He died 34 years ago today, on October 24, 1990, in true “road warrior” fashion while driving home from a sales trip.
He fell asleep and drifted into the path of the semi truck in the neighboring lane, or had a heart attack causing him to lose control of the wheel, or any number of possibilities, we’ll never know what exactly.
There was a container of bacon bits in the glove compartment of the wood paneled Dodge Caravan mini van, possibly a response to living in a Kosher home. In his wallet he had a 10-punch card for the Super 8 motel and was only two punches away from a free night.
He worked for Weyenberg, now Weyco, and was a manufacturer’s rep for Florsheim and Stacy Adams shoes. The Stacy Adams styles were more unique and fashionable than the stolid Florsheim wingtips.
It was pre Internet so I don’t have any photos of the shoes except the main photo, where he was sitting on the living room floor stuffing his “sample bag” before leaving for a trip. He loved that “Designer T-shirt,” a knockoff of the Coca-Cola ones everyone seemed to be wearing.
Our garage always smelled like leather and my brother and male cousins were well supplied with stylish shoes, either from the brands my dad carried or other brands discounted from one of the many store owners he knew.
I was the recipient of a Cabbage Patch Kid proudly acquired by my dad at a department store possibly named Yoder’s in a town full of Amish people in Indiana. In some places parents were beating other parents over the head with baseball bats to get these dolls but my dad had a connection.
I didn’t make the basketball team in 8th grade and my dad sat with me on my bed as I cried it out and told me that no matter what I do in life, there will always be someone out there who can do it better. Sometimes there are a lot of those people and you find yourself in the bottom of a pack but you just have to be your own person and hold your own.
He worked very hard and told me to never work in sales. He wanted me to be a writer and for several years I did work as a full-time neighborhood news reporter.
In early December I’ll be the same age that he was when he died, 49 and 4 or so months. It’s surreal to have almost lived longer than my father did. I feel guilty and lucky and relieved and grateful all at once.
As Lin Brehmer would say, “It’s a great day to be alive.” Today, especially so.
Gerald Myron Hauser
June 11, 1941-October 24, 1990
