Something for You to Read While I’m Not Writing

I have lots to tell you but no time to write these days. (I feel like this magpie must just by posting this little bit.) Too busy prepping for the Big Sale, planning the next trip south, and trying to write a eulogy for my grandmother. In a moment of muddled thinking, I offered to lead the service. Basically because I hated funerals presided over by ministers who don’t know squat about the deceased. I’ve made remarks at funerals before, written comments for memorials, but passing myself off as a “funeral officiate” is new to me. And weird because of my relationship with the deceased.

I also have a surprise for you, which I’m frantically trying to complete while doing everything else before Wednesday. So bear with me. I’ll probably have to keep apologizing to you for the next month.

For now, here are the comments I made at the funeral of my favorite landlord—and the lessons I’m still barely making a grade on:

“If you can’t be a good example, then be a horrible warning.”

The Mr. Sandin I knew would have taken great delight in being described as a “horrible warning.” However, truth be told, he was also a good example.

He generously supported a number of charities, he had a lifetime membership to the Art Institute, he had a smile and a wave for any child within his line of vision, he was financially shrewd, compassionate to animals and above all, and in spite of his edgy sense of humor, he was kind.

Mr. Sandin—more often called Carl or Colonel by others—was a creature of habit. Every morning he put on his khaki trousers, a Brooks Brothers shirt, a matching tie and suitcoat, and grabbed his hat to take the bus downtown. For the past two years, the destination was Marshall Field’s on State Street for lunch. And almost without exception, the lunch he chose was the same every day. In the afternoon, he came home to lounge with his cat.

At a glance, Mr. Sandin was dapper. Look closer, though, and you might notice his belt buckle—a brass skull—something so seemingly out of character for such a charming elderly gentleman that you’d have to ask about it. The skull was his failproof conversation-starter. And if you were lucky and he had the time, you’d get to hear one of his stories.

He appreciated a crisp pant crease, fine leather and cashmere, and Swiss watches. He loved gadgets and he had scores of them. He was well read, kept up with science and medicine, and knowledgeable about many subjects—from numismatics and investing to photography, politics, and the latest celebrity scandals. He wanted nothing to do with Lake Michigan, had no interest in travelling, and he absolutely refused to drink water no matter how thirsty he was. Milk was his liquid of choice.

For about a year, I saw him at least twice a day to give him his medications and to feed and pill his cat. He was always ecstatic to see me, and always ready for me to leave within 15 minutes of my arrival. Like clockwork, he’d dismiss me. But he’d want me to return over and over again during the day—just for 15 minutes at a time.

One night as I was dispersing his numerous pills, which he loathed taking, he looked toward the heavens and cried, “Ohhhhh, woe is me. Is there anyone more put upon than me?” He shook a little as he exhaled it and it terrified me. I hated being the one making him do what he didn’t want to do, but the alternative was unthinkable. I said something in an effort to console him and I left after he took the pills. The next morning, he said the same thing, and I again offered my condolences for the miserable life he thought he was leading. This became our pattern. And when I’d run out of consolation one night and he cried, “Is there anyone more put upon than me?” before he finished, I blurted out: “Yes! ME! Because I have to deal with YOU!” And he laughed and laughed. I realized that I had been expected to say that a long time before. I was his sparring partner. He liked to test my intellect, to provoke me, tease me, shock me, push me to some edge to see if I could hang on. And when I did, he laughed. And it’s those moments I’ll cherish most.

So what about him was a horrible warning? Here are some things I learned from him, though he had no intention of teaching me and I still haven’t applied much of this to my day-to-day existence:
1. We all need to ask for help at some point in our lives—sooner rather than later.
2. We all need friends. And laughter.
3. We all like to be taken care of. There’s no shame in it.
4. We should do our best to maintain our health and mobility—and our minds.

Mr. Sandin led several lives: the one he told people he lived, the one he desired to live, and the one he did live. I like to think that now, at last Mr. Sandin is living one life—the one he dreamed of—confronting injustice without fear of retribution, living large with no restraints on pleasure, and making decisions that hold no regrets.

Mr. Sandin . . . Colonel . . . I salute you.

[Painting by Rubens Peale.]