MY MEMOIR of A GENTLEMAN - by D. H. Clair

August of 1992 ~

So much hinged on my getting the job. Already in the autumn of my years, I’d just gone through a very trying time. I’d lost a business, much of my personal property, a home, and a marriage. With my tail between my legs, I’d accepted my daughter’s offer and relocated from Atlanta to Rochester, New York. I suppose I had a few self-esteem issues. I couldn’t afford to botch the interview.

The law offices at 252 South Plymouth looked impressive. I pulled into the driveway, parked, and took one last look in the mirror. The wear and tear didn’t really show. The strawberry blonde coif was stylish, the suit I’d chosen fitting—a gold and black cropped houndstooth jacket and straight black skirt, matching shoes and bag. I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs.

Once past the small foyer, I looked up at a Tara-style staircase, a hallway, with doors on either side. I was led into a high-ceilinged office. A Spanish marble mantle piece competed with a distinguished silver-haired gentleman for the focal point. I was drawn to his bright eyes, the bushy silver moustache. “Sidney K. Schoenwald,” he said. He shook my hand.  “Sit down.” I felt comfortable almost immediately. It was more like a friendly visit than an interview. We did discuss my work history, and just like that, I was hired.

I couldn’t know it then, but it was to become so much more than “just a job.” When I left the office there was a spring in my step that had been missing for many a month.

Three of the secretaries shared an office directly across from Mr. Schoenwald’s, but each worked for a different attorney. It was an instant fit although our ages were as diverse as the attorney’s specialties. Mr. S, as he was affectionately known, permitted me to call him by his first name. Because “there’s not that much difference in our ages.” I knew not to do it when clients were present.

Every now and then he’d call me into his office. “Sit down, Dahris.” He’d lean back in his chair, smile and say, “Tell me something interesting.” Who, me? What could I tell this learned man that would be interesting to him?

      “Tell me about your life.”

Well now—there were hundreds of stories. Little by little he learned them all. I learned how much he’d adored his late wife, Evelyn. How they met, fell in love and married. She’d been gone seven years when I met him. We'd have deep discussions about religion, spirituality, the afterlife. Sidney professed to be an agnostic, yet his favorite song was How Great Thou Art.

I worried about Sidney not eating well. He was thin, erect, but thin. He didn’t cook. Tuesday nights he went to Rotary so I knew he’d get a balanced meal. When I heard he liked spaghetti and opened a jar of Ragu to pour on pasta, I thought, this is something I can do. I took to bringing him jars of my special homemade Genoese sauce with succulent meatballs.  On Sundays I cooked a big dinner for my daughter and my grandchildren. The first plate was wrapped up for Sidney. He loved the roast pork. It became a habit for him to greet me at the door on Monday morning. He’d take the package from me and ask,

     “What do we have for lunch today?” I’d tell him, he’d smile, then run upstairs to put it in the refrigerator.

Our closeness grew and was noticed by the secretaries and the other attorneys. It was a very special relationship, affectionate in the purest sense. We argued about commas, too much or too little verbiage. I’d remind him when he needed a haircut, or when his suit needed cleaning. He was always gracious. It was a very comfortable relationship.

We shared several commonalities:  each had four children, each had a diabetic child. We compared notes. He was very interested and empathetic. We shared a passion for writing. Sidney wrote two Science  Fiction novels, and a children’s book, The P.S. Twins. I have a signed copy. But his poetry is sublime.

He indulged me in reading several variations of my novel before the final published version. Just having him tell me it was good, was the highest accolade. He increased my vocabulary by two—scatalogical and anthropomorphic. I use them occasionally, but am usually asked what they mean.

Sidney was admired and respected by his clients and the attorneys who frequently sought his advice. He was the Grand Old Man of Law. I don’t believe I ever saw him in bad humor.

In his twilight years he studied Spanish and Quantum Physics. He continued to ride his Suzuki to work in fair weather. He was amazing.

On Secretaries Day, the other girls had bouquets on their desks and lunch dates with their bosses. Sidney came in, noted the bouquets and asked about them. When the girls replied they were from their bosses, Sidney looked at my naked desk and said, “I guess you think I’m a cheapskate.”

      “No, Sidney, I’m well used to you.”

He did take me to lunch once, but it was business related. We went shopping for replacement ink cartridges and there just happened to be a Chinese restaurant nearby. He liked Chinese.

Sidney practiced general law and we had some interesting cases. I never dreamed he’d be representing my rebellious grandson, not once, but twice. He never charged us a dime.

Then came the day I had to tell him I was leaving. I worried about what he’d eat. Yet I couldn’t stay; I was needed in Florida when my mother was ill. Although my round trip ticket was for three weeks hence, I was never to return to Rochester. After my mother’s death, my Dad wanted me to stay with him. The round trip was never redeemed.

Sidney and I began a correspondence, and an occasional telephone call. He kept tabs on me and I on him. Three years after I’d left, he called to say my testimony was needed in a will contest. I had typed the original will. He arranged a flight for me and I spent several days in Rochester. I testified in court and the original will stood. Sidney told me I was an excellent witness. We had dinner together each night and then it was time to get back to my life in Florida.

I made a tape for him; some of it was just conversation, more of it was music, from the days when my lyric soprano was beautiful. He played it every night when he went to bed. He said he wore it out, so I made another.

Our correspondence lasted thirteen years. I waited for a response to my last letter (they were voluminous and typed, his were handwritten and brief). It didn’t come. The news that he was under hospice care came from his beloved daughter, Laura. I was able to speak to him while she held the phone to his ear, but he was too weak to respond. He left us a few days later.

The lives he touched are too numerous to count, the memories we shared will live on in my heart. Sidney was the epitome of a gentleman.

WEEP FOR ME