Monday night I received word from my dad that a person I had once known had died.  In my mind, he was young, since it had been nearly 30 years since I’d seen him.  In reality, he was 58 years old.  He died of a heart attack on his way home from work.

George and I worked in the same factory when I was about 22 or 23 years old.  The year I met him I was working for the engineering department, instead of abrasives/assembly, which meant I got to wear skirts and hose and heels to work.  George had just been hired as an electrician/maintenance man.  I don’t remember how it happened, but he asked me out on a date.  Up until then, I had not dated much, and he was older than me (seemed much older at the time, but it turns out it was only 7 years or so), and he scared me.

Not because he was mean or ugly or loud or anything.  I was just so naive I didn’t know how to behave around a man who had the hots for me.  I was still in college, I didn’t even know what I was going to do with my life, and I was only working at the factory in the summers to earn enough money to pay my tuition and room and board for the next two semesters of college.  I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s how we used to do it – we paid cash for college.  My dad also worked at the factory, and they had a program to employ the kids of workers while they were in college.  I worked with the same kids every summer.  It was hard, dirty work, but it paid really well, and I usually napped on the 45-minute commute while my dad drove.  It was a pretty sweet deal, actually.

Anyway, George and I dated off and on for more than a year.  Because he scared me, I couldn’t commit more than a goodnight kiss or some hand-holding, and I’m sure he was pretty frustrated with frigid old me.  But he was a gentleman, took me to some great places and introduced me to some wonderful things.  When I think of George, I think of four things in particular.

First, on a fancy date in which we both had to dress up, he took me to a restaurant that was next to Lambert St. Louis International Airport called the 94th Aerosquadron.  It served French country-style food, and was set up so that its windows and patio looked out onto the airport runways.  You could watch planes take off and land while you ate.  I remember the inside being decorated with WW II memorabilia, and I remember the food being really really good.

Second, I think about a purple car.  George drove a Road Runner that he was restoring.  It was one of the original muscle cars, and although it was only fifteen or so years old when he had it, those cars were considered “classics” and “antiques.” It roared like a dragon and turned heads wherever it went.

Third, George introduced me to White Castle.  Being a St. Charles County girl, I’d never even heard of them, much less eaten one of those tasty steam-grilled onion-y burgers.  He insisted we go.  He drove me to South St. Louis, which seemed to be on the other side of the world, and ordered me double cheeseburgers with no pickles, and cheese fries.  I was in heaven.  I’d never tasted anything so wonderful.  I have been hooked ever since.

Fourth, George had this wonderful brick house way down near the river.  It was three stories tall and had room after room after room.  In my early-20’s brain, all I could think about was how many kids I would have to have to fill up those rooms.  Not that George was the marrying kind at that point, but to my immature brain, what did it matter?  The house had a living room, a dining room, a big kitchen, and an absolutely gargantuan butler’s pantry.  It had a big front porch that looked east.  Upstairs there were bedrooms, then one large room plus a round turret room on the third floor.  From that turret room, you could see the river and all the boats going up and down it.  It was a wonderful house with original stained glass and wallpaper but needing an immense amount of work.  I still dream about that house, all these years later.

I would think about George once in a while over the years.  Whether he had ever married, whether he ever got over being angry at me for being such a ninny, if he ever finished restoring that car, and if he’d ever put the giant fish tank into the big room on the third floor that he was going to turn into an entertainment room.

George was married when he died, and left behind sisters and brothers.  He’d had no children.  He had been heavily involved in restoring old military vehicles, according to the obituary posted by the funeral home who handled his final requests.  He died young, only 58 years old.  He never got to retire from that factory, although he’d put in 30 years and had advanced into a supervisory position.  I remember a man with dark, curly hair and freckles, who thought I was something else, a man with manners and grace.

And there was one very important thing George taught me all those years ago when we worked together at the factory.  If you want people to leave you alone at work, walk fast and carry something.  In his case it was a piece of conduit, a box of tools, a spool of wire, a ladder, something.  He never walked around without something in his hands that looked like work.  He always moved fast, as if in a hurry to fix something, and everyone left him alone.  It’s a great skill to have.

RIP George Panos.  I will always remember you fondly.

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