Almost 40 years ago, during an exhausting day, I was taking a break when a man I’d never met came over, put a bottle down in front of me and said, “You look like you could use a beer.” Before the bottle was empty, Robert DiRinaldo and I were no longer strangers.
That conversation marked the beginning of a friendship that lasted much of my adult life. Today is Robert’s birthday, so I’m taking a moment to remember him.
Over the years, Robert was a friend, confidant, teacher, collaborator and advisor. He shared his experience with me, invited me into his home and made me feel like part of his family. He was generous, caring, quick with a joke and hands down one of the most talented and creative people I’ve ever met.
He bought me that beer in 1987 at the annual convention of the Shoe Service Institute of America (SSIA). I was 24-years-old and editing Shoe Service magazine. Though I had a journalism degree, I knew nothing about repairing shoes or running a business.
Most people in the industry dismissed me. But not Robert.
Robert had just won SSIA’s Grand Silver Cup—the industry’s highest award for craftsmanship. He invited me to his shop in Trafford, PA. He said he would teach me how to repair shoes so I could better understand the magazine’s readers.
As it turned out, I wasn’t a great craftsman. But walking a mile in my readers’ shoes did give me a much better idea of how to make the magazine effective.
One visit turned into dozens over the years. We collaborated on many projects.
The lessons I learned from Robert stayed with me—understanding people, knowing your own worth, finding true friends and, most important, valuing craftsmanship in all of its forms.
Robert and I had a running joke that started one day when he was pleased with how an article looked in the magazine.
“Your camera takes really good pictures,” he said.
I looked him in the eye and replied, “And your machines did a really good job on those shoes.”
He hesitated for a moment and then laughed. He knew that his machinery was only as good as the person trained to use it. And that was the way we complimented each other for the rest of his life.
Not everybody understood. Robert’s wife, Josephine, the best cook I’ve ever met, didn’t appreciate the humor when we said her oven did an excellent job cooking dinner that night.
That moment stuck with me. It’s not the tools that define us, but rather the passion and creativity behind them—whether it’s taking a photograph, recrafting a shoe or making the best eggplant parmesan this side of Italy.
It helps me connect with people to this day—looking past the surface and focusing on the passion that drives them.
Robert and I talked at least weekly for many years, sometimes about work, sometimes about life. He watched me fall in love, get married and start a family. I watched him grow from grandfather to great grandfather. I watched him grow in his trade from supremely talented into the standard by which others would be measured for years to come.
Over time, the magazine faded, I moved on to other endeavors and our talks became less frequent. I started to hear from mutual friends that Robert wasn’t looking too well. He was slowing down.
I picked up the phone and talked with him. He told me he had leukemia. I didn’t understand cancer then. He was one of the strongest people I knew. Surely he would recover. He did not.
I understand cancer now. After Robert. After two diagnoses myself. After Alex.
Because I understand it, Dakota and I are participating in the American Cancer Society’s Photo a Day Challenge during May.
Starting May 1, we will be taking a photo every day to help the American Cancer Society fight for a world without cancer, as we know it. If you want to follow along, follow my photography page here. You can enjoy the photos and, if you want to donate to the cause, there will be instructions on how to do that too.
That’s a battle for next month, though. Today, I’m remembering a friend.
Happy birthday, Robert! I miss our conversations.