THE FUNERAL PLANNER

Chapter 9 Part 2: Critical Success Factors - Diving into Grief

Chapter 9 Part 2

Sid and I walk along the shoreline under the moonlight to Uncle Sam’s cottage. “Did you get that, Sid? The proto­col to grief is love. To paraphrase with interpretation...that would mean that those who have grieved are also those who have loved. I would grieve you a lot—you know why, Sid? Because I love you a lot. Would you grieve for me?” Siddhartha jumps on me and whimpers. “I know...I’d miss you, too...like I miss Uncle Sam...and Tara.”

For the next week, I endear myself to the customers at the bar, listening and paraphrasing, while Sid endears herself to them by nuzzling up to them for a loving stroke on the head.

I’m working the bar one night when the town’s librarian, Mrs. Jones, shows me a series of her watercolor paintings.

“Sounds like you really enjoy painting from your car-stu­dio during your lunch hour,” I say.

“Yes,” says Mrs. Jones. “I painted these over some twenty lunch hours.”

There’s an extraordinary painting of Guy working out­doors on a fence with strange-looking parts strategically placed on top of it. “That’s an amazing painting. You’re really talented.” I try to squash my instinct to introduce Mrs. Jones to a handful of gallery owners I know from my failed Artists International venture, but I’m determined not to meddle with people’s lives here. What if I helped and it backfired? Better not to tempt fate in this little town, I think to myself. I glance down the bar at Guy sipping his beer. I top off Mrs. Jones’s iced tea and remember the story of D. J. Depree, the founder of Herman Miller.

The story goes that when D.J. went to pay his respects to the wife of a millwright who had died while working for him, she showed him her husband’s book of poetry, and forever thereafter D.J. wondered—was her husband a millwright who wrote poems or a poet who worked as a millwright? That one persistent and prescient thought marked the start of a changing perception of the Amer­ican worker from machine-centric widget-maker to em­ployee with inalienable rights—rights that D. J. Depree recognized in the 1950s. In fact, his was one of the first companies to give employees participative ownership through stock. Years later D.J.’s son, Max, succeeded him as an equally good leader, maintaining the values his fa­ther had instilled in him. It was Max who went on to write the little, well-known book “Leadership is an Art,” declar­ing that leaders should leave behind them assets and a legacy; that they are obligated to provide and maintain momentum; that they must be responsible for effective­ness; that they must take a role in developing, expressing and defending civility and values and implement manage­ment-sharing opportunities.

Derek Rogers must have skipped that class in college be­cause he certainly eschews all those principles. But Victor doesn’t. As far as I can tell, Victor is a man of great princi­ple. I watch the people in the bar. Is Mrs. Jones a librarian who paints or a painter who works as a librarian? Is Guy a handyman who engineers or an engineer who is handy? “God, I hate conundrums,” I mutter under my breath, and focus back on the present.

“What do you think of this one, Maddy?” asks Mrs. Jones.

I stare at another stellar painting. “It’s remarkable,” I com­ment. In this painting of Clark Lake at dawn, Mrs. Jones has captured its essence perfectly. My instincts win out and I say, “You know...I know a little bit about the art world. I could give you a list of names and numbers of some art gallery owners in New York to contact if you want.”

“Really?” asks Mrs. Jones. “That would be very nice. Let me think about it.”

“Sure. And I’d be happy to call in advance, if it helps.”

I glance toward the other end of the bar to make sure all the customers are happy. Richard pours another patron a sec­ond shot of whiskey. I hear the soothing tones of Richard’s voice as he asks, “What was that like for you, Wally?”