Shortly after Sherman’s passing I described to the world my best friend of nearly 50 years as a man of many stories; those he could tell, those that would be told about him, and those, perhaps, that only I knew. That’s simply because I was there, a witness to his life and the myriad reasons he was the man he became.
Sherman did not experience what any of us would call an ordinary childhood. He was raised a privileged child by his mother and grandmother in a large, ornate house you might imagine from a 1930’s movie. Once you entered the massive front door, everything seemed more black and white than color. Chandeliers that didn’t quite light the room, larger than life vases, mirrors, and a long dining room table. His grandmother ruled from the head of the table like the Queen of England, attended to by what for the life of me looked like both a maid and a butler. I was there.
Though he could not help but be influenced by all of this, Sherman did his best to act like none of it mattered; that he was just an ordinary boy growing up in St. Petersburg. But no one was buying that.
Maybe it was showing up to school in a limousine, or one of those cars with propellers you could drive into the water. Or my favorite, his beloved baby blue Oldsmobile 442. And it probably had to do with how smart he was. Grades were never an issue for Sherman. Kids can be pretty cruel. They made Sherman their target. It was not an easy time for him. I know because I was there.
By the time we graduated from high school, Sherman and I were best friends. That summer our parents trusted us to set off to see some of the world. We drove up the coast to Cape Cod, Boston, and to his childhood summer home in North Adams, Massachusetts. We continued north to Montreal and Toronto. For reasons I don’t recall, perhaps because I simply didn’t have the money, we slept in the car some nights. Even then, Sherman snored. I know. I was there.
I think it may have been a birthday gift. Certainly unlike any I could imagine. A 58-foot Hatteras Sherman named Bullwinkle. It was about the biggest yacht I had ever seen. Yes, the small craft hanging from the stern was called Rocky. Three of us, best friends, plus my cat, boarded for the maiden cruise to Key West. It was only supposed to be for a few days. Turns out Captain Bywater’s leadership style severely tested our friendship. One of us jumped ship. I wasn’t happy either. We left Sherman safely moored at the Key West Yacht Club, rented a car and drove back home. I called the next day, apologized, and offered to fly down to help him get back home. He declined, dropped out of college, and didn’t return to St. Petersburg for nearly two decades. I was there.
Key West is no ordinary town. It readily accepts extraordinary people. Sherman immediately fit in and flourished. He earned one of the highest scores in Florida to secure his pilot’s license, bought a plane and became a pilot for the Sheriff. Then he became a deputy. Uniform, gun, cruiser, the whole package. It emboldened him like I had never seen. One night I was riding with him when we were dispatched to a bar fight up the keys. It was a harrowing 100 mile-per-hour, lights-and-siren ride I’ll never forget. When we arrived he said, “raise your right hand.” I did and he said, “you’re deputized.” He handed me a shotgun and told me to watch his back. And then he busted his way into a brawling crowd of drunk fisherman and single-handedly diffused a dangerous situation. It was an amazing thing to witness. I was there.
Sherman would go on to befriend the Mayor of Key West and would tow him 90 miles on water skis to Havana, Cuba to attend a conference. It was, perhaps, the greatest adventure we ever shared. I don’t expect you to believe this, but I was there. I have pictures, too.
Some years later, my cousin called. She had had a rough time of it and needed to get away for a break. I picked her up at the airport in Miami and, together with a girl I was friends with, we drove down to Key West to visit this friend I told her about. Sherman was no longer living on the Bullwinkle. He had a condominium that could accommodate guests. We were all set.
To say our brief visit changed the course of history for all of us would be something of an understatement. I could take up all of our time just describing the joy we shared together that weekend, but there’s one small story that helps to reveal the real Sherman. Cindy was going to bake cookies. She naturally turned on the oven to preheat it. None of us expected the ensuing smoke and fire alarm. You see, Sherman never ate at home. Though he had lived in his condo for a year, he’d never cooked a meal there. Cindy had set the oven instructions, neatly contained in a plastic envelope and taped to the oven rack, on fire. I was there for that, too.
I’ll skip to the good part. Sherman would marry Cindy, and I would be his best man in Rolla, Missouri. A few months later, I would marry Elena, and he would be my best man in downtown St. Petersburg. And then thirty years of life happened, with all the highs and lows that come with it.
With someone like Sherman, the highs and lows were pretty extreme. I’m really not certain how he survived them all and, in the end, he didn’t. His depths of despair I witnessed were frightening. There were times when I felt the only thing that separated him from a bullet was the loving gaze of an ill-mannered beagle.
And Sherman fought his way back from near death after grueling heart surgery and a long, painful recovery that would change him forever. Cindy, Ted, Lori and I, and others, would visit him in hospital every day for many weeks. Late in the night, delirious and unaware, he would leave me messages calling for help to bail him out of jail where he was certain he was chained to his bed. He would not remember any of that.
Sherman could make friends no matter where he went. I imagine it was a skill he picked up in Key West. Rather than eat or drink alone at home, he made friends wherever he dined or drank. And if you just happened to dine or drink in the same place for say five nights a week, the friendships grew that much stronger. This is where Sherman and I parted ways. It’s not that he didn’t sit at our dining room table for hundreds of meals over the years, on those nights he didn’t eat out, it’s that I simply couldn’t afford to sit at the bar at Bern’s for the other five nights a week. So, no, I wasn’t there, but I have reliable sources. Oh, and in all the years I’ve known him, and I did make my wish known, I never had a single meal with Sherman in his home.
We all have these kinds of stories to describe Sherman and the times we’ve shared with him. He’s had a profound impact on a lot of people. He influenced each and every one of us here today.
It’s no easy task to sum up a man’s life and what it means under the duress of standing by his grave. We’re all grateful and blessed in some way for knowing Sherman or we wouldn’t be here. He loved each of us. For me, he was like a brother from another mother I never had. We were really nothing alike, but we cherished the longevity of our relationship and understood well all that the other had experienced and endured.
Sherman was loyal and generous to his friends. For all his wealth and genius, he didn’t really want anything different than the rest of us: Acceptance, honesty, loyalty, and especially love. Sometimes he was successful, and often he wasn’t. But no matter how close you were to him, he remained a private person. He and I were often the kind of friends that would just sit together quietly, being typical men unwilling or unable to share our feelings that were all too easily apparent on our faces.
There’s one special gift Sherman possessed that I would be remiss not to mention. It was his secret weapon that could always lighten the room. There was no joke too bad to tell. There was no pun he could not bounce off a wall to hit you from out of nowhere. He was the master of the straight face and the tormentor to the gullible. Perhaps that’s how he sought acceptance in his youth, but it certainly became him in time and gave him reason to offer up a genuine smile we would all recognize. For me, Sherman will forever be one if by land, and two if Bywater.
And so, friends, that is my small remembrance to my lifelong friend. I could probably tell it a dozen different ways, but it would probably always end about the same way. None of us will ever forget Sherman. We will always celebrate knowing him and cherish the experiences we shared. The impact on some of our lives will continue or be dramatically magnified. For others, his memory will soon drift as we carry on with our lives. Sherman would be fine with that. He would pragmatically acknowledge his time here had finally expired, expressing gratitude for the additional time he was granted in recent years to be with his wife, his children, and grandson for just a little while longer.
Rest in peace, my good friend. We wish you a pleasant journey and hope our paths will cross again one day.
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