I STAND for the MAN

My literary idol (he would blush) was a gentleman I used to work
with. He was the editor-in-chief of two trade periodicals. I'm not sure
if he's still around today; I hope so. If I saw him again I'd give him
a big hug and a kiss. I'll call him Maurice.

When Maurice walked into a room, I felt as if a tornado had struck. His
presence singed the air with electricity. He was fair skinned and gray
haired with great bushy eyebrows. Born in Scotland, his voice had a
slight lilt of the accent. In spite of a shortened leg from a car
accident he moved the same way he attacked life. His ideas were
innovative and bold. He exuded enthusiasm and creativity. He assaulted
the computer terminal with each assignment, battering the keys like a
jackhammer. His diction was clear and authoritative; he often
introduced new words in conversation. His office ebbed and flowed with
documents and trade show collectables. He did not like managing the
details. He could not tolerate people with closed minds. I could see
that he endured many hardships in his past that colored his vision for
the future. For Maurice, visions were goals to be worked on daily and
achieved.

I had many conversations with Maurice. We shared the same sense of
morality and a feeling of place and purpose in the universe. He probed
my life as if on an interview and listened attentively to my thoughts
and feelings. I transported him to pickup and drop off test vehicles
from advertisers; he was a guest in my car.

These conversations revealed his personality although he let me talk.
He cared about people and believed that change didn't come on its own
or peacefully. Without change there is no growth, and no future. He
became one of my adopted fathers.

I read many of the articles that he had written as well as those of the
other editors. When he wrote I could envision him speaking it. I find
it easier to write as I speak. I suppose that is what people mean when
they say to write about things that you know. The technical jargon I
eventually learned. I know Maurice.

Tenacious when on a task, I would not want to be a target. I could see
wheels and gears turning in his head. If someone shot at him I'm sure
he had a Sherman tank coming down the road. A patient planner, his grin
stood for resolve. Understand I never witnessed anything; these are my
feelings. He was not a weakling. Neither am I.

On the inside, Maurice was the keeper of a great big golden heart. It
was larger than his intellect, but masked by his managerial position.
The younger editors admired him and watched his every move. They saw
his speed, wit and energy, and asked me about the man. I'm sure they
made their own assessment too; they worked closely with him.
Spontaneously, they pooled their resources and bought him a collectable
model car in appreciation. See, I'm not the only one who liked
him!

When he retired the editors found a picture of him in the trash. It
used to hang in the hall. They retrieved it and I claimed it. It stood
prominently in my office until my departure. Like garlic, it kept big
boss away. I'm sure he'd appreciate that. I still have it.

Maurice, wherever you are, I love ya too.