It was a quieting, reassuring moment during an unquieting conversation in the most spectacular of settings.
There we were in a house perched literally on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, still at night with a sailboat at anchor just off the shore.
A last-minute guest at a dinner party, I was in my birth state of Maine, hosted by new Texas friends, Fort Worth’s Gail and Dick Williamson, charming and engaging hosts if ever there were any.
As conversations ambled through dinner someone asked me why the Star-Telegram fell short in some areas. Newspapers often fall short but as the publisher of the paper, and with a few cocktails behind me, I grew suddenly defensive and probably angry. Blame my youth at the time, or the wine, or maybe it was ill-advised courage drawn from the sharp salt air.
I became argumentative, even though I knew the paper was far from perfect – I was always trying to make it better, more in tune with our community while fighting for more openness in local government and such. Nothing new in the arguments, just a publisher’s fallback line of defense in the face of criticism.
At the height of my effort to become the guest who might never be invited back, a big hand grasped my shoulder and squeezed. A man leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Calm down. You have friends here. I am one.”
It was a hand of peace and love, unconditional love it would turn out, from Carl Nealy, a Fort Worth man who worked at Williamson-Dickie and for the Williamson family. He urged me to contact him when I returned to Fort Worth.
The night ended in great frivolity for me, thanks to Carl and of course Gayle and Dick. Sadly, Dick would return to Fort Worth to discover he had pancreatic cancer and would be gone in a few months.
I came home and remembered Carl’s invitation to contact him. I did and, probably 30 years ago, we formally said, “Hello.”
We said goodbye for the last time Nov. 10 in Room 617 at Medical City, formerly Plaza Hospital. Just the two of us. The man at the desk said Carl, 85, had passed away an hour before I arrived but I could still go to his room. No family had arrived.
With trepidation, I entered and there lay Carl. I have friends who believe the soul does not leave a person until all goodbyes are said. I am now a believer.
I kissed his forehead and sat with him until his son, Ken, and daughter in-law arrived.
Carl and I talked. We smiled. We laughed. I lamented missing his passing by an hour or so. “Just like you, Richard,” he laughed. “Always late.”
“You are a man of forgiveness,” I said.
Our relationship blossomed after that long-ago night in Maine when his firm hand on my shoulder imparted a quiet message I never forgot.
He became an ordained minister later in life and I was there in the congregation that Sunday to witness it. A special day. I heard him preach many times after, sometimes just to me late at night.
He married no fewer than five members of my family and friends. Most of the ceremonies were in my backyard near the pool. In each case he required the couples to participate in pre-marital counseling before he tied the knot. All but one of those knots stayed tied.
The one that didn’t hurt his heart. But, as always, he was optimistic. There is hope for those who fail, he said, but confessed that some cases caused him doubt. We smiled and laughed.
Our family considered Carl our family. When Carl’s wife, Sally, lay dying from cancer, my son stood guard at a local hospital, demanding that she receive the best possible care in her final days.
Carl fought sadness and loneliness after her passing. He’s now with her.
A person never knows when a stranger will become a friend, even a loved one. The example of those people who reach out to others, strangers, is a powerful lesson about who we all can be if we choose.
As I sat with Carl in the quiet of his room I felt his peace and the incredible warmth of the friendship we shared for so many years. Over those years I loved making him laugh, and it was easy for me to do.
There in that room, I told him, “Big man, former fastest sprinter in Temple, Texas, oh so many years ago, you beat me in the race to get here to the hospital.”
His eyes twinkled and he laughed.
Then, it was my turn to place my hand on his shoulder.
Richard Connor is president and publisher of the Fort Worth Business Press. Contact him at rconnor@bizpress.net