Leo Wood’s legacy lives on

The guest of honor, there at Leo Wood’s going-away party, would have been pleased with all the friendship and fellowship that was shared.

Leo himself had no speaking part for this occasion, there in a chapel at Ramsey Funeral Home. That in itself was an unfamiliar role for him. But make no mistake. He was a silent partner in the October 13 celebration of his life. Friends got together, sharing stories and memories.

Wife Ellen and I were there, counting ourselves among the “host of longtime friends” as Leo’s obituary phrased it when listing his survivors.

Whenever Leo and I crossed paths, he never failed to ask about Ellen. Given the literally thousands of hands he had shaken over the span of his 82 years, I have never failed to marvel at his near-total recall for names and faces. Part of that, to be sure, was built from long years of practice and a natural-born politician’s finely tuned instincts.

But more than that — much more — was his genuine love of people and his genuine human decency.

Vivian, Leo’s late wife of 61 years, often repeated her father’s observation: That at his own funeral, Leo would reach out an arm from his casket just to shake one last hand. We would have been beyond shocked, had that actually happened. But then again, not really surprised.

Congressman John Carter — a “new lawyer in town” — when both he and Leo were young — made the rounds, there among the wooden pews, before the service started.

“I shouldn’t be working the room, but I know so many people here,” Carter said, shaking hands along the way. “I shouldn’t be working the room.”

I laughed, just enjoying the moment, and said in reply: “Why not? Leo would, if he could.”

Brad Curlee — from the Rotary Club, the Georgetown Health Foundation and too many other volunteer groups to mention — led us in the rousing, joyful, piano-backed singing of “I’ll Fly Away.”

City Councilman Ron Garland spoke of how he’d first met Leo at a fundraising breakfast for the Boy Scouts more than 13 years ago. “Immediately, I thought I’d found a friend. Whether you were a friend or an acquaintance, you walked away and said, ‘I just met someone who cares.’” Heads nodded, there in the chapel. Everybody was taking it in, in their own way. I remembered something Sheriff James Wilson said years ago during a Commissioners Court meeting. The context is long-since lost on me, but the gist of it was: Anybody can put on a good show for a while, but sooner or later — for better or for worse — a person will reveal who they really are.

And that’s the thing. Leo was so consistent. He loved Georgetown and he loved people. Not as a theory or concept. Not as some theological abstraction. He loved real people, flaws and all, in a real flesh and blood way.

“He could find something in you that he could relate to, no matter if you were a stranger,” Congressman Carter said. I’d bet my last nickel Leo didn’t go around quoting Stephen Grellet. But I’d also bet my last nickel he could fully relate, heart and soul, to what the Quaker missionary said: “I shall pass this way but once. Any good that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it. For I shall not pass this way again.” Georgetown’s old-timers know — and newcomers have come to know — about Leo’s biggest accomplishments. Perhaps far fewer are familiar with small acts of kindness and generosity like one that Garland described.

Decades ago, when Leo was coaching youth baseball, there was a boy on his team whose playing shoes were in tatters. Leo sent the boy and his family to Harry Gold’s department store. Harry made sure the boy left with new shoes. It went without saying that the family could not afford the footwear. It went without saying that Harry, through Leo, made sure it cost them nothing, And I smiled, recalling what Vivian Wood — fully aware of the irony — once said to me about their Jewish friend: “Harry Gold is the best Christian I know.”

It would be wrong to look back on Leo’s life in Georgetown, from 1969 on, as if it was one unbroken string of victories and successes. As if he was Tarzan, swinging on vines from one triumph to another.

In truth, Leo took his lumps. More than once and always in the spotlight of public scrutiny. In 1985, believing Georgetown had outgrown his leadership style, the City Council forced him to resign as City Manager. In the 1990s, he was elected to four two-year terms as mayor and then the town voted him out of office. He once ran for state representative, challenging and losing to a Republican incumbent in that party’s primary.

But this did not diminish him. Far from it. And that’s the point. Leo didn’t pull up stakes and leave. He didn’t retreat into the solitude of bitterness and resentment. He kept working in and for the community he loved.

But as death neared, he also sensed his work was done. The last time I saw Leo, there at The Wesleyan nursing home, was four days before he died. Without prompting — and related to nothing else we were talking about — he told me he was not afraid to die.

And he was ready. “Stay out of places like this for as long as you can,” he said. “It’s nice. Everybody’s nice. But it’s not home.”

Pretty soon another friend dropped by to visit. He brought a milkshake from Sonic, which cheered Leo. Wanting to give them their own time together, I got up to leave.

“Goodbye, Brad,” Leo said. And I didn’t think anything about it. Not until after he’d died. And then it dawned on me. After all our visits before, he’d never used the word “goodbye.”

So, in the moment, I only said this: “It’s not goodbye, Leo. It’s ‘see you later.’ ” Indeed. Not goodbye, old friend. See you later.