Although we had lived in the same neighborhood for 30 years, Rad Tanzer and I did not meet until Nardi and Tom Campion invited us both to dinner in the fall of 1994. By then, my years as a widow had taught me self-reliance; I took my single identity for granted, presuming it to be a permanent state.

I looked forward to that evening in October because parties at the Campions' were always lively. When I opened the front door, I heard Nardi's greeting: "Sheila, come in. This is our other guest, Rad Tanzer." He stood up, we shook hands, and I sat down near the warmth of the fire, next to a person who appeared to "feel comfortable in his skin," as the French expression goes. He put me immediately at ease.

Around the dinner table, as we talked about the book he was reading—Doris Kearns Goodwin's biography of FDR—other aspects of Rad's personality emerged: intelligence, wit, and kindliness. He was attentive to what each of us had to say, and we learned more about him, as well—that his wife had died four years previously, that he continued to work out regularly at Dartmouth's Berry Sports Center, and that he had just celebrated his 89th birthday. "And still riding your bike to town," Nardi laughed. Rad Tanzer clearly had the vitality of a much younger man.

A few months ago, going through some things Rad had packed away in a suitcase, I came across that homemade banner —intact 82 years after its creation—the banner that money couldn't buy.

When the party was over, I gave Rad a ride back to his house; as we shook hands and said good-bye, I remember hoping that this would not be our last conversation. Fortunately, it was not. But little did I know then that just three months later we would again share dinner—this time at a party for two. He would broil steaks and bake a pair of slender sweet potatoes in his toaster oven. And as we sat together at his kitchen table, there would be no hesitation on my part when he asked me to marry him (even before our first kiss).

Radford Tanzer: Top, in his twill Army shirt during WWII; above, with his mother and sisters; upper right, as a youngster; right, his homemade banner.

Our decision elicited amazement from most of our friends, and some of them had reservations because of the difference in our ages. The disparity of 22 years was a factor neither of us could ignore, but our joint willingness to take a leap of faith was based on a rapport we discovered soon after our initial meeting—a harmony of souls that quickly deepened into devoted love. It would be durable enough, we believed, to face whatever the future might hold. It was a choice we never regretted.

I look back now and realize how Rad's tolerance was put to the test when I moved into his house, brimming over with new ideas. "How about putting a fresh coat of paint on the living room walls and replacing the threadbare rug?" I suggested. "And what if we moved the washing machine out of the kitchen? With just an inch to spare, it would fit right into the large bathroom closet." He would have been justified in vetoing the whole proposed upheaval, but instead he entered into decisions involving every room. But his study would stay the same, we agreed. That was his domain.

The resolve with which Rad approached any task was something that I soon came to admire. Regardless of whether it was a large or small undertaking, he paid

scrupulous attention to every detail. Nothing was ever left untended. He balanced his checkbook to the penny until just three months before his death. He maintained in impeccable order a large archive of professional and personal papers, filling drawers and drawers of file cabinets. Everything was in its place—an inspiration as well as a challenge to the disorganization that most of us live with.

I had an opportunity to work with Rad on a project one summer after we'd put in a new perennial bed. The gray paint on the nearby basement bulkhead was peeling off, so I offered to help him repaint it and suggested a change to green. How useful I thought I was—the spry, young wife coming to the rescue of her elderly husband, then close to his 94th birthday.

Yet I learned that his high standards applied to even a simple painting project. His large basement was meticulously organized, just like the rest of his one-story house. Behind the workbench, on the shelves of an old bookcase, were rows and rows of glass bottles—scores of them—filled with short, long, square-headed, thick, and thin nails of every conceivable type. Then screws, bolts, hinges, hooks, and brackets. There were open boxes piled high with faucet handles, old bicycle seats, rolled up rope, and other odds and ends to round out a handyman's paradise. Nearby stood a trestle table on which, the morning we were planning to tackle the bulkhead, he had already laid out the supplies we would need. He was wearing his twill World War II Army shirt, still in service 55 years later. We both put on cotton gloves and ventured out to the yard.

It was early afternoon on a fair July day by the time we finished the laborious task of scraping and sanding. After Rad had wiped down the bulkhead surface, we began to apply a coat of dark green enamel. On and on he worked, as I eyed his slow, even brushstrokes that seemed effortless. I wanted to keep up with him, but spasms were settling into my back and all I could think of was lying down on the cool grass and closing my eyes. Finally, when the lower right corner of my door was finished, I felt the exhilaration of a job well done. But that was when Rad