The Budman’s Gone. Dang, We’ll Miss Him.

A good friend and golfing buddy, Sam McQuade, died this morning. He was felled by a stroke a couple years ago and lived his last weeks at Missouri Slope Nursing Home, something he could never have imagined he’d do.

He’s only been gone hours, but I’m sure he’s trying really hard to meet up somewhere with his precious Maryvonne. I know the minute he passed he went looking for her. Only problem is, she’s a Saint, and Sam’s not. A good guy, one of the best, but not a Saint. Generous with his wealth, very generous. He made a lot of good things happen here in Bismarck with the money he made as the Best Beer Salesman in the World. He really missed her terribly in the two years since she died. Maryvonne got a straight shot to Heaven. Sam just might meet her there later today.

What most people don’t know about Sam is that besides being a very good businessman, he was a very good writer, and published seven books. His books were mostly about his adventures, and he had lots of them.

In one of his early books, Hostile Takeover, the story of the transition of McQuade’s Distributing from his dad, to him, to his daughter, he waxed eloquent about beer. There’s a mystique about beer, he said, and went on to talk about the history of beer, claiming there is a recipe for beer on an unearthed Cuneiform tablet from the Sumerian days.

Well, maybe.

Sam loved beer. Not just drinking it (although I think that later in life he liked wine better than beer), but selling it, and talking about it. Sam loved to talk about beer. He even occasionally changed Benjamin Franklin’s quote about wine to, “Beer is proof that God loves man, and wants him to be happy.” But of course, that is the logical thing for a beer salesman to do. And he wrote that what he likes about beer is its sociability. “A lot of ice has been broken over beer. Also many jaws. Just don’t overdo it.”

I can’t say that I’ve read all seven of Sam’s books cover to cover (I can admit that now that he’s gone) but I’ve read through them all, finding my favorite part of each of them, including his hunting stories in Adventures with Sam (one of the best book titles ever), talking about going duck hunting to shoot ”flying liver;” his lengthy description in Dakota Odysseus of the “death march” over the Lolo Trail with Clay Jenkinson; his trip with his daughter Shannon to China do a presentation to Chinese beer distributors, where Shannon, a “six foot tall beautiful blond, American woman” would tell them how to run a model beer distributorship in Green Dotted Highways and Other Journeys; his story in On My Bucket List of fulfilling a lifelong dream by conducting the Bismarck-Mandan Symphony Orchestra (I was there. He did fine, and looked great in a tuxedo.); and the introduction to his very first book, There is a Road in North Dakota, where he wrote that the roads in North Dakota are designed to avoid most of the natural obstacles, so there are few curves. “That explains why you can never get lost in North Dakota. Confused by the endless horizon? Just keep driving in the direction you are headed, and you are bound to run into some town where a friendly person will tell you where you are. Also how to get where you want to go. And do you have time for a cup of coffee or a cold beer? They will say ‘We don’t see many strangers in these parts.’”

Sam grew up in a strict Catholic home, and almost his entire education was in Catholic schools, including his college degree, but the church later fell out of his favor. That first book was a monster, almost 450 pages, and full of stories about growing up in Bismarck, North Dakota, and he didn’t pull any punches. Sam was never one to beat around the bush.

“I was in Sister Benedict’s class in fifth grade. I was thankful that I was in her class and not Sister Mary’s because Sister Mary was the meanest nun who ever lived. She was barely over five feet and had a face that was the spitting image of the Wicked Witch of the West. She suffered from short, ugly woman syndrome and took her dismay over her condition out on little kids. She beat unmercifully and indiscriminately and without warning.”  

Sam spent a year of his college days in France, where he met and married Maryvonne, and when they came home he settled in Colorado to become a college professor. But he was called home to join the family business when his brother was killed in a car accident—the second of his two brothers to die that way. And he grew to love North Dakota, and his soft, sentimental side showed up in his books, including this in Dakota Odysseus:

“I have been told by many people that my life has been a full one, a collection of odysseys that many never get the chance to live. And I agree. Although, being a bit greedy when it comes to odysseys, I am still hoping for more before the inevitable. And who wouldn’t?

“Growing up in North Dakota, like most kids, I couldn’t wait to get out of there, and I never wanted to return. But I did. And, except for the death of my brother, which caused my return, I am glad for it. I love North Dakota, but I love North Dakotans even more. They make North Dakota . . . North Dakota. Many writers talk about “a sense of place.” We North Dakotans are our own “sense of place.”

“I don’t know one single person who lives in North Dakota who is not a proud North Dakotan, and very happy to be HERE.

“Why?

“It is because of North Dakotans.

 “A sense of place?” What makes a “place” a “Place?” Most certainly it is not the place itself but the people who inhabit it.  Also it comes from where we live. We see someone broke down on the side of the road, we help them. Because we know they would do the same for us.”

Finally, those of you who knew him know that he loved to tell jokes. He was kind of “old school” that way. One of his favorites:

Q. What do you call a Catholic couple that practices the Rhythm Metod of birth control?

A. Parents.

I’ll miss those jokes on the golf course, and at our regular Sunday afternoon Margarita sessions.

I stood beside his bed at Missouri Slope yesterday, my hand on his shoulder as he took labored breaths, and I talked of days gone by. He couldn’t respond, but I’m pretty sure he heard me, and tried, but he just didn’t have the strength. It was hard to see that big strong man in such a helpless position. He left us this morning. We’ll miss him.