Better Late Than Never

I really need to stop the random Google searches on names from the past.  Sometimes, you're better off not knowing what's become of old friends, long-lost neighbors, and former co-workers.  I found this out the hard way when -- partly out of curiosity and strictly out of boredom -- I recently Google'd the name of a former colleague with whom I'd lost touch a few years ago.  I hadn't seen Lenny since 2008 when he was laid off from the proofreading job in which he took fierce pride.  After the layoff, we kept in occasional touch, primarily by swapping holiday cards.  Last I'd heard, Lenny had been diagnosed with cancer, probably about two years ago, but I'd been told by another former co-worker that, for the most part, he was holding his own.  A health supplements enthusiast and a feisty former Brooklynite, Lenny was the ultimate survivor, so I just knew he could spit in the face of cancer.  He wasn't going anywhere.  He'd be fine.  That's what I thought, anyway...

But cancer spit back and Lenny passed away last December at the age of 74.  Having lost touch with the one former colleague closest to Lenny, I remained unaware of his passing until today when I randomly Google'd his name for an update.  I didn't expect to find much of anything when I initially keyed his name into the search engine, but there was his obituary right before my eyes.  And what followed was an incredible sadness... followed by a rash of respect and admiration.  The Lenny I knew was a solid proofreader who always showed up to work on time, ready to tackle the day with determination as well as whatever job was placed before him.  A cantankerous curmudgeon through and through, he was always primed for battle with any publisher, typesetter or graphic designer who dared disagree with his professional assessments.  Clutching his ballpoint pen, Lenny boldly confronted any number of colleagues, and when things didn't go his way, he simply dismissed it all with a decidedly declarative "To hell with it!"  No standard red proofreader's marker was ever found on Lenny's spotless desk.  He couldn't be bothered, so he stuck with his black ballpoint pen with a vengeance.  Occasionally, he clashed with management, and while I didn't always agree with his stance on certain departmental issues, I had to admire his unabashed zeal in stating his case, as well as the unmistakable pride he took in his proofreading -- a profession he continued in until his early 70s.

But Lenny was so much more than just a proofreader.  He was also a devoted husband and loving parent.  He frequently spoke with love, affection, and fatherly concern about his grown children, who were clearly an integral part of his life.  As for his better half, it just so happened that Lenny and his wife had the good fortune to work at the same firm (albeit in separate departments), so they commuted to work together, took their lunch at the same time, and drove home in each other's company.  Some spouses might have found it tiresome to see so much of their partner during the day, but Lenny's first priority was his wife and his wife's first priority was Lenny, so too much togetherness was never an issue for this loving couple who married in 1958 and would stay together until the final day of Lenny's life in 2010. 

When I first began writing this blog entry,  I was initially experiencing some remorse over Googling Lenny's name and learning of his fate in such a removed, behind-the-keyboard manner.  But in retrospect, I'm glad I took the time for a keyword search.  Granted, it's nearly a year after Lenny's passing, but as the old saying goes, better late than never, so it's time for a tribute to this very deserving man.  So, I'm grateful that that Google search has given me an opportunity to reflect on the life of this fine, feisty gentleman.  It's allowed me to express written appreciation for a person who was once an important part of my life.  It's also given me the chance to continue to value those who remain part of my living cast of characters.  And it's finally time for a very fond farewell...

Love you, Lenny, and I'll never forget you.  Ever.