My husband, Andy, died suddenly and unexpectedly a few days ago. He had been recuperating from a surgery that was intended to give him back the freedom to live fully again, without the care he needed from others on an almost-daily basis. But things went terribly wrong two weeks post-surgery when sepsis took his life.
As I wrote in his obituary, Wilton and the world are lesser for his loss. He was a beloved figure to many in the town he called home for 40 years. He was a person you could count on to add a thoughtful perspective and maybe a bit of humor to thorny issues coming to the ZBA, where he filled a seat for 19 years. He tried to never miss a session, no matter what pressing issue he had in his personal life. He took responsibilities seriously, knowing that his vote could greatly impact a person, family or business for good or ill.
He believed that personal or political beliefs should not be part of any decision made by a board or group that had power over someone’s life or livelihood. He tried to be fair, impartial and thorough, researching issues that he may not have completely understood before making a decision. His thoroughness was part of his temperament – the temperament of the respected and creative computer hardware chip-design engineer he had been for his entire career.
Over the decades he lived in Wilton, he volunteered for many projects. He was the person who shaped the marine plywood backing for the mural on the side of the former Intervale Hardware after he helped lug it up to the third floor of the Wilton Falls Building. He helped build the stage used for the entertainers who performed under a tent on Main Street during the decade of the Wilton Arts and Film Festival. He, his skills and his truck were always on call for anything needed by anyone.
Although we agreed on most things of the mind and heart, we differed in the speed with which we approached life. I sometimes thought he was overly cautious, being the sort to slow down at a green light thinking it may change to amber before he could stop properly if he continued at the speed he was going.
He was thoughtful, taking far longer to make a decision than I, saying, “Let me think on that for a while.” But I had to admit he always made those decisions with care and a rationality that I may have overlooked. He was slow and steady to my more-rapid responses. When we disagreed, we talked things over, sharing our reasons for sometimes greatly differing opinions. This meant we may have had occasional argumentative differences, but they were always resolved after we understood the reasons behind each other’s decision-making.
He was my rock. He was my proofreader and commentator on every article I’ve written for this column until now. He was the first person who saw my paintings and offered the same type of critical commentary that he did with these articles. When he became ill, I stopped painting completely, not having the hours of immersion I needed for the oils to flow seamlessly without distraction.
He wanted to be surrounded by my paintings. I painted for him as much as I did for myself. There were many he wouldn’t let me sell, not wanting to part with them. Writing a column for the Ledger-Transcript has been the way I’ve been able to create something he could enjoy reading and feel a part of as each evolved.
I will miss all that he has added to my life. His brother and sister and their families are trying to process this as much as I. I will miss the gentle pressure of his fingers on mine as we sat next to each other. I will miss his smile and humor. My more-serious nature was a foil for his jokes, with me unwittingly saying something that would inspire an offbeat, humorous observation. The friendships I have with many were augmented by his presence and their love for him.
He is missed.
