Lee Geiger

Grief is the price we pay for love.

Queen Elizabeth II

A consequence of becoming Medicare-eligible is the reality that people you know and care about are going to get sick and die. It’s why conversations with old friends pivot from mundane drivel about the weather to serious downloads of injuries, ailments and outcomes. It’s a slap-in-the-face reality that is out of our control. What you can control, however, is how you react to the devastating news that a friend, a family member, or a loved one is laid up, infirmed or, worse, no longer here. Trust me when I tell you I’ve been working on this uncomfortable, albeit unavoidable, foot-in-the-grave etiquette for a very long time.

The upshot is that I’ve become somewhat matter-of-fact about the whole process, if for no other reason than if I were to suddenly become sick and my days above ground were put on the clock, that’s how I would want my friends and loved ones to treat me. The last thing I want when I’m lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a machine is sympathy. Instead, do what you can to make me smile, make me laugh, or even make me cry. Let’s talk about families, sports, books, movies, or anything else we used to talk about. Let’s reminisce about old times and how stupid and silly we used to be. Let’s gossip about our neighbors and hope they don’t find out. And no matter what, be sure to tease me about what ails me. Because if you don’t, I will.

That doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic to one’s plight, or empathetic to losing those I care about. I do, and the grief hurts. But my default is to celebrate life. That’s where the memories are.

What follows are my thoughts about two very special people I was blessed to call my friends.

Susan Morgan

Susan Morgan was a long-time customer of mine. What distinguished her from others was the way she gave orders to brokers. Instead of barking trading instructions, Susan delivered orders like wedding invitations. “Lee,” she would say while extending my name across three time zones, “I’ve got an order to sell some XYZ, and you simply must trade this stock for me.” Susan’s wit was knife-sharp, and she never met a situation, or personality, she couldn’t make fun of. Susan typified East coast style, but behind the prim and proper façade was a laid-back Napa Valley girl looking for a cozy fire pit and a full glass of cab. Time with Susan was time well spent.

But as good a customer Susan was, she was an even better travel agent. Susan set me up on the greatest blind date of my life, and for that I am eternally grateful. Who exactly did she set me up with? Italy.

A seductive storyteller, whether by prose or in person, Susan tickled my travel bone with riveting tales of her annual Tuscan bike trips, exciting sojourns to everything from cozy Italian hilltop villages to the magnificence of Florence.  Susan shared intimate secrets of what she saw, touched, and thankfully, ate. Best of all, she told you when to ignore the guidebooks. Susan planted the seeds of what would become THE favored destination for both me and The Pretty Blonde. Italy fits us like a glove, or better yet a heaping plate of pasta bolognaise and a cheap bottle of the house red.

Susan, prone to look under every rock in search of an answer, chose Orvieto as her home base because it was halfway between Florence and Rome, and because it wasn’t “Italian Disneyland” like so many tourist-trodden tracks in Tuscany. We stayed there with Susan and her partner Alan, a stylish twosome that hands down were the greatest dinner dates anyone could ever hope for. Many problems of the world were solved after four hour marathons that usually concluded with multiple shots of lemoncello. Preceded by aperitivos, of course. From here we jump started trips to the Val d’Orcia, Cinque Terre, Lake Como, and the Amalfi Coast. Ah, Italy.

I last saw Susan on the exquisite island Capri during the spring of 2023, savoring a glass of vino while overlooking a handful of super yachts parked like Lamborghinis below our swanky hotel. She made a joke about how the scantily-clad mistresses drinking martinis on deck should form a union to get better health benefits. Only Susan would think of something like that, and it wasn’t just what she said but also how she said it. Man, how I loved hanging out with her.

That’s the Susan I will remember forever.

Will Walker

I love getting Christmas cards. They’re fun, festive and, in many cases, informative. But rarely do they bring tears to my eyes. This year, one did.

It was from Sydney Walker. Her husband Will passed away this year. On the front of the card was Sydney and her adult sons, signaling to all the world that life goes on. On the back were photos of Will and Sydney dressed in their finest Philadelphia Eagles gear. Will, of course, was screaming like a banshee, rooting his beloved Birds to victory. It was just so Will; proud, committed, passionate. And hella fun.

Take the most intense, erudite person your ever met in your life, pump him with a gallon of caffeine, and then ask him to spend the next sixty minutes outlining in excruciating detail what excites him or keeps him up at night. That’s Will Walker, and if you ever had the pleasure of meeting him, you’d never forget him. Few men were stronger, or fought harder for what they believed in.

Will was a long-time customer of mine. We traded millions of shares together, but at no point in our careers did we ever take what we were doing very seriously; we both knew that all we were really doing was shuffling paper back and forth. There was always something much more interesting to talk about. Always.

There were three topics Will loved to discuss during the trading day. One was politics, and Will was the textbook definition of “well-informed.” A direct, thoughtful Princeton grad, Will’s strong opinions were backed up by a firehose of facts. Will was the first person I ever heard utter the word “MAGA,” but because he was as respectful of my opinion as you were of his, we could agree to disagree without getting personal. And I’m happy to admit that he taught me plenty of different ways to look at an issue. Will was wicked smart, as well as a first-class debater.

Another was football. Will invited me to my very first game at notorious Veteran’s Stadium, a sports edifice that featured a jail cell. I learned that few are more passionate about their team than lunatic Eagles fans, and Will proved that by getting an Eagles tattoo after the team’s 2018 Super Bowl victory. Perfectly normal, right?

Third was golf. Will loved golf, and we played many rounds together. One of my favorite memories with Will were the days he hosted me at Gulph Mills, a private 1916 Donald Ross golf course located outside of Philly. Every square inch of this long-established order oozed tradition and was proud to be unabashedly old school. Just like Will.

Rest in peace, my friend. I will miss you.

Happy New Year, everyone. Always remember–life is short.