Virgil. That was his middle name, the “V” in “R.V. Shaw”. In all the years I knew Bob, I never knew that. Not that I ever asked. And had I known what the “V” stood for, I would never have dared to call him by that name—Bob would give you that piercing look that made you think you’d better not walk alone to your car after work, if you knew what was good for you. Bob once described his job as keeping upper management (not the description he would have used) at bay so people like me could do our work, and that piercing stare came in handy in those situations.
I worked for Bob when I was just starting out in telecommunications, working for Bell-Northern Research; “BNR” as we knew it. I had come to BNR from Allstate Insurance, and since Bob had worked for Allstate in the past it was one of the things we used to talk about. Bob thought Allstate has been a good training ground for him in management, I would have to agree.
In one of my first annual reviews, Bob asked me what I wanted to do with my career. “I want to be a manager”, I replied. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but figured that was the correct answer and blurted it out. “Well, Danny”, said Bob (he was one of the few people I allowed to call me by that name) as he shifted that ever-present toothpick in his mouth, “do you want to manage things? Or people? That conversation started a dialogue that resulted a few years later in my leaving BNR and going to MIT’s Sloan School of Management. The tuition at MIT was very high (I had a penchant for attending schools with exorbitant tuition rates) and BNR’s graduate fellowships at that time were reserved for Engineering and Computer Science types. But Bob came to my aid, calling up his friend at the Boston-area sales office for Nortel and securing a part-time position for me as a Sales Engineer.
And that was the kind of person Bob was. He could be gruff. He could be brusque. He had trouble disguising his feelings towards those whom he didn’t respect, probably to his detriment. But once you earned his respect and trust, he would go to battle for you. He would do it without question and without being asked.
I still remember when Bob and Marilyn invited Crystal and I out to dinner, before we moved to Boston. I think Bob knew how nervous I was. I was uprooting my family for who knows how long so we could go into debt big time on the bet that it would pay off eventually. It was at that dinner that I felt Bob took on the mantle of father figure for me. I didn’t ask him to do that, but Bob knew that my father had passed away some years earlier, and I might need someone to talk to. So he just slid right into the role. From then on, Bob was always available to talk about anything—work, sports, family life—anything and everything. I especially enjoyed walking over to his office across from Nortel’s Mission College plant. We could talk about what was going on in the different parts of Nortel, how our kids and (his) grandkids were doing. The President’s Awards in Bob’s office showed that someone was noticing his work and his positive impact on customers.
Bob passed on to his heavenly reward in January (here is where he’d bark at me and say he got his reward every day he saw his family, and why was I using such flowery language anyway). Marilyn’s statement to me at the funeral was direct and perfectly captured the feeling: “we weren’t done living yet”.
I try to live my life without regret; “watch the doughnut, no t the hole,” to quote a favorite phrase from Sometimes a Great Notion. When I took up golf, I told Bob we should play together sometime; I knew he loved to get out and play. “Anytime” was his reply. I decided to wait until I got better, which was foolish because (1) Bob would have teased me anyway, not matter how well I played and (2) me waiting to get better at golf would be like Sisyphus waiting to get that boulder to the top of the hill before he went out and had some fun. So I do have a small regret that I didn’t knock the ball around with Bob.
Fortunately, I was able to make sure Bob knew how much I appreciated his advice and support. And the best I can do to thank him is to continue to pay it forward, to help those who haven’t tired of my stories. Could I do anything other than help others without expecting anything in return? We all know what Bob would say about that idea. He’d take the toothpick out of his mouth, hold it in one hand, tilt his head forward while raising an eyebrow, and proclaim, “Danny, that dog won’t hunt”.
So thank you, Bob. I hope I’m half as good to others as you were to me.
