MR. WALSH
This past week we lost a gentleman who, in the past decade, I saw only on certain special occasions every few years; but through adolescence and early adulthood, I saw Mr. Walsh at least a few times per week when I went to visit my pals Phil and Keith.
The best visual description I’ve heard of Mr. Walsh would be that he was a keen cross between singer Roger Whittaker and a slimmer version of Mr. Banks, the stately capitalist portrayed by David Tomlinson in Disney’s Mary Poppins. Always well dressed and armed with a slick dry wit, he built his own business from the ground up, and prospered. My favorite piece of advice that Mr. Walsh gave us during our high school years came when Phil and I - who were classic square pegs on campus - were bitching about the jocks who liked to push us around on a regular basis. Overhearing one of these passionate rants, he calmly advised us, “Don’t get so upset about the jocks that push you around today, because in a few years, most of them will be taking orders from a middle-aged man wearing horned-rim glasses like myself.” Years later, I wonder if he knew what a comforting impact his words had on us.
But the first Mr. Walsh anecdote that most frequently crosses my mind happened one day twenty-five years ago when I was shooting the breeze with Phil one afternoon in the living room at the Walsh house. Back then the pop-culture gap between parent and youth was immensely wider than it is today; whereas word of an upcoming Aerosmith concert in this day will likely excite both parent and child alike, the parents of our generation were more likely geared toward Perry Como or Patti Page. When we talked about the numerous musical groups we enjoyed, the details went through one ear and out the other of most parents. They seemed to think every piece of hard rock music we listened to was all performed by the same group; we could play Judas Priest or The Ramones, and our folks would think we were listening to “those Led Zepplin guys again.” Every new-wave or ska tune was usually “that punk-rock David Bowie crap.”
And I figured Mr. Walsh to be the archetype of such a parent. In our
circle of friends, one of our favorite pop-culture figures back then was a pro
wrestler that we actually got to know personally; a bleach-blond, three-hundred
pound, fifty year old behemoth named Dr. Jerry Graham. Once a superstar in the
pro wrestling industry, he was now famous for raising hell in the squalor of his
residence, The (anything but) Imperial Hotel on
When Phil and I were chatting about this-and-that on the above-mentioned day in 1982, I was seated in the large, comfy easy chair, easily the comfiest chair in the room, the comfy chair everybody tried to nab whenever Phil or Keith threw a party at the Walsh residence. It was Mr. Walsh’s chair, and needless to say, he was not present when one of us tried to claim the chair as our own.
And on that afternoon I figured Mr. Walsh was nowhere near home. Somewhere during our conversation, Phil went silent, and wearing an amused smile said “Kurt, ah… somebody wants his chair back.” I turned my head and saw Mr. Walsh standing beside me, newspaper in hand, hands on hips, staring down through his spectacles like an owl, right into my eyes. He entered the room that quietly; I had no idea he was near.
“Young man,” said Mr. Walsh in a professional, even pitch, “this chair is reserved for those few people of a higher standing, those rare figures whose brilliance and superiority go without question. Good lord, who do you think you are, Dr. Jerry Graham?”
And with that, I happily relinquished my seat with a smile. I might have even bowed to him; if I didn’t, I should have.
Sweet dreams up there, Mr. Walsh. Don’t let anybody - be it Lord Krishna,
Jesus, or Dr. Jerry Graham - sit in your chair.
---------- Vandal
Drummond