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My friend and co-worker Andy Caire died last night of complications from pancreatic cancer. I found out this morning, just as I was about to begin my work assignment for the day. It was one of the saddest moments I've experienced in a long time-- even though we all knew it was inevitable, no one expected it to happen this soon (though the fact that he'd been moved from the hospital to a nursing home earlier in the week was a bad sign). Andy was one of the kindest, gentlest people I've ever known, and everyone who knew him was deeply saddened when they learned of his illness. I think we all hoped for some kind of miracle, even though we knew it was impossible.

Andy started his career at Colonial Williamsburg as an orientation interpreter, the same job I've done for the past three years; but by the time I came to the department, he'd already moved on to the Shoemaker shop. He was an immediately distinctive figure, with his handlebar mustache curled at the ends and his colorful striped waistcoat and round cap; he once told me he refused to let our costume department wash that coat, because it was so old and frayed he knew they'd declare it worn out and take it away from him. He was an easygoing person, and often the actual work of making shoes took a backseat to chatting with the visitors and his fellow employees. Almost every time I worked at the shop, he'd spend the first hour or so out front sitting on the bench, watching the world go by. "Do we have to go to work today?" was usually the first thing he'd say before it was time to open the place up and pretend to get something done.

That first hour was also when the dogs came by. Andy was the biggest dog lover I've ever met; after his divorce, his golden retriever Wallace was essentially his family (his parents and brother lived elsewhere), and whenever I saw him on his way home from work he'd say, "Time to go home and feed the beast". But he loved all dogs, and on a Saturday or Sunday morning just about every local who regularly walked their pet came by the Shoe shop because they knew Andy would be out there on that bench, with a pocket full of dog biscuits, waiting for them to arrive. I've seen dogs so anxious for those treats they'd stick their heads right into his pocket to get them, and others who ran from the Market Square green all the way across the street with such force they nearly knocked us both off the bench. I'd been afraid of dogs when I was a small child, and that fear carried over well into adulthood; but spending time with Andy and his canine friends cured me of it. There was nothing quite like working at the Shoe on a weekend morning-- because of Andy, it was the best assignment in town.

When he went into the hospital, we tried to keep the tradition going. My colleagues Karen Schlict and Lucy Smith got a basket for the shop and filled it with dog biscuits, and whoever was assigned to the shop handed them out in Andy's place. They made up a sign that said "CANINES LOVE ANDY- DOG Street Order of the Biscuit" (the main street in CW is Duke of Gloucester, thus the convenient acronym), and took pictures of all the regular visiting dogs wearing it. I don't know if they got the pictures to Andy before he died or not. But I do know it wasn't the same out front of the shop without him, even though the dogs still happily ate the biscuits. Without him there to talk to them and pet them with his unaffected gentleness, the place felt empty.

And now he's gone, and Colonial Williamsburg will never feel quite the same to me again. It was always a happy sight to find him on that bench in the morning; it brightened everyone's day, even as he became more and more sick and the signs of his illness became visible to everyone. Andy made working here a hell of a lot more fun than it would have been otherwise, and I'm going to miss him more than I can express in words.