A Vodka Gimlet

The evenings I spent with this family always seemed to start out with a vodka gimlet, followed by ‘you want a beer?’. If I said yes, I was reminded they were in the basement fridge and to be sure to bring up a few to restock the kitchen fridge. It was what I did. Hell, fetching beer to have a beer became common place even into my adult years when I’d visit. Even when I had my own kids, my oldest was often charged with getting a beer out of the cooler at fourth of July cookouts.

A vodka gimlet, or at least what I think it they’re called. Vodka, lime, and tonic water. Some combination like that. I never drink them until tonight because it’s appropriate. In high school, yes, high school, I was charged from time to time with making said drink for my best friend’s parents after a long day at the office. It was their ritual. Get home, decide what to make for dinner, but not before winding down with a drink – a vodka gimlet. It could have been gin, but I think it was vodka. I digress.

Today, we said goodbye to my friend’s Dad. But he was more than just my friend’s Dad. He was a stubborn Marine, incredibly hard worker, and someone with the gift of gab like no other. He loved meeting people and making small talk, and did not ever hold back on his feelings on subjects like the ‘crap they make in China that we keep buying’. He was like a second Dad to me in many ways, offering advice from a different point of view than my own parents, and putting me in my place when I needed it.

Let me share some memories about this man. I hadn’t known him very long before he learned I got let go from my job at the pharmacy. As I passed by his living room, he said “hey Mike, come here a minute. I hear you’re looking for a job? How about working for me? Does $5/hour sound fair?” Considering I just got fired from a $3.35/ retail job, I was doing backflips accepting this offer! I went to work in his warehouse making carpet stain remover and filling orders. A few times a year, I’d help set up marketing shows where he’d essentially take everything he had in the warehouse. We were usually the last to leave when setting up the booths because he had to have everything just right. We often played harder than we worked, however. Isopropyl alcohol burns a clean blue flame, and leaves no evidence that you burned something. I learned that in the warehouse. I also learned you could make a ball out of tape and have a home run derby in the warehouse. Did I mention we’d race around on the pallet jack too? I’m sure he knew we were dabbling in all of this, but as long as we did what he wanted first, we were golden.

This man was a family man who’s two daughters had him wrapped around their fingers. I remember specifically one friday night during the summer. He gave them both a lecture on getting jobs and earning money instead of sleeping until noon and then getting a sun tan or watching movies all day in the basement. Then when they headed out the door, he’d ask what they were doing and where were they going. They fill him in with some generic details, and before you knew it, he was pulling cash out of his pocket telling the girls ten dollars wasn’t enough to be carrying around, and would hand them each more money. One thing that always struck me is that he would call each of them ‘Love’. “Heading to the office, Love.” “Have a good day, Love.”

His son, my friend, was treated a little differently. He was the oldest and the only son. What did that mean? Expectations were higher. And the son delivered. He inherited his Dad’s work ethic and desire to make things happen. I remember vividly when the rest of us were borrowing our Moms’ car, he was driving around in a car he was paying for himself. They shared a sense of humor that was sarcastic, and sometimes brutally honest. He was grooming him, and although things didn’t work out like I think he had planned, I know he was nothing but proud of his son, and rightly so. I think he understood he needed to follow his own path, something I think more parents needs to understand.

As for who he was to me? He was my boss, and in many ways, my second dad. No disrespect to my own dad, but he did not hesitate to knock me down a few places when I needed it, just like my dad would. Talk about it taking a village. That was back when a parent of a friend could put the fear of God in you, and your own parents were just fine with it. If we were doing something we shouldn’t, parents depended on our friends’ parents to fill in when they weren’t around. I’m a better person because of it.

He invited me to more Chiefs games than I can count, feeding me and buying me drinks, especially on those cold game days where we ended up sitting inside the club. Tailgating was an event to say the least, with more food and drinks than we knew what to do with. Complete strangers would walk by, comment on what we had set up, and he’d be right there offering food or drink as fellow fans. He hated the Chiefs, but in a way most big time fans so – frustrated through many losing seasons, irritated with parking and ticket prices for when the team wasn’t performing, yet he loved them because it put him in his element of being around people, likely looking for an opportunity to eventually sell them something.

He gave me a bed in his basement when my family was transferred to Topeka and continued to employ me so I could be around my friends over the summer. He tried to teach me sales, but you don’t teach sales, you’re born with that gene, and he certainly was. He had a cup, I believe, or maybe it was a sign on his desk that said ‘Salemanship begins when the customer says no’. I always admired the fact he could hear that word ‘no’ so much, but kept plugging until he got that yes.

He accepted my wife as part of his family. We got him a Mizzou beanie, complete with fuzzy ball on top, to replace the worn out Chiefs hat he had that had lost the emblem and was left with the glue outline. That entire day, he would point to his hat and say ‘My friends got me this hat’. He loved being around our kids. He loved when we’d come over and join ours with his grandkids. He’d watch them play and laugh. He wouldn’t miss a beat when it came to trying to teach them how to do something for themselves. He was a good grandpa, or ‘Bop’ as I believe he was called.

He was a great husband. who loved his wife with everything he had. They had the best relationship. “Damn it, Dan” started off many conversations, but it was never taken out of context. I can hear clearly things like, “Barb, where is (blank)?”, with would be met with “Damn it, Dan! It’s where you left it!”. There was never a doubt how much he loved his wife and how much she loved him. No doubt.

So tonight as I type this, I’m sipping on vodka gimlet, in honor of the Colonel. RIP, sir, and know you touched the lives of so many in your own ways. Thank you for the job, the bed, the opportunities, the friendship, the beers, and these damn vokda gimlets.