I sat at his
library table in the den, palms resting on the smooth wood. The note “Sondheim”
is stuck to the edge of one shelf. He is reminding himself to download that
music. Above the desk is an installation of small works of art gathered on global
adventures seeking the world’s greatest art and architecture. The pieces are
carefully framed and hung together like the jigsaw puzzles he and Mom always have
going. To the right are the old photos of his father’s Michigan football teams.
60 years of season tickets. To the left is the book shelf, crammed with
evidence of his insatiable thirst for knowledge. The Civil War, Buddhism and
Caravaggio are punctuated by the metal toy soldiers of Napoleon and his
generals. Behind me is one of my favorite series of his own works. It’s hidden
behind the door in reluctance to include himself in the great company of makers
he surrounded himself with. These pieces are well executed and powerful. They
contain his personal mark I’d recognize anywhere. Brilliant and gregarious.
Also intensely private. Of all the places he’s visited, his favorite is home. Home
is his sacred place of freedom where he can pursue his own quiet thoughts and
spend time with his family. Home is where peace and sanctuary always reside.
I’m profoundly grateful to have known one of the most dynamic and humble human
beings to grace this planet. He has sculpted and crafted me to be more that I
perceive myself to be. He lives on in my heart forever.
