I won’t be around to find out whether I’m ever a legend or not.
Most of us won’t. That privilege is reserved for statues, headlines, and people who did something loud enough to get caught on camera, on stage or flashed up on a Jumbotron.
My legends once called me son, Moose, Pumpkinhead, John John. My legends prayed a shit ton. They knew how to build choo-choo trains. They directed large choirs for liturgies that the Cardinal presided over. One of them taught me how to wipe my own ass. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty solid foundation in life.
I like to think that someday I might be remembered from my Chicago Board of Trade days. One of the many players who populated the trading floor during the golden era. Not as a guy who made a million dollars a day, those stories fade fast, but as someone who did his job with decency, humor, and a promise that meant something.
The other day my son Fritz said something that stopped me cold. He told me a man dies twice. The first time is when he draws his last breath. The second time is when his name is spoken for the final time. That second death is worth wondering about. Who will be the last person that utters your name?
A man doesn’t get to decide his own legend. That gets handled by the people who loved him, who hated him, who trusted him, who scorned him. It is built quietly, out of integrity, consistency, and how you treated folks when nobody was keeping score.
I dropped my favorite Christmas movie into the Grabber section this morning, The Bishop’s Wife. It’s an old, good one. The kind that still believes kindness counts and grace shows up when you are not expecting it.
Arctic weather is rolling into the neighborhood this weekend. Keep your toes warm. But more importantly, keep working on the only thing that lasts, a legacy that doesn’t need a spotlight to survive.
