By Lorry Myers
I first met Claude when I hired his teen-age daughter to babysit my children for the summer. Claude Pecquet and his wife, Lena, came along for the job interview to see for themselves what their daughter was getting into. I noted the way these protective parents shook my hand, then respectively, waited in the car while their daughter spoke for herself.
I wanted to be that parent.
Some years later, Claude came into my office with the invitation to join our local Rotary club and I agreed, simply because it was Claude who asked. I typically tried to seat myself at his table because the conversation was always enlightening, and Claude’s random jokes and deep laughter was contagious.
I’d never met anyone like Claude Pecquet.
He was born in France and came to America as a toddler during World War II. He grew up in the country of Mexico and then, New York, graduating from Georgetown University with a degree in International Trade. Claude spoke English, French, Spanish and other self-taught languages like Swedish, which earned him the love of Lena, a Swedish beauty who was a force all her own. Claude was well-educated, well-spoken, well-traveled, well-read, and well-versed in the ways of the world.
Everything I am not.
Claude accepted a job as director of sales in Latin America and that job brought his family to my hometown. Claude and Lena embraced Missouri life and became involved in the church, the library, the museum, and other philanthropic groups that keep a community vibrant. They volunteered, they showed up, and became a part of who we are.
Claude and Lena chose to make a difference.
When our paths crossed, Claude always inquired about my family, what I was writing, and what I was reading. I would ask about his family, his last travels, and where he was going next. He spoke about his road trips through America, and his favorite parts of the greater world he traveled through.
Claude got around.
Always he was a gentleman, always welcoming, always encouraging, always hopeful. Claude was classy and cultured and never let you know how much he really knew. When life slowed for Claude, Lena became sick and passed away. I was unable to attend her memorial, so I wrote Claude a letter about his wife and the kindness and culture she brought to our community. I was dazzled by the way Lena carried herself, molded by where she had been, confident where she was going.
I wanted to be like that.
For the complete editorial, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.
