One of the most interesting characters I’ve ever met was Eddie Knopp. He had been involved with the Radio Post newspaper in Fredericksburg, TX, for many years before I came along. Eddie was a simple man who served as a Jack-of-all-trades around the shop … cleaning, running errands, assisting … whatever needed to be done. He spoke with a German accent, had a great sense of humor and knew everyone in town.
Eddie was a boisterous presence. If he wasn’t telling a joke, he was gossiping about people or things that went on around town. A story didn’t have to be current for Eddie to feel it was worth telling, and many of his stories were repeated many, many times. He usually concluded them with, “Ain’t that the gall danged shits?”
One of Eddie’s stories was about a guy whose girlfriend had died. The guy was so filled with grief, apparently, that he was trying to climb into the casket at the funeral. I don’t know why Eddie was so fascinated with that memory, but it was a story he told with as much enthusiasm as if it had just happened an hour ago.
Just Light a Match
Eddie made his presence known in other ways besides talking. Our one small restroom was usually considered inoperable for a good hour after Eddie had been there. His solution to the odor following his daily session on the throne was to light a match. I suppose the idea was to burn off the methane in the air. But had I given that more thought, I might have been concerned about a major explosion, because Eddie was a very healthy man.
Aside from that daily odiferous experience, I remember several things about Eddie that taught me important lessons in life. Among those were his great love and loyalty to his wife, Margaret, who he often spoke of with great fondness … but also with a bit of fearful respect. Another was his total openness and honesty, even if he didn’t always have his facts straight. He was extremely hard working and reliable. And … I don’t know how to say it kindly, but athough Eddie was not the sharpest tool in the shed, he had a very practical intelligence and lived a good life.
Management Advice
Anyway, one day Eddie walked into my office and announced that Tommy Musselmann was a damned good manager. I knew he meant that in some way he thought Tommy was a better manager than me, and I knew he was going to tell me about it. So, I stopped what I was doing and asked, “ Why is that Eddie?”
Tommy was a good friend of mine. He later taught high school history and went on to become mayor of Fredericksburg, but at the time he was managing The Gallery, which was quite a nice restaurant. I knew Tommy was a good manager, but until Eddie told me, I evidently didn’t really know why.
“Tommy takes his own trash to the dump,” Eddie announced. He paused long enough to note the dumbfounded look on my face, and then went on about his business.
I had no response for Eddie, but from that I learned that everyone judges you from their own perspective, and you can’t please them all. As publisher of the newspaper, I was responsible for its editorial content, advertising sales, accounts payables and receivables, payroll, production and distribution of the newspaper and a few other things. But in Eddie’s eyes I was not a good manager because I didn’t take my own trash to the dump.
Runaway Van
Another time, Eddie burst into my office and reported to me that the van had gotten away from him and he had chased it down and kept it from wrecking. That caught my attention. According to Eddie, he had put the Ford Econoline Van in park, then got out … But it popped out of gear and rolled away. Eddie was still sweaty and very worked up as he told me all about it.
I didn’t see this event, but my imagination ran wild because Eddie was not a particularly agile man. He was overweight and about 60 years old. I envisioned a rather comical, though frightening, escapade in which he chased down the rolling van, jumped in and stopped it within inches of a wall.
Well, I didn’t quite believe the part about the van popping out of gear, and I told him so. I told Eddie that when a vehicle is in park it will not roll away, so he needed to be more careful. Eddie didn’t like that response but he choked it down and we both let it go … until weeks later when I received a recall notice from Ford because, of all things, the transmissions on their Econoline Vans tended to slip out of the parking gear. Dammit! I could have kept that to myself, but I knew I owed Eddie an apology. He took it very well, and was delighted to be redeemed.
Stopped in Time
My most vivid memory of Eddie was the time I visited his home. It was a modest, but very comfortable and well-kept home. We were talking and having a beer, when at some point I started looking around the house. Every other room was right off the main room. I stopped in the open doorway to a bedroom, which appeared to be the room of a young man, although it was uncharacteristically clean and orderly. The shear museum quality of it caused me to stop and take it in.
Suddenly I felt and heard Eddie, right behind me, sobbing. “This was our son’s room.”
Eddie and Margaret had one child, a son, who grew up with them in Fredericksburg, moved to California for work, married and had two children. Unfortunately, Eddie and Martha never got along with the wife, so after their son was killed by an 18-wheeler that failed to stop on a congested freeway, they never saw their grandchildren anymore.
To look at the bedroom, you’d have thought their son died as a child. All of his room was preserved as it had been in happier times.
Ain’t that the gall danged shits?
Eddie was a boisterous presence. If he wasn’t telling a joke, he was gossiping about people or things that went on around town. A story didn’t have to be current for Eddie to feel it was worth telling, and many of his stories were repeated many, many times. He usually concluded them with, “Ain’t that the gall danged shits?”
One of Eddie’s stories was about a guy whose girlfriend had died. The guy was so filled with grief, apparently, that he was trying to climb into the casket at the funeral. I don’t know why Eddie was so fascinated with that memory, but it was a story he told with as much enthusiasm as if it had just happened an hour ago.
Just Light a Match
Eddie made his presence known in other ways besides talking. Our one small restroom was usually considered inoperable for a good hour after Eddie had been there. His solution to the odor following his daily session on the throne was to light a match. I suppose the idea was to burn off the methane in the air. But had I given that more thought, I might have been concerned about a major explosion, because Eddie was a very healthy man.
Aside from that daily odiferous experience, I remember several things about Eddie that taught me important lessons in life. Among those were his great love and loyalty to his wife, Margaret, who he often spoke of with great fondness … but also with a bit of fearful respect. Another was his total openness and honesty, even if he didn’t always have his facts straight. He was extremely hard working and reliable. And … I don’t know how to say it kindly, but athough Eddie was not the sharpest tool in the shed, he had a very practical intelligence and lived a good life.
Management Advice
Anyway, one day Eddie walked into my office and announced that Tommy Musselmann was a damned good manager. I knew he meant that in some way he thought Tommy was a better manager than me, and I knew he was going to tell me about it. So, I stopped what I was doing and asked, “ Why is that Eddie?”
Tommy was a good friend of mine. He later taught high school history and went on to become mayor of Fredericksburg, but at the time he was managing The Gallery, which was quite a nice restaurant. I knew Tommy was a good manager, but until Eddie told me, I evidently didn’t really know why.
“Tommy takes his own trash to the dump,” Eddie announced. He paused long enough to note the dumbfounded look on my face, and then went on about his business.
I had no response for Eddie, but from that I learned that everyone judges you from their own perspective, and you can’t please them all. As publisher of the newspaper, I was responsible for its editorial content, advertising sales, accounts payables and receivables, payroll, production and distribution of the newspaper and a few other things. But in Eddie’s eyes I was not a good manager because I didn’t take my own trash to the dump.
Runaway Van
Another time, Eddie burst into my office and reported to me that the van had gotten away from him and he had chased it down and kept it from wrecking. That caught my attention. According to Eddie, he had put the Ford Econoline Van in park, then got out … But it popped out of gear and rolled away. Eddie was still sweaty and very worked up as he told me all about it.
I didn’t see this event, but my imagination ran wild because Eddie was not a particularly agile man. He was overweight and about 60 years old. I envisioned a rather comical, though frightening, escapade in which he chased down the rolling van, jumped in and stopped it within inches of a wall.
Well, I didn’t quite believe the part about the van popping out of gear, and I told him so. I told Eddie that when a vehicle is in park it will not roll away, so he needed to be more careful. Eddie didn’t like that response but he choked it down and we both let it go … until weeks later when I received a recall notice from Ford because, of all things, the transmissions on their Econoline Vans tended to slip out of the parking gear. Dammit! I could have kept that to myself, but I knew I owed Eddie an apology. He took it very well, and was delighted to be redeemed.
Stopped in Time
My most vivid memory of Eddie was the time I visited his home. It was a modest, but very comfortable and well-kept home. We were talking and having a beer, when at some point I started looking around the house. Every other room was right off the main room. I stopped in the open doorway to a bedroom, which appeared to be the room of a young man, although it was uncharacteristically clean and orderly. The shear museum quality of it caused me to stop and take it in.
Suddenly I felt and heard Eddie, right behind me, sobbing. “This was our son’s room.”
Eddie and Margaret had one child, a son, who grew up with them in Fredericksburg, moved to California for work, married and had two children. Unfortunately, Eddie and Martha never got along with the wife, so after their son was killed by an 18-wheeler that failed to stop on a congested freeway, they never saw their grandchildren anymore.
To look at the bedroom, you’d have thought their son died as a child. All of his room was preserved as it had been in happier times.
Ain’t that the gall danged shits?