Wednesday 9-29-04 “That Time of Year…”

Wednesday 9-29-04 “That Time of Year…”

In the collection of Shakespeare’s collection of Sonnets, it’s numbered 73 (LXXIII). It begins
“That time of year, though mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves or none or few do hang
Upon those boughs that shake against the cold…”

It’s very appropriate for the mood I’ve been in for the past week or so. I’ve been transcribing some tapes that I no doubt transcribed 15 years or so ago when I made the recordings. The tapes are of conversations I had with Don Steele, who passed away some years back. To be truthful, I cannot remember which year. My mind does not handle time very well—particularly dates of significant happenings, birthdays, funerals, all the milestones that mark a life.

I was particularly fond of Don, who at the time I met him was easily a generation and a half my senior, born right after the turn of the century into a Latter Day Saints family, somewhere in Montana or perhaps it was Wyoming. The details elude me. He was full of life at the time I met him and affected an innate "joie de vivre". He needed a freelance writer that understood technology to accompany him to a new client he had just acquired in Silicon Valley, a start-up with a Nobel Laureate on the board and a bunch of PhDs running the company. Don convinced them that not only did they need to be visible in the trade press; they needed a splash in Business Week. He got them the half-page story. Don knew the publisher of Business Week, who had some outstanding favors due.

Don lived in San Francisco on a hill in the North Beach section of the city. As you walked in the front door you could look back and see Washington Square Park. As you entered the living room up a short flight of stairs you had a panoramic view of San Francisco Bay. I learned only after a couple of visits that he rented the home. This was the early 1980s. Other clients included Geyser Peak Winery—they were intent on marketing wine in a can, another feature Don got placed in Business Week, though this story made it on its merits rather than on any overdue indebtedness. For a naïve trade press editor, I was dazzled by the life this man led, but over the years I knew him, I began to see that he was walking a delicate tightrope. The words of Shakespeare’s Sonnet resonate:
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west;

You see Don made his living every day. When the company was billing $10s of thousands a month he lived well, when he wasn't, he lived poorly. I met him at his peak and watched over time as the billings began to wane and the large clients he had relied upon slowly abandoned his small shop. Though his shop was small, he belonged to a network of agencies located worldwide that he could tap into for assistance with PR in their particular region. Most of these shops were run by men and women of Don’s age. But increasingly the world around him was becoming unfamiliar with his network. His contemporaries in that world were surrendering their power to a next generation. Don’s remaining base of support was his Japanese clients, huge multinationals with easily recognizable names. The Japanese respect for age and its innate wisdom kept him in business and comfortable.
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

He was the sort of guy who could walk into just about any place in San Francisco and get a table for dinner. He had that many outstanding favors. He knew hotel doormen, bellmen, and elevator operators until all were replaced by smart elevators. He was just as comfortable talking with a doorman as he was chatting with that Nobel Laureate on the board of the start-up I mentioned earlier. And each of those guys genuinely liked talking with Don. He was that warm and engaging that he charmed you with wit and an attentiveness that you sensed he was really interested in what you had to say. He was walking by a hotel one evening when he was suddenly overwhelmed with dizziness. He was taken to the hospital and they diagnosed him as having a mild stroke. I saw him shortly after the brief stay in hospital. The lingering affects of the stroke weren’t obvious but you could tell that the swiftness and precise movement that made him appear much younger than his age had been affected. I could sense an incredible will operating in him to regain the control he once had over himself.
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

During the evening I visited him, we were sitting on a couch at his house sipping wine and he turned to me and said. I still owe you for the job you referred me to when I was particularly lost for work. In Don’s world you paid a percentage to anyone who referred work your way. My generation this was a favor compensated by a round of drinks or at most lunch at a nice restaurant. I told Don as much and in that regard I told him I was far more indebted to him than he to me. That did not seem to balance the books. He saw a monetary debt. I saw intangible value he had given that was for me more valuable. I told him as much and cited the countless kindnesses he and his wife had shown to my wife, two daughters, and me. I finally had extracted from him the acknowledgement that the books were balanced between him and me.

I had written a profile of Don for a magazine called “The San Franciscan,” a small literary magazine published by one man who’s daytime job was working in a print shop and his evening job was writing articles and stories for his magazine. He would find the occasional writer who had a story to tell and only wanted it published and it usually found a place in “The San Franciscan.” The story was supposed to have run but I never got a copy. I’m now returning to the original source for the story to flesh out a larger piece.