For whatever reason, Mr. Wells was the first person I thought of when I learned I had lost a dear friend, mentor, and boss, Edward "Bud" Sweitzer. Bud passed away, suffering from what most people secretly aspire to; old age with a robust and story-filled life to leave behind. He, too, was bold and forward-thinking; albeit in a much more terrestrial way.
We were an unlikely combination as boss and employee; I was a 22-year-old computer nerd and he was a retiree from the world of fire protection in his early 60’s. Bud had more vision than technical ability and I had more technical savvy than girlfriends.
What Bud envisioned and had hired me to create was a more focused version of something we all now use on a much grander scale – the internet. Bud envisioned (in simplified terms), a pool of information available "on-line" to hundreds(!) of other people to read and review at any time. Technology of the day (20 years ago), wasn’t quite ready, the “always-on” nature of the internet and required an infrastructure that was years away.
But it was not that vision of Bud that I will cherish the most - I will remember him and food.
Coffee
Coffee, combined with a cigarette, was Bud’s morning ritual and, essentially, breakfast. He wasn't snobby about his coffee either. He was happy with "Sanka" as much as he was later happy with "Two-buck Chuck" wine. For him, it was not the ingredient so much as the ritual.
On my first day working for Bud, he strolled into the (mostly) empty office 20 minutes late. My job was to answer phones for the on-vacation (and eternally-cranky) receptionist and I sat awaiting instructions.
He entered the building solo with the same dramatic flare normally reserved for 3 or 4 people, a singular entity wielding the presence of a full entourage. "Mornin' Dan'l!"
I'd never heard my name abbreviated longer than "Dan" and yet shorter than "Daniel”. That was Bud, a hybrid of respectful formality and utter efficiency.
He swooped past my "eager to know what the hell I should be doing" look toward the back of the office. I adjusted my tie (which I would never wear to the office again) as he made the unmistakable noises of coffee brewing. He may have been singing; he did that on occasion. He emerged from the hallway wielding his ever-present (and now full) coffee-mug. He plopped himself down on the reception-area loveseat, pulled out a cigarette, crossed his legs, lit up, and took the first drag with a moment of focus...
"Dan'l, here's the way I like to start the day; I arrive at the crack of 9:20, we get a cup of coffee, I check whatever messages I have, and then I come out here, sit on the couch, you and I shoot-the-shit for about an hour, and then we go to work. How's that sound?"
It's like this guy, essentially a complete stranger, could either define or predict my work ethic for - at least - the next 20 years.
I sat, in awe, of this man. Not just for his keen perspective on how work should be approached, nor his vision of using computers to disseminate information, but on life in general. His weekend highlight was family and friends, though he also clearly cherished the “individual hours”, often early in the morning when he could just "be". He'd often sit on his porch at 5:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and a loaded shotgun - waiting for gophers. Comfortably distant from neighbors, though certainly not completely out of earshot, he would often obliterate "the little bastards" from the comfort of his chair. It wasn't simply for sport, mind you. I seem to recall it being a problem with the holes in the ground over which a horse could stumble and break those surprisingly fragile legs.
Bud has presumably hunted or fished everything that swims or walks. His son, Matt, carries on that tradition. I cannot call myself a true omnivore until I hunt something. I had never considered it before, but Bud also taught me the direct route between an animal and food, and he was respectful over the loss of life but also wasn’t preachy about its "rightful place in society". It just "was".
The Cup and the Apple
Had I not actually been there, this could easily be mistaken for fiction or urban myth, but it happened.
We were on our way to meet with a fire department in San Francisco, driving along in Bud's "company vehicle" (a Ford Bronco) on highway 80 heading over the bridge to San Francisco. The entire time, Bud was (as usual) brainstorming.
He had left the office with a cup of coffee and an apple, alternating between them as he drove and during the brief moments when he wasn't thinking out loud. His mind was occupied on a low-level by the process of driving, on a high-level with grand ideas about improving fire department communication.
Bud had finished the apple just before the initial span of the bay bridge and placed the core in the cup holder between us; though it was clear he wanted rid of it. On that initial span, still verbally brainstorming, he realized he could dispose of the apple core over the side of the bridge. He rolled down his window, still talking and focusing, and jettisoned the apple core without breaking stride. While I heard what he was doing, I didn’t actually see him do it.
At the end of his current brainstorm, he reached over for his cup of coffee, and pulled up an apple core. The confused look on his face was priceless as he couldn't grasp that the apple core he had just thrown over the side of the bridge had somehow teleported back into the truck. He glanced quickly from core, to now-closed window, back to the cup holder. Indeed, he'd thrown the coffee cup, rather than the apple core, over the side of the bridge.
The Oakland Bay Bridge is about 14 miles long, and I laughed continuously for almost all of them.
Waitresses
Bud was a charming guy. Waitresses, in particular, held a fascination for him owing perhaps to the uniform. In particular, it was the elder waitresses with whom he got along best. Like him, they were from a time when flirtatious banter was a far cry from sexual harassment.
One "old-school" restaurant we'd occasion was about 3 blocks from our office. The name escapes me and while it had been there for 40 years at that point, I can't imagine that it's still there. By that point, maybe it had enough momentum to just keep going. The waitresses were either 24 or 68 and nothing in between, the décor was closer in age to the elder waitresses and, if anything had been replaced in all that time, it was an exact replica of how it looked the day it opened.
During one visit, two waitresses approached our table, one from each of the age categories. "Ruth", the elder, had seen Bud many times and was training "Sarah" on the fine art of waitressing. Ruth asked if we were ready to order.
Bud looked up at young Sarah's starched and unsoiled uniform, and saw her name tag above her (ample) left breast. "Sarah, huh? What do you call the other one?" Sarah's face was blank for a moment and then went almost as red as the vinyl covering the front door. Ruth clarified, "That's just Bud honey, he's harmless."
As they walked away, Bud noted, "See, the thing is Dan'l, they think I'm a harmless old man. What they don't know is, I mean every word of it. If they ever took me up on anything, I'd be in trouble since I haven't been able to get it up in 15 years. It's like a dog chasing a car; they chase them even though they'd have no idea what to do with it if they caught one." Bud certainly taught me to "Seize the day, but make sure you seize all of it".
But it was not that vision of Bud that I will cherish the most - I will remember him and food.
Coffee
Coffee, combined with a cigarette, was Bud’s morning ritual and, essentially, breakfast. He wasn't snobby about his coffee either. He was happy with "Sanka" as much as he was later happy with "Two-buck Chuck" wine. For him, it was not the ingredient so much as the ritual.
On my first day working for Bud, he strolled into the (mostly) empty office 20 minutes late. My job was to answer phones for the on-vacation (and eternally-cranky) receptionist and I sat awaiting instructions.
He entered the building solo with the same dramatic flare normally reserved for 3 or 4 people, a singular entity wielding the presence of a full entourage. "Mornin' Dan'l!"
I'd never heard my name abbreviated longer than "Dan" and yet shorter than "Daniel”. That was Bud, a hybrid of respectful formality and utter efficiency.
He swooped past my "eager to know what the hell I should be doing" look toward the back of the office. I adjusted my tie (which I would never wear to the office again) as he made the unmistakable noises of coffee brewing. He may have been singing; he did that on occasion. He emerged from the hallway wielding his ever-present (and now full) coffee-mug. He plopped himself down on the reception-area loveseat, pulled out a cigarette, crossed his legs, lit up, and took the first drag with a moment of focus...
"Dan'l, here's the way I like to start the day; I arrive at the crack of 9:20, we get a cup of coffee, I check whatever messages I have, and then I come out here, sit on the couch, you and I shoot-the-shit for about an hour, and then we go to work. How's that sound?"
It's like this guy, essentially a complete stranger, could either define or predict my work ethic for - at least - the next 20 years.
I sat, in awe, of this man. Not just for his keen perspective on how work should be approached, nor his vision of using computers to disseminate information, but on life in general. His weekend highlight was family and friends, though he also clearly cherished the “individual hours”, often early in the morning when he could just "be". He'd often sit on his porch at 5:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and a loaded shotgun - waiting for gophers. Comfortably distant from neighbors, though certainly not completely out of earshot, he would often obliterate "the little bastards" from the comfort of his chair. It wasn't simply for sport, mind you. I seem to recall it being a problem with the holes in the ground over which a horse could stumble and break those surprisingly fragile legs.
Bud has presumably hunted or fished everything that swims or walks. His son, Matt, carries on that tradition. I cannot call myself a true omnivore until I hunt something. I had never considered it before, but Bud also taught me the direct route between an animal and food, and he was respectful over the loss of life but also wasn’t preachy about its "rightful place in society". It just "was".
The Cup and the Apple
Had I not actually been there, this could easily be mistaken for fiction or urban myth, but it happened.
We were on our way to meet with a fire department in San Francisco, driving along in Bud's "company vehicle" (a Ford Bronco) on highway 80 heading over the bridge to San Francisco. The entire time, Bud was (as usual) brainstorming.
He had left the office with a cup of coffee and an apple, alternating between them as he drove and during the brief moments when he wasn't thinking out loud. His mind was occupied on a low-level by the process of driving, on a high-level with grand ideas about improving fire department communication.
Bud had finished the apple just before the initial span of the bay bridge and placed the core in the cup holder between us; though it was clear he wanted rid of it. On that initial span, still verbally brainstorming, he realized he could dispose of the apple core over the side of the bridge. He rolled down his window, still talking and focusing, and jettisoned the apple core without breaking stride. While I heard what he was doing, I didn’t actually see him do it.
At the end of his current brainstorm, he reached over for his cup of coffee, and pulled up an apple core. The confused look on his face was priceless as he couldn't grasp that the apple core he had just thrown over the side of the bridge had somehow teleported back into the truck. He glanced quickly from core, to now-closed window, back to the cup holder. Indeed, he'd thrown the coffee cup, rather than the apple core, over the side of the bridge.
The Oakland Bay Bridge is about 14 miles long, and I laughed continuously for almost all of them.
Waitresses
Bud was a charming guy. Waitresses, in particular, held a fascination for him owing perhaps to the uniform. In particular, it was the elder waitresses with whom he got along best. Like him, they were from a time when flirtatious banter was a far cry from sexual harassment.
One "old-school" restaurant we'd occasion was about 3 blocks from our office. The name escapes me and while it had been there for 40 years at that point, I can't imagine that it's still there. By that point, maybe it had enough momentum to just keep going. The waitresses were either 24 or 68 and nothing in between, the décor was closer in age to the elder waitresses and, if anything had been replaced in all that time, it was an exact replica of how it looked the day it opened.
During one visit, two waitresses approached our table, one from each of the age categories. "Ruth", the elder, had seen Bud many times and was training "Sarah" on the fine art of waitressing. Ruth asked if we were ready to order.
Bud looked up at young Sarah's starched and unsoiled uniform, and saw her name tag above her (ample) left breast. "Sarah, huh? What do you call the other one?" Sarah's face was blank for a moment and then went almost as red as the vinyl covering the front door. Ruth clarified, "That's just Bud honey, he's harmless."
As they walked away, Bud noted, "See, the thing is Dan'l, they think I'm a harmless old man. What they don't know is, I mean every word of it. If they ever took me up on anything, I'd be in trouble since I haven't been able to get it up in 15 years. It's like a dog chasing a car; they chase them even though they'd have no idea what to do with it if they caught one." Bud certainly taught me to "Seize the day, but make sure you seize all of it".
I will bend a massive rule and raise a glass of Two-buck Chuck to Bud; you'll be missed, my friend.
1 comments:
Those are classic Bud stories. Of course, I'd heard the cup and apple story many times but it's still hilarious. And Bud was always the first one to laugh at it.
I remember the restaurant near the office, as I had gone to lunch with him there a few times. He was a regular, with a regular's routine. He would enter the restaurant, show himself to his usual table (which was apparently always available) and sit. The waitress would notice him sit down and order him a glass of white wine from the bar, without him having to order it himself. She'd greet him warmly, serve him the wine, and not bother to give him a menu. After awhile, he'd catch the waitress' eye and she'd come over to take his order (always one of only a couple of different dishes). It was a comfortable routine -- the only thing missing was everybody yelling "Bud" when he walked in the door.
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