Chapter Fourteen
BAFFLING BEHAVIOR

(In 1969 I was the Accountant for the Portland Art Museum and School.  This is the account of my strange experience with U.S.Bank Officers. Why I didn’t have Attorney Luis Kutner take off on this possible legal action against the original Trustees, I don’t know. I didn’t remember it.)

Several days later Newt came down to the basement offices, visited with Hans for several minutes then came over to my area, pulled up the old visitor’s chair and sat down. He looked serious. I was wondering what now, when he said, “The Vice President of the Bank Trust Department just called.” He gave me a searching look. I raised an inquiring eyebrow, puzzled.  He nodded, and continued, “He has invited us, Roger Meier, myself and you to have lunch with him Wednesday.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

He nodded but still looked serious.

Then I added brightly, “To discuss the Endowment Fund?”

“Yes, I expect so. That’s what Roger thinks too.”

“Wonderful. We’ll be more than happy to discuss. Now maybe we’ll see better management. That Roger must have really put the pressure on them.”

Newt shook his head, “No. Roger said he hasn’t said anything to them yet.”

“Is that right?” Now I was baffled and thinking fast. What could this mean?

They’ll think I called the hank on my own.

He rose and pushed the chair back and with a piercing look asked, . “Have you talked to them at the bank?”

I shook my head. “No.” I said.

“Hmm.”

“They invited me?”

He nodded again grilling me with his eyes as if he doubted me.

I shrugged. and asked, “Is his name Steve Rolf?”

“No,” Newt shook his head. “Andrew Tretaway, the Vice President.”

Then I remembered, and said, “Back when we set up the Cash Management account, I did mention to the bank officer ‘now, if we could just get this kind of return on our Endowment Fund, which is very, very poor, we’d be in good shape.’ But that man was not in the Trust Department. Do you suppose that could have anything to do with this?”

He shook his head, “Don’t know. We’ll find out Wednesday.”

I didn’t know what more to say. But I was remembering the red carpet treatment recently when Evanne made a bank deposit. The Steve Rolf, the one who managed the Museum’s Endowment Fund, the one who hadn’t bothered to return my phone calls, was now falling all over himself to be nice, asking questions, personal questions about me! . I distinctly felt all this attention wasn’t about the Museum’s Endowment Fund. And I also distinctly picked up more than just an annoyed, or curious vibration from Newt. He was clearly puzzled why I was invited. In fact, I felt he was a bit resentful.

“Wednesday then.” He said and left.

Hans was studying me from his desk. Maybe he’d over heard Evanne’s red carpet report. He could be trying to put 2 and 2 together also. But he didn’t say anything.

I got back to work making out a payroll. Hmm. This had to do with Jack Murdock. It simply had to be something to do with him. Something he’d said or done. Something he’d done, more than just said something, I felt. Because he must mention any number of people when meeting with bankers. Mentioning a woman, I could see, would inspire major curiosity as he was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the Northwest. But I couldn’t see more than a passing interest on the bank’s part. Lady friends came and went. Certainly not enough interest to cause a bank officer to ask personal questions about me. It had to be something Jack has done. He might help with the Endowment Fund, if he knew about the problems. But I hadn’t told him about them yet. If neither Newt or Roger Meier knew what was going on, then it didn’t have anything to do with the Art Museum.

Well, maybe I’d find out Wednesday. More likely not, especially if the Tek experience when Jack showed a personal interest in me, was an example. Executives were asking one another ‘Helen who?’ And one by one they came out to Ceramics to take a look at me.

Many stopped to visit telling me their ideas. When I’d ask what was going on, they all pretended, Nothing. Nothing at all.

I’d never told either Evanne or Vance or any of my family or friends about Jack. What was to tell? That I imagined he was interested in me? Oh, yes! Lots of real world evidence of that. So why isn’t he around, they’d want to know? The children wouldn’t ask me, I knew, but neither one would like the idea of me sneaking around, hiding a relationship. I knew that for sure. Nor did I like that idea. Anyway they both knew my schedule. There were no unaccounted hours away from them.

I’d have to write Jack a letter. Or maybe call. But I’d wait now until after Wednesday.

Lois, Newt’s secretary, phoned Wednesday morning to remind me of our luncheon appointment and to say Newt had an errand to do downtown and would meet me at the bank.

“Ask for Mr. Trethaway in the Trust Department.” She instructed.

What an impressive dining room on the top floor of the bank tower. I decided the walls were done in Myrtle Wood, a very beautiful, valuable wood from Southern Oregon. And what I was sure Newt and Hans would agree was art hung on the walls. A woman who could readily pass for a bank officer herself, so business like in appearance was she, met me at the door. She was dressed in a lovely, dignified dark cherry business suit. When I said my name, she smiled and turning said, “Right this way, please.” My, I felt like royalty. Then I looked down at my summer dress, a long sleeved white with cheerful green polka dots and matching green shoes and purse. Not very dignified. Oh, well.

Both Newt and Roger were already seated at a table with two other men I assumed were bankers. The bank men rose at once extending their hands welcoming me. Newt and Roger managed to follow suit. Neither, however, had big, welcoming smiles. In fact, both not only looked puzzled, but a bit resentful.

“Sit down, sit down.” The older man told me as the beautifully dressed woman pulled out a chair for me.

“Wonderful day.” I said. “A nice walk down here.” And my glance went from one to the other of them all. They heartily agreed.

“Yes, very nice weather. Summer already.” The older man said and introduced himself. He was Andrew Trethaway, V.P. of the bank’s Trust Department. The younger man was none other than Steve Rolf. Also, a bank Trust Officer. I was tempted to say something about it was time we met since he was the loser who managed the Endowment Fund and couldn’t be bothered to return my phone calls. But I nixed that thought deciding to be nice and see if I could learn what they were up to.

Somehow it felt rude to ask such questions in this luxurious, high above the city Bank Tower where Oregon power brokers meet. I fear I foolishly let myself be a little impressed by the book’s cover.

But later still wondering why I’d been included in this luncheon invitation, I carefully reviewed the unusual interest they’d shown in me. I concluded once again it was not wanting to get to know an accountant for a bank customer. From their expression Newt and Roger were asking themselves the same thing. It was not only a strange occurrence, but not one Newt, at least, liked. I knew he felt I was way beyond my place in the proper scheme of things.

As it was, in the hour and half we were there, I left no wiser as to why I was invited. than when I’d first heard about the meeting. There was a menu on beautiful brown paper with gold lettering, with items I was not at all sure I knew what they were. So I watched Newt and listened to what he ordered and then did likewise. There were small, thin wedges of different kinds of breads and a variety of spreads. I stuck to what appeared to be recognizable cheese. And there was wine. One kind to start with and then later another kind. Once in my 20s I’d had some wine and in no time was uncontrollably silly. Never again. So I didn’t touch my wine. We had turtle soup. I avoided the turtle chunks, but had some of the broth which I had to admit was delicious And we had a small side dish of what I’d call carrot, raisin and cabbage salad. It too was absolutely delicious. Then there arrived a plate of what we’d ordered, something that appeared to be very thin pancakes rolled in a wienie shape which was filled with something like creamed chipped beef though it was not called that. It too had a never to be forgotten taste. My, but the bank did employ a fantastic chef. To finish off the meal there was a small cherry tart. Newt asked the waiter to give his compliments to the chef. Mr Tretaway added, “Francis Newton, Director of the Art Museum who is renown for his own culinary talents.” And Newt produced his card.

Then Mr Trethaway turned to me and asked what kinds of investments did I consider ideal? Common Stock, Bonds, Treasuries?

I hadn’t expected to be asked anything of the kind. I’d come prepared with questions about the Endowment Fund, but perhaps this was their way of getting around to the management of the Fund. So I hesitated a moment and noticed both Roger Meier and Newt observing me with narrowed eyes.

Probably it would have been more diplomatic if I’d deferred to Roger and to Newt instead of answering, but what the heck, they’d asked me. “Some combination probably of all three. If one wanted growth, common stock would be good.”

The banker nodded profoundly as though I was uttering words of wisdom. I was about to open my mouth and add, but what was in the Museum’s Endowment Fund was far from any kind of well balanced, or even what could be called a well planned portfolio. All those dead beat loans........but before I could speak, Roger took over.

He said, “My mother’s Trust Fund, I believe, is a good example, of long range planning in a portfolio. We have some growth stock, to be sure. We have both corporate bonds with a bit higher interest rate, and tax exempts. We don’t hold much Treasuries.

Some though.”

Mr Trethaway listened respectfully, then came back to me again. “How do you feel about real estate partnerships?”

“Tax sheltered partnerships?” I asked.

He nodded, his eyes sincerely interested, it seemed to me.

I shook my head, “I’d be pretty cautious about them, I believe.”

Again he nodded, and again Roger Meier told some of his experience with such holdings.

Then I asked if they knew what rate of return the Endowment Fund earned?

Mr Trethaway immediately glanced at his so far quite silent partner, who replied, with a sheepish smile, “Not as good as we’d like to see.” He admitted.  I told them, “About 1.5% return. In fact, from some of those investments I’d say we’re lucky to get that much.” With an accusing glance.

Roger then took over urging them to fix the Fund. He authoratively announced, he’d be watching and he expected soon to see improvement. At least 5% return, maybe even 8%. He scolded, not at all too much to expect. His mother’s fund earned a very respectable 8 to 10% regularly. Then he added, without malice or scorn, but smugly, “But, then I manage it.”

They both apologetically agreed and assured us we’d soon see improvement.

The only comment Newt made during our meeting was his compliments for the chef. I had a feeling Newt was as surprised at the existence of this luxurious dining room as I was. And more awed and impressed than I was.

The two of us walked back to the Museum. I said, “Do you think they’ll keep their word and get decent earnings for the Endowment?”

“I surely hope so.” Was all he said.

That weekend I did write Jack a letter. I began by telling him all about the financial success the Museum Building Fund was having and how much interest we’d been able to earn for the new Art School. The architect was the only one we’d spent any of the money on so far. Construction was planned for a year hence. And not yet half of the pledges had been received. Then I reported on the unbelievable, incredibly bad performance of the Museum’s Endowment Fund. And said I was beginning to think bankers had to be watched carefully, or they’d make off with your shirt. This fund has been with the bank 50 some years! They think it’s theirs. No, they’re just using it as if it is theirs. Their own money, I’m sure, not other people’s necessarily, I’ll bet is well managed. So what is needed is plain as can be is someone to keep a sharp watch on the bank. When they can get away with something like this, it’s because no one is watching. But just to protect themselves they keep a banker on the Board. Pretty canny of them, I’d say. His presence sure does intimidate the Museum Director.

I’ve been talking to the Director about this shameful management. At first, he was very reluctant to even hear about it. Fearful almost. But now that he’s spoken to the Department Store Mogul, Roger Meier, who is on the Board, who stopped by to see me, he’s lots braver. Roger understood good and well what I was pointing out and from the look on his face, I believe he’s going to ruffle some feathers. He didn’t tell me so, of course. I’m just the bookkeeper here. Not only that, I’m not a Portland elite. The Meiers being what, third generation or so removed from the days when old great grandpa Meier probably was an enterprising and successful peddler, driving a horse and buggy from farm to farm, far from belonging to the elite, but they’re now high society Having lived here all your life yourself, you’ll know more about such things than me. I doubt you’d be much impressed. I don’t let it influence me. I’ve always believed my whole life each one of us is just as important in the whole scheme of things as the next one. Those of us who rise to become visible in society simply have more responsibility to be a good example. But I don’t need to tell you.

The strangest thing, a few weeks ago when Evanne (who is helping me part time) made a deposit at the bank, a bank Trust Officer had the teller call him when she came in so he could quiz her about me! Imagine that! He was so extra nice, rolled out a red carpet which astonished her. She asked me what was going on. But I had no idea. I was just as baffled. But then after thinking about it awhile, I remembered how like that was the same experience at Tek when you first mentioned an interest in me. So, I feel it has something to do with you.

And there is more of the astonishing, the incredible. Last Wednesday Roger Meier, Dr Newton, Museum Director, and me, were invited to have lunch with Bank Trust Officers! Not only did inviting me not please either Roger or Newt, but at this luncheon the bankers spoke more to me than either of them! Asking my opinion on investments! I was the one who had to ask about the poor management results for the Endowment Fund as both Dr Newton and Roger Meier just stared from the bankers to me.

The bankers admitted they must do better and promised to do so. I had a list of questions about the Fund with me and handed it to Mr. Tretaway. He thanked me.

I know all this attention I’m receiving from the bank has nothing to do with the Art Museum. That meeting was the first we even mentioned the Endowment Fund. So what are you up to now?

To know you is to live life most interestingly. But I’m glad I know you, Helen.

Several years later I learned at the time all the above happened was at the time Jack made out a new will, which was shortly prior to the death of his mother.

Not long after that letter went off, Jack sent in a check for a $1,000. for the Art School’s Building Fund. Dorothy came around waving it saying, “and we didn’t even have to ask him.”

“Pretty nice.” I said as Hans peered over her shoulder.

Then Newt came down and looked too, then remarked, “When his partner out there at Tektronix, Howard Vollum, pledged a $100,000. I reported to the Board someone should ask Murdock to do the same. No one seemed to even know him. They say he’s almost a recluse. Then the banker volunteered to ask. He said he didn’t know him either. At the next meeting I asked what luck he’d had. He shook his head and said that Murdock told him he’d think about it. But nothing came in. So this thousand, indeed, is a surprise.”

I knew that $1,000. was an answer to me from Jack. And my heart filled with joy. He did read my letters and cared about what I had to say. The Museum Building Fund had me to thank for that gift.  But a $1,000. was a far cry from $100,000. and I bet the banker had mentioned Howard gave that much. Jack was not into “Art,” I knew, at least not their kind. He fancied huge photos of majestic snow covered Mt. Hood and Mt Rainer which he’d probably taken himself.

The June report for the Endowment Fund showed no non-paying loans at all. Not only was loan principal repaid but lost interest also. And even the $8,000. in missing dividend income I’d identified was restored. I plunked that report in front of Hans. He pulled up the eye glasses he wore on a black cord around his neck and studied it a few minutes. Then he looked up with a warm smile. “Congratulations.” He said. Then he asked, “Has Newt seen this?”

I shook my head, “No, I’ve not shown it to him. But maybe he gets a copy?”:

“I don’t think so. Mind if I take it up?”

“No, no. Go ahead.”

In May I’d sat for the Certified Public Accountant exam. By fall we would be notified of the results. I had high hopes, of course, acing the exam, but full well realized, if I passed, it would be just skinning by especially in Business Law. That was a subject I found difficult to assimilate. It seemed to me you simply had to memorize laws. The whole exam was very difficult. I realized that what they said that just one of five pass the first time was true. We sat in a big barn like building on the State Fair Grounds at fold up tables and metal folding chairs. Most uncomfortable. And after 5 hours it was a wonder our legs still worked.

When I received my letter, I couldn’t make myself open it. Finally, I handed it to Evanne and told her to look. She scanned it quickly and looked up, “Well you passed Auditing with a near perfect score.”  “Only auditing?” In disappointment.

She nodded. “You only missed all the others by just a point or two.”

I looked. And sighing said, “A point or two might as well be zeros for all it counts.”

She nodded, “Fraid so.”

Then with a determined set to my chin I said, “Back to the drawing board. I will pass this exam.”

“Of course you will.” Then she offered, “I’ll tutor you.”

“I didn’t spend enough time on this. I knew it would be hard, but not this hard.”

Then ruefully I added, “You have to pass 2 of the 5 exams in order to not have to retake them. So I’ll have to retake the entire thing.”

“When is the next one?”

“November.”

“Five months. Should be long enough to prepare.”

I sighed. The whole summer was spent studying and worrying now that I knew just how hard the task ahead of me was. Well, I’d come this far. No turning back now. No slacking off. I’d do it.

I wrote another letter to Jack,

Dear Jack,

I must tell you the very most incredible news. All those worthless loans in the Endowment Fund vanished. They were replaced with good earning investments.  The shortage in dividends was also paid! What does this tell you about bankers?  My Goodness, I never imagined this could possibly happen so easily. No excuses.  No denial or obfuscating. What a magic wand you do have. I know it had not a thing in the world to do with Roger Meier or anyone else or they’d never have mismanaged in the first place. I’m thinking after fifty years they got off cheap at that. Actually what
they did was criminal. An ordinary person doing such a thing would land in prison. But, of course, the Art Museum Board would never permit even a breath of scandal of any of their members.. If I, or Newt or anyone else, were to noise this around, it would be vehemently denied, and if necessary the whistle blower ridiculed, destroyed. I can plainly see that.

One does wonder where those losers went? Now that we know how bankers operate, I suppose they were unloaded on some defenseless fund, one where the donor is no longer around and has no one in charge protecting his fund.

I sat for the Certified Public Accountant’s exam in May. There are five parts to the exam. If you don’t pass you can retake it several times, if need be. You must pass two parts in order to not have to retake the entire exam again. Sadly I only passed Auditing. I only missed on the others by a few points, which just as well be zeros for all it counts. Back to the drawing board for the summer because I do mean to pass next time. with love,

Helen

Chapter Fifteen
The End Or The End of The Beginning ?

I spent every spare minute all summer and fall studying for the next Accounting Exam.   Evanne coached me on all the test examples I sent away for. In her free time she took up oil painting of butterflies, lady bugs, the cutest little beetles she had a fascination for. A friend was so delighted with a huge blue butterfly she created, she mentioned it to a furniture store owner who asked to see it. He offered her the magnificant sum of $250. for it. Soon she had orders for green butterflies, pink ones, others to match a particular décor.

For several cold, rainy days in early November I again sat glued to a steel folding chair in that big barn at the State Fairgrounds concentrating on passing the exam. I would be there for the two full days as I had to repeat all five parts. This time there was a new experience. The monitor for the State Accounting Board who roamed about the room making sure every thing was going according to expectations, that no one was cheating, had been introduced to us that morning as Glen McDaniels, partner in the Portland offices of the one of the Big Eight accounting firms, Haskins & Sells. I knew they were Tek’s auditors, but I had never met Mr McDaniels though I knew who he was from the annual Stockholders meetings as he spoke at those meetings. To my astonishment he stopped and asked me how I was doing. The people on either side of me looked up as if expecting he’d want to know how they were doing too, but he passed on by.

I dared not waste any time puzzling over that encounter as there were only so many minutes to complete each exam. But on the way home I recalled his speaking to me out of the hundreds of exam takers and also how I’d felt and noticed him studying me several times during the day as he roamed about the room. Was I imagining special interest? Maybe. Maybe not.  Maybe Jack had mentioned me to Mr McDaniels.
 

Now that the Endowment Fund was prospering and I had my bookkeeping tasks completed within the first few weeks of the month, I began looking for something more to do.  I pestered Hans for something to do. He set me to inventorying gifts which had piled up in the relics room. Sometimes the donor would proudly accompany his or her gift. And they usually expected to be welcomed by the Director. Newt seldom missed a public relations opportunity, but sometimes he was unavailable. Then the task fell to the Curator, Rachael Griffin, who was not always as enthusiastic about some gifts as Newt would invariably be. If Rachael was away, the task fell to Hans who was invariably enthusiastic, polite and properly appreciative though now that I knew him better, I could tell when he was sincerely impressed, which was seldom.

Then one day near year end Steve Rolf, the Endowment Fund bank manager, phoned.

After a few pleasantries he asked if there was anything special the Museum needed. He laughed, “I’m sure they do need something like maybe $10,000. or so?”  “$10,000.?” I was astonished. “Wow! Are you giving away $10,000.?”

Laughing again, he said, “It’s year end and we are closing out some Trust Funds here, catching them up on their yearly giving and we thought of you – er, the Museum who probably has needs.”

“You bet, lots of needs. Let me ask Dr Newton. I’m sure he’ll have something in  mind. I’ll get back to you.”

As I sat there at my table thinking about this and marveling at how easy suddenly it was to get $10,000. without even asking, I knew good and well normally any needs we might have would stand in line, way back in the line. For 10 years Dr Newton tried to get a better return for the Endowment Fund and was ignored, intimidated even. My Goodness, what was going on? Was the bank trying to make up for all those years of mismanagement, placate us, so to speak? I doubted it.

When I told Hans, he just stared every bit as astonished as I’d been. Even more so. Then a big smile crossed his face. “We need a new furnace.” He said.

“Shall I call him back and tell him?”

“No, no. Let me ask Newt.” And away he raced upstairs. When he returned a few minutes later, he said, “Yes, tell them we can use a new furnace. It costs about $10,000.”

After I’d phoned back, I noticed Hans eyeing me at his desk with a calculating look.

He said, “The bankers are bending over backwards to be good to us.”

I nodded, “Yes, they are.” Then I added, “But not to look a gift horse in the mouth, they say.”   A few days later in came a check for $10,000. It was from the Trust Fund of a long deceased newspaper owner. The bank was the sole trustee. Apparently no family  members to carry on. The Trust income was to go for the general welfare of public organizations. The Museum, of course, neatly fit this category. But we’d never received a dime heretofore, nor did we even know such a fund existed.

When I phoned the banker to thank him for the $10,000. he surprised me again by asking if there was anything more he could do for us?

I caught my breath, “You mean you have more year end closing out funds to give away?”

“Probably we might. There’s a tuition grant available if you know of a worthy young person.”

“I might. Let me get back to you on that.” I said. I happened to have friends whose son wanted nothing more than to be an organ tuner. The best place for him to study was in Paris, France which was beyond their reach. I called them and asked if Kendric still wanted to study organ tuning in France. Yes, they said straight off. “Well,” I said, “I might be on to a tuition grant he can apply for.” I told the banker that I knew a worthy young man who wanted to be trained in organ tuning and the best place to learn organ tuning was in Paris, France halfway expecting to hear oh, sorry, that’s out of bounds for us. But no, he didn’t murmur one bit, took his name and phone number and said he’d see what could be worked out. Kenny was shortly on his way to Paris.

Then Dr. Newton brought the Director of the Art School around one day. They pulled up chairs and sat down at my table. Then Newt announced they’d like to talk to this banker friend of mine about setting up an annual scholarship for an outstanding art student.
 

My eyes twinkled. Now they were thinking bigger. “Sure,” I said and reached for my phone index and wrote on note pad Steve Rolf’s name and phone number and handed it to Newt.

He put the note in his pocket, but said, “Maybe you’d call and set up a meeting?’

“Oh, sure.” I said.

After they left, I sat there thinking about this. I’d give the banker a call but I didn’t feel good about this any longer. Somehow I felt I was being manipulated. I knew they were playing nice with me for some far bigger reason which had something to do with lots of
money. Bankers respected immensely lots of money. It wasn’t the Art Museum and Art School influencing them. It most certainly was not me. The only person I knew in that category was Jack. And I didn’t want him to be obligated because of me. I did call and had no problem setting up a meeting, but I told myself no more. If they ever called again I’d just politely say No, and let them know I didn’t want to participate.

In telling Evanne about all this, she mused thoughtfully, “It seems extraordinary, doesn’t it?” “Amazing.” I nodded. “Here they go from lousy management of the Endowment Fund, and everyone frightened to even tell them so, to good management and now making gifts to the Museum. Very puzzling.”  “Trying to placate us? Surely they have no worries about a lawsuit?” I wondered.  “Buying you off?” She mused. “Some would call their management criminal, I’m sure.”  I nodded. “No,” I shook my head, “it’s not that. No one on the Board would entertain so much as a rumor of scandal against the bank. And if Newt were to leak some such, his head would roll. Or mine, if I were to be a whistle blower. Actually, there may not be anything sinister going on at all. This may simply just as he said, merely catching up on meeting their annual gift giving obligations.”

She was skeptical. “Bankers aren’t that kindly nor generous.”

“No, they aren’t.” We both laughed. “I remember well whenever we needed some money and I took my Tek shares and pledged them for a loan from the bank how like a miserable worm I felt begging for a few dollars. I shook my head. “No, they are not in  business to be nice and accommodating. Especially not to poor, beggar types.”

A few days later the Accounting Board’s letter came. Evanne called. I said, “Open it.”

I passed! I was so happy. All that study. All that work. I’d made it, at last. Now I could sign after my name CPA!

As 5 o’clock came and I put away my work for the day, I decided to tell Jack. I called his office. The lady who answered the phone said, “Yes, he’s in. I’ll put you through.” I took a deep breath. This time for sure I’d talk. Then he said, “Hello.” And without even a second’s pause, I managed, “This is Helen Solem.” Now there was dead silence. I rushed on. “I passed  the CPA Exam!” There was unmistakable elation in my voice. He said, “Wonderful. What a feather in your cap.” I laughed happily. “Yes, it is.” He added, “Now you can charge like Haskins & Sells.” I laughed again, “Only if I can find someone willing to pay.” He laughed.  I said, “I was so afraid to open that letter. That exam is unbelievably hard. They say only 1 out of 5 pass.” He said, “Yes, I understand it’s tough.” I struggled to find something more to say. Then asked how he liked living in Vancouver. He said, “Well, there’s no state income tax. Otherwise, it’s pretty much the same as Portland.” I managed, “And how is Tek doing without you?” He said, “Just fine. But not without me. I keep an eye on them.” “I hope so.” I said. I said, “Fitz has really measured up to the additional responsibility, hasn’t he?” “Yes, he has.” We talked for a half hour. “FDR,” he said, “was one of the great Presidents we’ve had if not the greatest.” I agreed. Then he said, “My secretary has just brought me some letters to sign.” And he added kindly, “I’d better sign them so she can go home.”