I stepped onto the very same stage he did. The place where he gave his final performance hours before he passed away — the stage where he poured his entire heart and soul into the craft that meant everything to him. The venue where he received a standing ovation and heard the cheers of hundreds of people, filled with love and appreciation. And I was standing there, exactly four years later.
My late husband, Bob Saget, was a comedian through and through. Being a comic meant everything to him, and being part of that world, that inner circle of people who get to make others laugh for a living, was one of his greatest sources of pride. He had the privilege of doing it for more than 40 years, and nothing made him prouder — aside from his children — than calling himself a comedian. He cherished being able to call some of the greats his friends. He loved being in comedy clubs, on stage in a theater, or even just sitting around a dinner table with other funny people making each other laugh. Nothing gave him more joy than entertaining people, and making them happy.
As his wife, I had the privilege of witnessing that joy firsthand. I loved watching the audience's reaction whenever he performed. Some were die-hard fans who knew his comedy well, while others knew him only from family television like Full House or America’s Funniest Home Videos, and had that moment of surprise when they saw the real Bob. It was always so special to watch that realization wash over them: Wow, I didn’t expect this, but I love it. Time and time again, I sat there as both a captivated audience member and a proud wife.
On January 8, 2022, Bob was performing at Ponte Vedra Concert Hall, between Jacksonville and St. Augustine. He had just recovered from COVID, so he'd had to work hard to get his energy back. That’s why I was so surprised when he called me after the show, elated, and said, “Honey, I did 2 hours and 10 minutes! Can you believe it?” If you know comedians, you know a typical set is about an hour, maybe 90 minutes at most. So to go over two hours, especially while still recovering from an illness, was almost superhuman.
He recounted all the details as he drove from the concert hall back to his hotel in Orlando, saying, “They gave me a standing ovation. It was amazing. I had such a great time, I feel like I’m 26 again.” I made sure he got home safely, and we told each other how much we loved each other — how excited we were to see each other the next morning when he got back to L.A. But I never spoke to him again. As we now know, Bob peacefully passed away in his sleep that night, after sustaining a head injury in his hotel room. My heart was shattered.
Four years later, I had the opportunity to visit Ponte Vedra Concert Hall. When I was first approached, I paused for a moment. Why did that name sound so familiar? And then it dawned on me: That was the location of Bob’s final performance. I immediately welled up with emotion, and gratefully accepted the opportunity. Of course I wanted to go.
When I landed in Orlando, the realization hit me right away: This was the last airport Bob ever flew into. He had walked through that terminal four years earlier, fully expecting to board a flight home a few days later. He would never take that flight.
I spent my first few days of the trip in Winter Park, which is just outside of Orlando, but feels worlds away. It was exactly what I needed — quiet, tree-lined streets, art tucked into unexpected corners. This was the perfect escape. I relaxed and reset at the stunning Alfond Inn, a reprieve while I processed so many emotions. My time wandering the streets of Park Ave was serene and reflective — it's exactly the kind of place that lets you slow down and take everything in.
Then I made my way to St. Augustine, where my sister Kristin joined me. (St. Augustine is incredible, by the way — it's actually the oldest city in America and if you haven’t been, it’s a must.) I stayed at one of the cottages at Bayfront Marin House, the perfect home base steps away from the beach. I needed the sound of those waves and the salty air.
Before heading to the venue, Kristin and I took in the city. I craved some comfort food, as I knew the next day was going to be intensely emotional. Kristin and I found Lotus Noodle Bar, by far the best ramen of my life. Some live blues music seemed like it would comfort my soul, so we visited the Fort Mose Jazz & Blues Festival, where melodies filled a setting with deep historical significance.
Finally, the day came. I met the lovely Dianya, who runs the Ponte Vedra Concert Hall and graciously showed me around the newly renovated space, which looked stunning. Luckily, the stage had stayed exactly the same. We walked into the green room where Bob had gotten ready the night he passed, the same room he had been texting me from minutes before going on stage.
I could feel the emotions building, especially as Dianya led me out onto the stage. She said, “I’ll give you some privacy. Take all the time you need,” and I asked my sister for a moment alone. I wanted to stand there and feel it, to feel him.
And then a wave of emotion hit me. I looked out at the audience. I sat on the stool he sat on, the same stool where he rested his guitar, and I broke.
Uncontrollable tears streamed down my face, as the weight of this loss washed over me. I could feel Bob there. I could feel that this was where he stood in those final moments, where he made people laugh, where he made them feel joy, where he did exactly what he was put on this earth to do. And in that moment, I felt overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude for Dianya, for Ponte Vedra, and for Florida — for being the source of this memory, and for giving me the chance to experience it in my own way. Gratitude that I got to see what he saw that night. Gratitude that I got to know him, that I got to be his wife. Gratitude that my sister was there with me. Just gratitude for all of it.
I always pray that Bob would be proud of me: Proud of how I’ve carried myself, proud that I still say his name loudly and often. And standing there on that stage, I hoped that somehow he'd be happy that I stood in the same spot where he received his final standing ovation — and made so many other people happy, too.
Kelly Rizzo is a culinary creator, TV host, and host of the podcast Comfort Food.
