Who am I?The funeral was for an acquaintance, a minor ghost from the past. She attended Notre Dame with me but never rode in my Desoto. She looked me up after she moved to the Pacific Northwest. Despite her Notre Dame diploma, her funeral was a secular service that lacked the propriety spiritual ambiance for the mystery of death found in a Catholic religious service, at least for me.Reposed in her open coffin, lifelike, black coiffured hair, fingernails polished pearl white, hands holding a red bouquet, dressed in black and white, the impression was, she would rise up, smile and participate with us. Instead, she was dead, never to move again, a corpse, no longer among us, her body discomposing indecipherably as we watched. The lid, soon to be closed, she so neatly tucked into her coffin, it to be lowered into the damp earth, all to rot.Oh God, poor Rickie, Mom, Dad what do they look like now?We weren’t close when attending Norte Dame. The truth, I didn’t like her. She was proud, stuck. The fall of 1983 had been one of the worst times in my life, certainly worse than having to leave home as a teenager, even worse than my jaunt through Nicaragua and having to leave the Army. Having Marilyn and Charlie stalked and attacked, especially by my brother, and the subsequent arrest and publicity and family breakdown, it had all been just too much for me. I wanted nothing more than to put it all behind me and live quietly and anonymously with my family.Going into the office gave me a routine. I could have just sat back and counted my money, but I knew how to do better than that, and I liked having an impact. We were now investing in companies that I would never have heard of from before, and our investments were doing well. It wasn’t just the big names I knew from before, where I could just buy a stock at the date of the IPO and tuck it away and be a playboy. I was making a difference, helping companies start and grow.My original brain trust had been one of my biggest.
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