‘Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.’
—W. B. Yeats
‘If a story is not about the hearer he will not listen… A great lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting—only the deeply personal and familiar.’
Ours is a place where people listen to stories, the kinds of narratives given to hopeful beginnings and promising future; to travels, to adventures, to misadventures and misdemeanors that raise the color in our cheeks; to hazy recollections of memories in retreat; to the words read from crisp white cotton pages that whisper our legacies.
We seek stories out of necessity but also with genuine interest, generous hearts, and—provide a comfortable seat—whatever time it takes for a tale to unfold because there are few greater honors than to have played a part in the narrative that shapes a person’s life and no greater affirmation than to witness the words of a storyteller come true.CHAPTER 1 THIS IS NOT DAVID TWITE
Ryan says that after a certain number of hours ‘you become one with your machine.’ He’s speaking in a way that doesn’t make you think he’s just come back from a Star Wars convention. This is his way of saying that if you sit in the seat of a forklift long enough you get pretty familiar. ‘I’ve had truckers say I’m the best they’ve ever seen. Lots of them say that to me. I can even manage a couple of tricks: I can do wheelies in reverse and I can split packs of lumber in two.’ CONTINUED…CHAPTER 3 GETTING TALL
Ginny Bailey is three years old. Her world is wobbly and curious, and her interests vary in that she is unsure what she is interested in, which accounts for her perpetually wandering eyes and perambulating small self rarely resolved to settle on any one thing except her mother, Margaret, her father, Gordon, her siblings, her bottle, and a stuffed brown sock given the form of a monkey. Ginny, however, is parsing information, rapidly distributing and cross-referencing and prioritizing with remarkable efficiencies known only to infants whose minds are still uncluttered. CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 4 FOUR CHAMBER OPERA
Gina McEnany lives in yarns told and yarns remembered and in skeins of yarn cuddled in corners, in flecks of paint and dots of ink, among the clutter of memories that hang slack against the curious grains of the boiserie and the primrose walls. Now, in her gardens and among the slim white birches beyond; in the laughter of sun-crisp, trotting leaves; and farther still where daylight dances on ruffled lake waters blinking blue and gold in the highlight; and then, during her last days, in the room in the bed that is pushed up snug against the window that frames this choice view, which she wished to somehow etch on her soul if she would not be allowed to leave her soul behind and look at this because she would look at this forever. CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 5 SHORT STORIES
There is an old joke about stockbrokers: Over drinks one evening, a gentleman who has recently come into money tells a friend that he is desperately searching for a financial advisor. ‘Didn’t you hire an advisor only a short while ago?’ asks the friend, to whom the gentleman replies, ‘Exactly, he’s the one I’m searching for.’When Gina McEnany was diagnosed with lung cancer, her immediate concern was making certain her husband and three daughters would be provided for. Despite, or perhaps because of, her long-established family trusts and well-ordered finances, Mark Orgel was among the first she asked to see.
Gina said, ‘Before I can focus on the disease, I want your word that you will take care of my family. I want them to know that they can come to you with anything, that they can trust you.’ She said, ‘Will you be there?’
Mark assured her: ‘I’ll be right here.’
When Archie MacDonald had agreed on terms to sell his remaining shares in MacDonald & Owen Lumber Company to his business partner, David Twite, and then at the last moment upped his asking price; Mark Orgel said simply: ‘Do the right thing.’ Twite pondered the answer but could not find the logic. Over their years of their partnership, Twite and MacDonald exchanged generosity and mutual kindnesses in many forms, yet Twite could not remember a time when either had asked for or given a reason. Twite decided that this was not the time to start. They would celebrate, be grateful, and continue the conversation they had enjoyed for more than 20 years.
There is something to be learned about each of us by the company we keep; there is something of the company we keep that dusts our lapels with curiosity and knowledge. And those are two very different things indeed. We might avail ourselves of the company of many and build relationships of a temporal nature. But what great pleasure and even greater reward there is to be had from delving deeper—to know what makes up another’s day. There are stories behind the eyes, reflected in glossy prints of faded blues and greens and bundled and tied with string, pressed between pages and tucked into cupboards.
There is something to be learned about us, about what makes Orgel Wealth Management unique. The difference lies in how we define, and how well we exercise, the diligence due our own convictions. For all of our fiduciary duties, for all of our diligent research, for each professional service rendered, we pay our clients’ narratives equal attention. Good listening demands stillness and quiet, but it is incumbent on us as listeners to make clear what we want to know. In short, everything. And should we need to know still more, we firmly believe the maxim There is no harm in asking. In our parlance, without questions, we have exhausted what life has to offer.