Peculiar, he was.
Unkempt as a street beggar, pesty as an 'itch', rich as a Rockefeller.
The gaggle of hairs in Stan's nose were enough to make you want to sneeze.
But Stan The Man as everyone called him, owned a big chunk of the city and a sizable heap of Blue Chip Stocks that insured his visibility among social circles. (that kind of profile is hard to hide.)
Few excaped his serendipitous telephone calls. "I wonder what that was all about," was a common comment when HE decided the conversation was over. "What conversation?" That's hard to say, because they were
never about anything. Stan would start out by saying, "Hey, what's up" That was easy enough to understand, but what was certain to follow was a random, disconnected string of statements or questions, after which he did not wait for a reply. "Great talkin' to ya'," and he was gone.
Stan was a member of our church,but seldom attended, rarely put anything in the offering plate, if he did.
One night he showed up at an outdoor concert. A sudden chill sent those not prepared scurrying off early. I guess Stan must have been one of them, because what happened next was as typical as it was unexpected.
A couple of weeks later, up the hill came a U.P.S. truck. The delivery man presented the office manager with an invoice for 500
sweat shirts.
"As far as I know, we didn't order any sweat shirts. There must be some mistake."
But the order clearly stated. Five hundred gray sweat shirts and they were being delivered to the address clearly shown thereon. No explanation accompanied them. Where they came from, and what was supposed to be done with them, was a mystery. But not for long.
Stan called one of the parishioners, and said, "Well, I finally found
somone at home. Say, about those sweat shirts. Figured you could sell them for $20.00 apiece. Make a little money for the church. Well, gotts go now. Nice talkin' to ya.Great day in paradise." (the shirts had a picture and name of the sanctuary as well as the words, San Clemente, a share and care community. Across the bottom was the word Paraiso. (paradise)
Mysery solved. Now almost everyone who attends a concert on our hill brings along a gray sweat shirt.
It wasn't until his wife's memorial service, held under a tree in their front yard, did it become apparent to all who attended, that the families living in Stan's apartments paid a fraction of what he
could have charged. He catered to those with low incomes and treated them like family.
He had a large loving group of people sharing his loss that afternoon.

Yep, Stan the Man was peculiar, but he was a real share and care kind of guy.