

Ralph was that kind of person. 

I went into The Stone Lantern this morning, just to stroll around.

Ralph is still there – I could feel him. It’s a good feeling.