In the newspaper business you meet a lot of characters. It”™s one of the perks.
I”™ve met my share, from acerbic spokesmen and smug CEOs to bubbly PR types and no-nonsense bankers. And the curmudgeons, cons, good-hearted and hot-headed, entrepreneurs, farmers, bartenders, board members, governors, gadflies, day laborers, zealots and an occasional sleazoid.
But every once in a very small while I cross paths with a unique soul. A person I like instantly. Who makes me chuckle and wonder about the world. Someone I will think about long after he”™s gone.
Stewart R. Mott was one of those gems.
Mr. Mott died June 12 at Northern Westchester Hospital in Mount Kisco. He was 70 and lived in North Salem and Bermuda.
I was introduced to Mr. Mott years ago when the newspaper featured him in a special publication called “Westchester Weekends,” which included profiles of prominent residents and what they did when they weren”™t working.
Mr. Mott was a perfect subject ”“ and an eccentric one by the reporter”™s account. But to anyone who knew him ”“ or at least knew of him ”“ that would come as no surprise. His reputation as a generous philanthropist, political activist and eligible bachelor preceded him. His irreverent manner raised more than a few eyebrows.
I didn”™t know much about the man, other than the Mott applesauce connection, but the family had sold the company by then. His father, Charles Stewart Mott, had been a big-name exec at General Motors. The family fortunes were well-known.
A philanthropist, he was known to give to progressive causes. His political gifts tender to go to the left. He had owned a penthouse in Manhattan, where he had cultivated a large garden. His Stewart R. Mott Charitable Trust gave to a number of causes. And, he loved pumpkins. Our cover photo captured Mr. Mott and dozens of the gourds in his North Salem yard.
I was intrigued. But I didn”™t think about him much after that.
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Mr. Mott contacted me several years later, via e-mail, while I was working for The Journal News as editor of one of its weekly newspapers, The Patent Trader, in Mount Kisco.
The e-mail read something like “Are you the Caryn McBride formerly of the (Westchester County) Business Journal?”
We messaged back and forth, eventually developing an online relationship. Strictly platonic, although he did say I brought out the devil in him. He enjoyed my limericks, which I tailored just for him. I enjoyed his sharp wit and harmless flirtations. He would comment on and critique the newspaper”™s editorials; I enjoyed sparring with such a formidable figure.
When I was looking for a home for a feisty Lhasa Apso named Cappy, who was prone to nip, I e-mailed him to see if he wanted the creature.
“My ex-wife”™s name is Kappy,” he replied. “She nipped, too.”
It was that wit that endeared him to me.
He extended several invitations to The Promontory, his home in North Salem.
“What the heck?” I thought, and finally accepted.
I drove up the long driveway and was greeted right away. A few staff people were milling around. One man was working on the mechanicals that kept a huge pumpkin filled with air.
Over ginger beer and rum, Mr. Mott indulged me and answered questions about his family, apple sauce, politics and philanthropy. He preferred to do the interviewing, though, so I eased up. I saw a different side of Mr. Mott that day. I met Stewart. He was charming and engaging. Very witty. Time hadn”™t robbed his good looks, either.
He showed me around his home, which was filled with his collections. We looked at photos of him, his dad and prominent politicians. We talked about his son, Saam (Samuel Apple Axle Mott), and the house in Bermuda: “Want to visit?” he whispered and grinned. “I”™m going there tomorrow.”
I smiled.
“Well at least come to the next Halloween party,” he said.
Mr. Mott”™s annual Halloween party had become tradition in these parts. It was mostly for the kids, but grownups were known to tag along, too. Mr. Mott would go all out with decorations, food and “treat” bags for his guests.
I promised I”™d be there.
The sun had set at some point, but I”™d lost track of time. I was engrossed. And flattered by all the attention of my gracious host.
I thanked him for such a pleasurable ”“ albeit unusual ”“ afternoon.
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At the front door, he hugged me: “Are you sure you won”™t come to Bermuda?” Oh that devilish grin. I could see how so many women found him hard to resist.
Our correspondence continued, but we trailed off along the way. I have a tendency to let relationships slip away.
The other day, a reporter ”“ a former staffer at the since-folded Patent Trader ”“ e-mailed Mr. Mott”™s obituary.
It”™s funny what comes to mind when a death announcement arrives in your inbox. I hadn”™t thought about Mr. Mott in years.
That night, I rifled through some bureau drawers at home. I know I saved those damn limericks. A bright yellow piece of paper caught my eye. It was a Stewart Mott special ”“ a card he”™d attached to a trick-or-treat bag of “ghastly goodies” from a Halloween party. One side was addressed “Dear Moms & Dads” and included notes about the bag”™s contents ”“ candies and other fun stuff ”“ and a few words about Girl Scouts and others who had volunteered to help with the party. There was a P.S.: “I”™m a bachelor: a not-so-subtle hint.”
The other side of the card was written for the kids, and included a suggestion to check with their folks before enjoying the goodies.
Typical good-natured, generous Mr. Mott.
On the Web site of Mr. Mott”™s charitable trust there is the mention of his death and a line that reads: Stewart lived the philosophy of his favorite Latin quote, spectemur agendo, or, “Let us be known by our deeds.”
Mr. Mott”™s good deeds surely have touched many people. His generosity, certainly, will go on to touch many more. My encounter with him, however brief, enriched my life.
So, for old times”™ sake, Stewart:
There once was a gent named Mott
Who liked ladies and pumpkins a lot
Generous to the core
And never a bore
His memory will fade from here not.
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Farewell, Pumpkin Palace Prince.
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