It’s actually Wednesday, July 24th as I write this, but I don’t anticipate posting it until tomorrow. Feeling kind of blue and sentimental today, because it is — was — the birthday of someone very special to me, and to a lot of other people . . . in fact, to almost everyone who ever met him. And although it’s been over 35 years since he had the nerve to leave us, I’m still really pissed, because he went so quickly, without notice, and I never got the chance to tell him . . . well, so many things. Things that I still remember as clearly as though they happened just yesterday.

I’ve written about Walter before: his brilliant mind, his diabolical sense of humor, his amazing professional accomplishments. And I even threw in a few anecdotes about the outrageously funny side of him, and the mischief he got away with because people just loved him.

But today I’ve been thinking about his effect on my life — even now, so many years after that horrible, horrible day when I got the call from his wife. And all the things I never had a chance to thank him for. Like my nickname.

I was Walter’s office assistant (they called us secretaries in those days), responsible for keeping the many facets of his professional life from crashing into each other. I never thanked him for recognizing that I was capable of more than just typing and filing. He let me take on as much responsibility as I felt I could, always pushing me to do a little more: dealing directly with clients, heads of major multinational corporations, government officials, and even a couple of heads of state. He trusted me with his personal accounts as well, and with the “keys to the kingdom” — sharing with me things that he told very few others. And in so doing, he taught me to trust myself and my own judgment. He taught me self-confidence.

So . . . thank you for that, Walter.

*. *. *

In many ways, we were a perfect match. Walter never held back an opinion or a wisecrack, and neither did I. The fact that he was my boss made no difference; I could match him quip for quip, insult for insult. We had some hilarious exchanges . . . and some colossal fights. Unlike a lot of individuals at the top of their game, he could take it as well as hand it out. And in so doing, he taught me that it was all right to stand up for myself, and how to clear the air without any lingering hard feelings. He taught me to be brave.

Thanks for that, too, Walter.

*. *. *

And when I did manage to best him in one of our classic verbal fencing matches, he would simply stop talking, look at me for a minute, get in one final word — Bitch! — and walk away. And that became my nickname, for ever and always. He taught me not to take myself too seriously.

Thanks a lot, Walter.

*. *. *

I also need to thank him for noticing when I was worried about a personal matter, and ordering me to sit down and talk about it. He always had good advice; and even when he couldn’t solve a problem for me, just having someone there to listen was enough.

And I don’t think I really told him how much I appreciated his not firing me when I threw that surprise 65th birthday party for him in the office, when everyone else was in on it. I could tell he secretly loved it, even when he said, “Thank you; but don’t ever do that again.” It was the smile that showed up in his eyes before he managed to turn aside that gave it away.

Many years after he was gone, his introducing me to the world of international politics paid off in terms of my future work in Prague and in Russia. I certainly owe him for all of that. He taught me to take a chance on the unknown, and my life has been that much richer for it.

And for the thousands of memories — so many of them hilarious enough to make me laugh again, even now — I thank him.

*. *. *

And on the flip side, I must finally forgive him for the one thing I have never been able to let go of: telling me I spoiled my kids when I had to take an afternoon off because my son (grown and on his own by then) needed my help following surgery . . . when he (Walter) had once flown back from Tokyo, cancelling his trip to China, because his wife had broken her thumb. But that’s a whole story in and of itself. And after all these years, it’s time to just let it go. So . . . it’s okay, Walter. You were wrong, but I forgive you. Just don’t do it again.

*. *. *

It’s the 25th now, and I actually do feel better. Good night, Walter, and thanks again . . . for everything.

“Bitch”
7/25/24

P.S. And speaking of nicknames . . . what the hell did “Dink” stand for?