A standing ovation

At the end of a life well lived, who wouldn't want a standing ovation?”

John Gross

Recently, I reconnected with family and friends I hadn’t seen in years while attending my brother’s funeral in Texas. And the thing I’m still turning over in my mind is how big a life my brother had — outside of the one I knew as his little sister and close ally for over six decades. How many lives he touched. How many people he lifted. How many people claimed him as their VIP, just as I did.

Take Nick — the man John hand-picked to take over his Snap-on Tools route, and then spent seven years mentoring before he retired. He didn’t just hand Nick a business. He helped him become a successful owner.

Nick said it simply: “I have a big life now because of John.”

“He was the funniest person I ever met,” said Pawan, his brother-in-law.

John freely dispensed wisdom on how to answer your spouse’s questions and escape their trap. They were funny tips, and practical ones. Pawan went on to say that John lived by the motto Be Bold. He was one to dream big and embrace a little craziness as the price of an exciting life.

From the very beginning, my brother was the Batman to my Robin — my wingman, my cheerleader, the one with big shoulders to lean on whenever I needed them. He taught me the difference between Scotch and Whiskey, how to grill, how to make Grandma Gross’s famous coleslaw.

And he taught me the difference between features and benefits.

For twenty years, whenever I called him from Globe — with a new idea for the paper, an advertiser I was trying to land, or some fresh tangle of smalltown politics — I’d lead with what I was going to do about it. John would let me finish, and then remind me, with great patience and no small amusement:

“Features and benefits, Linda. Features and benefits.”

His decades of success as a Snap-On Tools dealer came from one core discipline: always lead with the benefits, not the features. It’s not about what something does; it’s about what it delivers to the person in front of you. We’d laugh that he was my highest unpaid sales consultant, helping me rework the language of facts into the language of benefits.

Perhaps that is the truest thing I can tell you about my brother. He understood, in his bones, that a life well lived is not measured by what you do, but by what it gives to those around you. He gave generously, steadily and without keeping score.

Our friend of forty years, Kim told a story at his service.

She prefaced it by saying:

“This is not specifically about John, but it is a story he loved, and I think it is especially relevant today.”

“Many of you know my son Ben. When he was seven, he was in theater arts. He loved everything about it — the singing, the dancing, and most of all that moment on stage when you take a bow and the whole room claps.

So years ago, when my father passed away, I gave the eulogy. And at the end, I walked back to my seat and everyone remained respectfully silent.

Except Ben, who jumped to his feet and clapped.

As I took my place beside him, he leaned over, patted my leg, and said, ‘I thought you did good, Mom.’"

John loved that story, Kim said, and he asked her to tell it often. But after hearing it for the hundredth time last year, he said:

“I know Ben was just trying to be supportive of you. But when I really think about it — that’s exactly what should happen. At the end of a life well lived, who wouldn’t want a standing ovation?”