We’ve heard a lot recently about childless cat ladies, and the hurtful assumptions people make about them. Today, I’d like to address another group.
They have no advocates. They get no media profiles. They never claim to be marginalized, but I would argue we are all guilty of assumptions about them, too.
I’m speaking about older, never-married men. Guys with no spouse or ex-spouse, and no children, who live on their own for decades. I bring them up today, because I had a dear friend who fit in that category, and he died, suddenly, tragically, last weekend, at age 67.
And in my grief, I have been thinking so much about his life, his impact, and his funeral, which taught me a lesson.
His name was Ken Droz. Some of you no doubt knew him. Ken was born here, grew up in Oak Park and Southfield, went to Michigan State, worked all over Detroit. He was of us and from us and seemingly always around us.
He was the first person I met upon arriving for this job in 1985. Although he dreamed of becoming a screenwriter, Ken, at the time, was doing PR for Kronk Gym. He took me to lunch.
We were both in our 20s, loved sports, movies, and by the end of that lunch, he asked where I was living. When I told him a hotel, he said, “Listen, I rent a townhouse with a couple guys in Southfield. One of them is moving out. Why don’t you move in?”
It sounds crazy now, but I could tell that I liked him, and I didn’t know anyone here. Within a week, I had gathered my belongings and changed my address.
That began a roommate relationship with Ken that would span four different residences, and last, all told, nearly 13 years.
At the time, Ken, myself, and our eventual third roommate, Mike Stone, were single. We went out with various women. We shared stories. We double- and triple-dated. We often spoke about finding the perfect partner and getting married.
Eventually, I did.
And Mike did.
And Ken didn’t.
The family thing
Perhaps you have a friend like that. The one people are always telling, “When are you going to find someone?” Or, “Stop being so picky.”
Ken heard that a lot. But for whatever reason, marriage didn’t happen. He remained a single guy. At first, when so many peers were also single, he hardly cared. He hosted parties, dinners, met crowds of friends at bars and concerts and events. Ken was the life of the party, loud, funny, opinionated, always ready to stay until they closed the doors.
But over time, as those peers stripped away, got married, had kids, the crowds dwindled. Ken was often alone. Those of us with spouses and families would invite him over, but it wasn’t the same, and you could sense, especially as he passed his 40s and 50s, that there was a small gap between us, that he either wished we were all single again, or that he had the family thing, too.
But, no matter what, Ken remained a friend. He was really good at friendship. He kept track of so many people. Called on birthdays. Sent emails when he saw an article that he thought you’d find interesting. Unburdened by spousal obligations, he was always available for long talks or a meandering dinner. He was happy to hear from you, and you were happy to hear from him.
Periodically, our old trio of roommates, Ken, Mike and I, would get together for breakfasts or lunches. Ken engaged our family talk. But what he liked the most was when we fell back on our old bachelor behavior, the friendly put-downs, the raunchy jokes, the rollicking laughter.
In recent years, the conversation sometimes veered toward health. When you’re married, with wives, in-laws, extended family members, there’s always someone to bug you about a checkup. Watch your diet. Go get this test. Mike and I would try and do this for Ken. Ask about doctors. Cholesterol. Blood pressure. He said he was doing OK. He exercised. He liked to run.
Then last weekend, we got a call that Ken had been housesitting for a friend for a few days, and he’d suddenly stopped answering calls. The friend grew concerned and contacted the police.
When they entered the home, they found the dogs barking, and Ken, in bed, passed away.
A burst aorta.
He died alone.
Hidden riches
His funeral was an assembly of shell-shocked faces. No one could believe Ken was gone. We exchanged stories of having just seen him, or eaten with him, or talked to him. His simple coffin sat up front. A podium stood a few yards in front of it.
I looked around. Something was different. I have been, sadly, to too many funerals. Usually, you see the first few rows filled with close relatives, the grieving spouse, children, siblings, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, in-laws.
This was different. Ken had two single brothers, and a couple of cousins. The rest of the room was filled with friends. Friends from childhood. Friends from college. Friends from his professional life. Friends from his dating days. Friends who used to laugh with him, drink with him, play cards with him. Friends whom he nourished for decades, who had a million memories, and who came to the podium and shared some of them.
There was more laughter than a funeral usually sees. Some raunchy stories. Even a few head-shaking “I can’t believe he just said that!” moments.
Which is exactly how Ken would have wanted it.
And in the echo of that laughter came the lesson I mentioned earlier. One that led me to end my own funeral comments with a memory from “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the final scene, in which George Bailey is astonished to see a parade of his buddies, peers, neighbors and associates coming forward to help him in his hour of need.
With tears filling his eyes, he opens a book that magically appears from his guardian angel, and he reads the handwritten inscription: “Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”
By those standards, Ken Droz’s time on Earth was a massive success. He may not have left children, a wife, or all the attendant family members that come with them. But there wasn’t a soul at that funeral who came out of obligation: everyone wanted to be there, and many more around the country wished they could.
Because Ken was their friend.
And that meant everything.
So here’s to all the single guys who may never walk down the aisle or push a baby stroller, but who brighten our lives and make the best company. “A friend loves at all times,” says the Proverb, and Ken did, and he was loved in return. When you get right down to it, that is a wonderful life, isn’t it?
Contact Mitch Albom: malbom@freepress.com. Check out the latest updates with his charities, books and events at MitchAlbom.com. Follow him @mitchalbom.
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