Remembering Matt

Over the past year, on only a couple of occasions, I heard from my friend and former co-worker Matt White. They were our first communications since I left our shared employer and moved to New Zealand. He was checking in on my doings in the new world, providing intel on the old--the kind of pleasant surprise you get every now and again when you move far away from everyone you know.

It was good to hear from him. Like a number of my erstwhile colleagues, however, he'd been laid off. (In any number of ways, I got out just in the nick of time.) That wasn't exactly fun stuff, but he had plans to return to school, and that was encouraging. Shortly before my departure he suffered a stroke and was in hospital, and so we didn't have a proper farewell; and to be honest I didn't know how he had fared afterwards. To hear him tell it, though, over two years down the track, things seemed to be looking up.

Yesterday I heard from a mutual friend that Matt was murdered in his sleep by his wife. Horrible, shocking, senseless. The details at this early date are few but unhappy.

I can't claim to have known Matt well. At 6'11" he was the tallest person I knew. He loved sailing. He'd gone to Penn, led its basketball team to the Final Four in 1979, and after being drafted by the Portland Trailblazers played professional basketball in Europe for a number of years.

I worked closely with Matt. He was a member of the software documentation team whose work I edited. He was a very good technical writer, smart, frightfully thorough, and an expert in e-learning. I remember interviewing Matt for the position and reviewing his respectable work history (including upper management), education (Wharton MBA), the seemingly idyllic life he left behind in Spain, and--let's be honest--the romance of his former career and wondering why this fellow wanted to take what must have been a hefty pay cut to write instruction manuals for credit union software. (To be fair, this is exactly what I was wondering of myself.)

He was a good hire. He picked up the software quickly. He did his work well and he did it fast. He kept his head down. When we talked, it was of Europe and his days abroad and my several trips there. It was exciting, this glimmer of another life, of travel. It wasn't rooted in the distant past, or nostalgia, or even of hope tied to a distant star. It was something he had done, something real that could be done. I can't say he influenced me directly in my decision to live abroad, but he more than most knew the appeal of other places and how they can take us out of ourselves in the most wondrous ways.

He also drank more coffee than any person I've ever met, with the possible exception of my dad's friend Larry Ironsides.

No, I didn't know him well, you know. I can't speak to his domestic or his interior life. I didn't have his confidence. But I mourn his passing. And maybe that's just how it is with those who for a time play a significant part of our daily life. We don't know what angels and devils reside on their shoulders, nor the trajectory of their lives. We just hope for the best, don't we?

Thanks, Matt. Be at peace.

For Scott

At the Smithsonian, May 1983 (l-r): Ryan, Mike O'Hara, Scott Frailey.

On March 11, 2012, my friend Scott Frailey died after a four-year bout with melanoma. He had turned 40 last month.

I loved Scott Frailey. He understood the inherent supremacy of left-handers, the Pittsburgh Steelers, and milk.

This might yield some clues into his character. He was very particular. He had opinions. This was something of a surprise, a challenge, even, to the short, shy kid who was more often than not daydreaming in a galaxy far, far away.

Scott loved politics. From an early age, he was a card-carrying member of the Republican party, an ardent fan of Ronald Reagan's. I have no idea of his adult political views, but I love this. I was Republican by default, because I was a friend of Scott's. It just seemed like a reasonable idea. Scott was quiet but persuasive. Stealth. More on that later.

Scott and I often teamed up in school and extra-curricular courses. In seventh-grade life science, with Mr. Johnson, we shared a table. Scott immediately drew a line down its middle. You can imagine the border disputes that ensued. I think even then, at 12, Scott had a sense of the righteous, and of winning. And if winning meant bestowing on me a godawful nickname, something sublimely embarrassing, like - just for example - "Rupert Rasmussmelon," then, by golly, that's what he would do.

For a few years in junior high, we took Saturday-morning courses at Franklin & Marshall. Creative writing, mostly. And for a couple summers we went to smarty-pants camp at Millersville University - we studied the Revolutionary War, the Teutonic Knights, more creative writing, and biology, where one of us developed an irrational fear of contaminated stream water. We were also cited on at least a couple of occasions for being disruptive in class. This was mortifying to at least one of us - again, I really shouldn't  say whom - but now I'm thinking we should have gotten into more trouble. (I should like to point out, however, that Scott was appropriately taciturn in reporting our endeavors to his mother, when it was her turn to carpool. When she would ply me for intel, I always caved.)

Still, our time was not altogether unproductive. Together we created a vast story world, an epic war across the stars between the evil Sardinians (no relation to the fine people from the Italian island) and the noble Quatnerds. Ours was a narrative told almost exclusively in pencil drawings. We would often draw together on the same sheet of paper, each of us starting on our respective sides (again, with the fierce territoriality) and joining the massive subterranean chambers, their stalactites and stalagmites, in the middle of the page. In our world, the hammer-headed Sardinians gave no quarter to the triangular, rocket-footed people who mined for Quaternium-19. And, yes, in case you're wondering, that's exactly where your shampoo gets that indispensable ingredient. I can't be sure, but I imagine that was Scott's discovery. As you can tell, in this arena, we rocked.

With girls, we rocked to a lesser degree. Scott won't mind if we skip over that chapter.

We played a lot of football in those days. (Also, Dungeons & Dragons, but, again . . .) I played quarterback a fair bit - insisted on it, as young Napoleons do - and Scott probably picked off more of my passes than anyone else. And if you were playing receiver, woe betide you; for Scott had a knack - there is no way to say it but "uncanny" - for getting The Angle on you and getting that interception. He was the Ron Woodson of our Hamilton Park posse.

We'll Be Loyal.

Physically, he was unremarkable, you might even say gangly. But his speed was deceptive, his will of iron. He was one of the most competitive guys I've ever known. Of course, his mother - bless her soul - insisted on his wearing play clothes. And play clothes meant high waters and dark socks. None of us suspected then, but this may have been Scott's strategy to make us underestimate him on the field. Scott was stealth before there was stealth.

Several years after we graduated from university, Scott called me up, invited me over for lunch. He was newly married and he wanted to catch up. We did, and it was like no time had passed. The chicken chili was really good, too. When I had drifted away from our circle of friends, Scott remained my connection. I think in terms of temperament, of all my friends, his was most like mine.

He wasn't perfect. He didn't break out the Electronic Football every time I bugged him to. And if it were possible, his Star Wars figures were even more pristine and less played with than mine. No one had a See-Threepio with tighter shoulders.

What I'm getting to, what I know that all of you already know, is that Scott Frailey was a remarkable guy. Others will be able to tell the stories of his university days, of his professional life, of his time with his family. But I will always be grateful to have been there from the beginning, and I saw right from the start: he was really, really awesome.

And left-handed.

I loved Scott Frailey. He was my friend.

Brüder

Ed. note: In June 1999, my grandfather Alex M. Brand included a version of the following story in the tribute life-history album we presented to my father on the occasion of his retirement from teaching. The story was later published on April 9, 2000 as a special to the Lancaster (Pennsylvania) Sunday News in the “I Know A Story” column, under the title “In ’50s, young bicyclist had scare in Berlin.”

. . . . .

A Jan. 5 newspaper report stated a Fort Lauderdale, Fla. Policeman handcuffed a 9-year-old boy he had stopped for not wearing a bike helmet. At age 81, I am reminded of how another policeman handled a graver biking offense (against the German public order) almost 50 years ago in West Berlin, at the time an “island in a Soviet sea.” In this case, my son Teddy, also 9, was the malefactor, and the year was 1953. I was an undercover U.S. intelligence team leader. Teddy’s mother and I were living among the German populace in Dahlem Dorf, a residential and diplomatic suburb of West Berlin. Teddy joined us there, and soon acquired a very personable German playmate, Erwin (pronounced “Air-veen”), also 9. Erwin was actually a refugee “Volksdeutscher” (German by blood) whose family had fled the then-Yugoslavia with the German defeat in World War II. At supper one evening, where Erwin was our frequent guest, I inquired as to the events of their day. The story tumbled out, in excited, alternating German and English, that they had been riding their bikes through a nearby park when a very solemn-looking policeman stopped them and informed them that they were breaking the law. He read from a pocket-statute book he carried: “It is forbidden to ride bicycles in a public park where there is not a Radweg (bike path). Bicyclists must dismount and walk their machines through.” With great solemnity he informed them that they were under arrest and were to proceed with him to the nearby Revier (precinct) Polizei station. Needless to say, the procession drew much amused attention from the many passersby. Teddy said that his great concern was how he would explain his predicament to his father. He and Erwin gloomily pushed their bikes up to the long flight of steps leading to a forbidding stone building, looking every bit a dungeon. As they turned to ask the Polizist what to do about their bikes, he suddenly smiled, and, recognizing Erwin as both villain and interpreter, lectured him and Teddy on bicycle-riding priorities, and the “Public Ordnung.” He ended with: “Und jetzt (and now) you brats, Hau ab! (‘beat it!’), and don’t do it again!” As Teddy exclaimed, “and Pop, we didn’t wait, we ‘Haued ab’ all the way home!” Another time, about a year later, Teddy was less fortunate. He and Erwin were observed by a park attendant to be riding their bikes somewhat eccentrically on a Radweg. The attendant admonished them as to their “reckless driving.” The matter would have ended there, but for Teddy’s brashness. Teddy was, by that time, quite fluent in street German. I had drilled him in his conduct when and if approached by strangers. To Erwin’s dismay, as he related it to us, Teddy asked the civilian official “Hast du ein Ausweis?” (Do you have an ID?), using the familiar “du” (for “you”) instead of the formal “Sie,” which is mandatory address in German by juniors addressing elders. Erwin said he knew all was lost when he heard this gaffe from his pal. The startled, or perhaps bemused, official produced not one, but two IDs. Teddy commented that he couldn’t read them, but they had his photos and “Stempels” (stamps), so he guessed they were OK. Perhaps as a result of such disrespect, this august public servant proceeded to give both bikes an inspection complete to the most minute detail — Teddy said it took an hour, but perhaps it only seemed so long to the boys. The official filled out two forms that listed the defects found on their bikes, with the order that certificates would have to be submitted within a week to the local police that the bikes had been brought “up to snuff.” He then lectured the boys, and again, “Hau ab!”

. . . . .

Last week my father and his childhood accomplice, Erwin, met for the first time in over 50 years. They had found each other through the Internet. Erwin, my father learned, had recently retired from a 40-year career as an industrial insurance claims adjuster. A flurry of e-mails ensued and Erwin soon learned that my parents were planning a Scandinavian cruise this spring. They would be stopping briefly along the northern coast of Germany, near Rostock. This was a fine excuse for Erwin to drive the three hours from Berlin to meet my parents in the Baltic port of Warnemunde, but soon his plans blossomed even further, and within a few short months he was in the States for the first time. For a week my parents and Erwin toured the local sites, including Amish Country and Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. Before moving on to Niagara Falls, New York City, and Washington, D.C., however, Erwin made the trip with my parents to Phoenixville. My mom joined Jenifer and me for a yoga class, leaving the two old friends to hang out at Artisan’s Café, and when we joined them it was clear that they were having no trouble catching up, and that for them time had no meaning. At one point, Erwin turned to me and smiled, explaining, “We are old now, and we may not have liked each other.” After lunch we visited the expansive Valley Forge Historical National Park. Erwin and I discussed Napoleon and European battlefield tactics, the history of Prussia, and the use of mercenaries, such as the Hessians employed by General Washington during the Revolutionary War. Erwin’s knowledge of both European and U.S. history was formidable. He even corrected my pronunciation of the name of the Saxon antagonist of my Norse historical epic. I was pleased to be able to share with him one of my favorite local places. I also shared with him the story of my first visit to Germany. The day after I graduated from high school, my sister and I were on a plane for Hamburg, where we would be part of an exchange program. For part of the trip, however, we traveled to West and East Berlin, going through Checkpoint Charlie during its last days of operation. (We even shook hands with Henry Kissinger in the Pergamon Museum). But the highlight of our Berlin excursion was our discovery of my father’s old house in Dahlem Dorf. Here was the home base of Erwin and my father’s adventures, of which my grandfather had told at many family dinners. There was the balcony from which they gazed at the stars through the old telescope. At that moment, the stories gained a place. And now, 18 years later, all the characters were assembled.

. . . . .

One more story. It was winter in Berlin and my father had a special kind of sled. Erwin wanted to try it out, but being shy and not knowing my father asked a girl nearby what the new kid’s name was. “Teddy,” she replied. Erwin was dumbfounded. “Like the bear?” he asked. That couldn’t be right, he insisted, but the girl introduced the two, and the rest is history.