In memory of Eric Pfeifer

 To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.   Ralph Waldo Emerson

A friend of mine died Sunday. Suddenly.  Unexpectedly.  His service is tomorrow. ( I always marvel at how quickly we pull together, pole-axed by grief as we are, to honor someone we love when he passes away. )

Eric was not a close friend, although his older brother Vince is. (In fact, Vince was best man at our wedding.) So, this is not really about my loss, although I will very much miss knowing Eric was somewhere in the world.

He was one of a large group of friends who liked to hang out together in Baton Rouge back in the early 90s. We were all in our 20s or, at most, early 30s, starting out in life, mostly single, more carefree than we knew, working in a wide variety of jobs.

We’d get together at the Pfeifer guys’ house every couple of weeks, and they’d cook out.  They *both* could cook, as I recall, although there was always a lively dispute about that.

We’d have 80s music on the stereo (which included a then-novel CD player by the end of that first three-year era.) The Pfeifer music collection was almost as extensive as the video collection, which was only surpassed by the baseball card collections.

As for 80’s music: *some* of us thought that music was cheesy even then, so soon after the decade had ended. We would have scoffed at the idea that anyone would someday dedicate one channel purely to 80s music, and another solely for New Wave.  Most of us thought music had peaked in the 70s, pre-disco. I think Vince was the lone naysayer.

But this is about Eric. He was five years younger than I, so I smugly thought of him as a mere kid. ( I was fresh out of graduate school and oh-so-mature.)  When I think of him back then, I picture an uncomplicatedly happy guy, with the kind of smile that lit up the room.  His grin irresistibly invited you to smile right back, whether you knew the reason he was smiling – or not.

Much of the time, as I recall, he was flashing that wicked grin because he had successfully irritated Vince. Those two would bicker about anything at all, from the correct pronunciation of mauve, to whether the Pirates deserved to win the second game of the 1978 National League playoffs against Cincinnati, to…well, anything.

But there was a steadiness to Eric, even then. It showed in how vigilant he was around his mother, always, casually, making sure she was okay. She’d been in an accident years before and life had not consistently been easy since. He was careful not to hover. He obscured his TLC with goofiness, so I don’t think she ever felt smothered. But Carole had to know she was loved – profoundly –  by both her sons.

I saw that steadiness again, from a distance, once we reconnected on Facebook a few years ago. His brother had a health crisis and I reached out via text. Eric responded immediately and continued to stay in touch until Vince was out of the woods. He may have been the baby of the family, but he was willing to step up whenever he was needed, and then step away. Knowing both when to help and when to stand down is a rare gift.

I heard from Vince that Eric got married almost 20 years ago to the love of his life, Cheryl.  On Facebook, he frequently posted about and to Cheryl, as well as about their daughter Kailey. So, I know, here in relatively far away Colorado, what a talented cheerleader Kailey is. I know that Eric was frequently on the road with her squad, and I could tell how much he enjoyed being at those competitions, how much he loved supporting this young woman, and how proud he was of her.

I also know, because he found it important enough to post pictures and commentary, that his grandson loved soccer. I know that Eric went to his games on a regular basis.

So, I could see how much love and laughter surrounded Eric and his family. It was always fun to see what he had to say on any given topic.

On the serious side, when my family was in Bastogne last year, so my teenage son could learn about the pivotal World War II Battle of the Bulge, I became aware that Eric was interested in history, particularly from that era. He commented on some of the pictures we posted. I saw how respectful he was of those heroes from that amazing war, those men who changed the world simply by standing up for what was right.

I knew all that. Yet, it occurred to me, when I saw Eric had died, that I did not know what he did “for a living.”

It is so very cool, and a testament to the man he was, that I do not know about his “job.” Instead, I know  what he *did* with his life. He loved his wife Cheryl. He adored their children and grandchildren. He was a wonderfully supportive dad and encouraging  grandfather, a much-loved friend, and an innately funny guy, who never seemed to have a negative thing to say about or to anyone. He used his powers for good,  throughout his too-short life.

Eric was, from everything I saw as we briefly, occasionally, connected ever so often over these past 20-plus years, an authentically kind and loving family man. Men like him make a difference in so many lives, simply by setting a constant, kind, firm and loving example.

So, to me, his heroism was no less real than those World War II soldiers, pilots, and sailors he so admired. His legacy will be reflected in the lives of those he loved. It is the future happiness they’ll  experience one day when this fresh grief subsides. It’s in the wise choices his children and grandchildren can make, knowing how much he loved them, believed in them and wanted the best for them. 

Rest in peace, Eric.  You most definitely led the successful life Emerson had in mind when he wrote that poem so long ago. You will be missed, but you left the world a better place, simply because you were in it,  though for too short a time.