Eulogy for Mike Winton

Presented by his son, Rufus, on Saturday May 3 rd , 2008
Plymouth Congregational Church
Minneapolis, MN

Knowing that we're here today would both please Mike - and make him half-crazy. In his final months he was of two minds about this service. Surely, he loved idea of us all gathering to celebrate his life. And, on the other hand, the thought of so much attention made him cringe.

Speaking of two minds… I suppose it's no great insight that most of us are a study of opposites - and Mike certainly was a classic case of opposing forces. As a child I noticed contradictions all around me.

A man named David - who went by Mike - married to a woman named Sarah - who went by Penny - only added to my confusion as a child. Compounding this was my consternation of being named Rufus and shoehorned into a modernist showcase house where they could properly display their art. I don't care how much you love your younger brother or Phillip Johnson architecture, but sharing a tiny bedroom in a glass house didn't cut it.

Mike and Penny raised me - along with my siblings (David, Chase, Lucy and Nick) - in that largely glass house overlooking Lake Minnetonka for nearly 40-years without ever owning a barbeque or a boat! Never once did Mike Winton grill anything - ever . And, while raking leaves together - when I was probably 14-years old - I asked him, “Geez dad, do you think we could buy a boat”, he responded, “Do you realize how quickly those things depreciate! Don't ever buy depreciating assets if you can help it.”

Mike was the son of wealth – the 3 rd generation kind - and yet he didn't live that way. He believed in the virtues of risk-taking and discipline. For him, giving was always better than receiving. But, that intensity and determination didn't totally define him. He had an ability to touch others. For instance, when I was a young boy I suffered a lot from asthma. There were times when I was confined to a tent constructed over my bed. And despite all the medications - on a number of occasions I struggled to breath. I was old enough to be pretty anxious. And, it was the appearance of my dad who would sit next to my bed and who would slip his hand beneath the tent to hold mine - that would bring me back and calm me down.

As it related to style, Mike had a good tailor. He was always the well-dressed, elegant gentleman. For sure, he was a marketer's nightmare – a total outlier. Not only was he the only man in Hennepin County not to own a barbeque but never once did he wear a turtleneck or anything trendy. It didn't matter whether he was on camel back, hiking the Himalayas or at work - until the very end in fact - he always wore one of his trademark blue dress shirts – one of dozens that filled his drawers. He wore them every night to bed - even in the hospital after open-heart surgery. He wore own when he died.

Most irksome to us, however, was dad's taste in automobiles. Never were we consulted – That is - until Nick and I were in our teens. Here was one of the nattiest men around – who must have purchased his cars at night. Without a doubt, Mike Winton purchased three of the ugliest cars ever sold in the state of Minnesota . The color of his most prized car was an indescribable sort of a Richard Serra rust color. I think the color was called “primer”. It looked as though it had somehow missed the final paint phase. I think that once Ford Motor realized this – they shipped it overseas where, of course, no one there would buy it. Then it was shipped back here for dad to buy on some moonless night in January 1972.

In the same moment Mike could be reverent, gentle, articulate – and deceptively profane. If there were surviving texts of his conversations you'd think some sections were of an angry longshoreman. And yet, when in his presence it took a fine ear to catch his phrasing - much less be offended by it.

Along the same lines, few could match Mike‘s unique phrases – most of them had to do with success in business and investing. In our childhood however, these phrases were used mostly to encourage our yard work. There was the, “You know what they say, getting that first olive out of the bottle is always the toughest…” Or, “Sometimes, you've got to be Johnny-at-the-rat-hole!” Or, “Be bold, ‘cause that dog's only gonna let you grab his tail once.”

After Blake, Andover and Princeton , in 1951 Mike - a newly commissioned Marine Corps lieutenant – was soon to ship off to the Korean War but at the last minute took an offer to join the CIA. So, instead of heading to Korea, Mike went through Army Ranger training with the CIA - after which he and his new bride, Penny, moved to Munich to live with the deceptively ethnic sounding - new identity - of “Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Whittaker”. I guess Mike and Penny couldn't pull-off something more exotic such as Dieter and Leisl. Anyway, during their years in Germany , Mike worked in a team, which assembled and trained pro-western members of a Belarusian force who prepared to attack from within and behind the Soviets from a “dark camp” hidden in soviet territory - should the “cold war” ever turn “hot.” My older brother David was born there and after this time in Germany , it was off to Harvard Business School , a few years in New York and then back home to Minnesota.

Dad was a world traveler – but by no means a vacationer. There were numerous trips to places around the globe with friends such as the Cowles, Von Blons, Wittenbergs, Joe Murphy and others. I think his fellow travelers loved the planning and the complexity they faced and establishing just how bikes would be packed for the flight and where exactly at some distant airport they'd be reassembled - or what scuba equipment they needed to pack. Mike's self-appointed role was to be chief skeptic. “Oh for the love of Pete, you guys, can one of you please explain to me why we're taking this crazy trip…?” So imagine his pleasure, while crouched in an undersized tent while trapped in a blizzard high in the Himalayas snorting to the others, “Look, I don't mean to say I told you so, but I told you so. This is one horse-shit vacation…”

He loved his family. He loved a good business deal. He loved contemporary art. He hated racism. He hated pomposity. He hated to lose. He was very well read and knew what he was talking about. Nothing inconsistent there.

Mike had one of the great French wine collections around. And, yet he rarely drank it. But, if you were ever a guest he always poured from his finest bottles. He read everything on Burgundies and Bordeaux and paced up and down the isles of his cellar assessing his bottles and adding to his little notebook - - his latest insights on every vineyard and vintage. He also enjoyed comparing in blind taste testing to see if we could tell the difference between the fine and not so fine ones. And once, as he was being wheeled into surgery - he grabbed my hand and said, “Hey, if I don't make it – don't forget that Haskell's has got a whole pallet of my wine in their warehouse…”

Some of you have written or told me of being mentored by Mike and that he had made a difference in your life. Indeed, he was particularly effective at cutting to the essence of the moment. I was sitting with him one time when a friend asked, “I was wondering Mike, what you think I could do to help the world?” to which he paused and responded with a classic, “Well, I'm not sure the world really needs your help. You see, the world's going to figure it all out. Now, that doesn't mean there aren't problems. But, what the world needs from you is for you to take care of yourself and those around you.

In the end what was obvious to us all, was his enduring love and devotion to mom; and, in turn, her love for him. Beyond this was a deep satisfaction he got from his children and grandchildren. As he grew weaker, dad was remarkably peaceful and accepting of his situation. There were tears of joy and reassurances to us that what he had seen in his dreams were things that comforted him and made him truly curious about what lay just around the bend. In his final weeks, it was his grandchildren who could pull him from his slumber. And, to each of them he would smile and repeat – there's nothing to be afraid of. I'm doing well. There's nothing to fear. A favorite dream of his involved walking through a mountain birch forest as the wind grew—just strong enough—that it might lift him up and carry him away. I think he wanted to go back there.

Lastly, he knew how much many of you loved him and wanted you to know that he loved you too.