Sandy Taylor: Loved & Now Missed
At one of my first days of a UConn internship at rogue publishing house Curbstone Press in Willimantic, Conn., I remember brown bag lunching with 5 or so employees that included office manager Lisa, soon-to-be-pal Bob, interns and co-founder Sandy Taylor.
We all chatted about this or that, noshed on our sandwiches and, being new and young, I did my best to not say anything stupid (big anxiety #17). At one point I found myself staring at the “thing” Sandy was crunching on. He noticed my puzzled look and said with a smile and wink, “Onion with jam. The Danes love this.” Away he crunched as if it were a pretzel or some other more watchable food.
This odd lunch was the first in a long line of my studied observations of Sandy. He is like no one, yet like everyone, I had ever met. There’s nothing odd about Sandy. He’s a tallish, gray-haired, skinny white guy with a signature shoulder-shaking laugh and an arm’s list of anecdotes that he tells over and over again. He’s everyone’s uncle. Pass him in the grocery store and you’d think, there goes somebody’s uncle.
Sit down and have a smoke with Sandy, however, and you soon uncover a passionate, driven humanitarian. If socio-enlightening poetry and literature could choose an ambassador, it would be Sandy Taylor. Several Latino, Danish, African, Mexican (and more) authors have done so, choosing to publish with Curbstone many times over.
The amazing thing about Sandy was his ability to walk the line between human rights supporter, businessman, professor, boss, mentor and friend. Sandy and I both didn’t know it but, back in my intern days, he helped me define “Career Suzi.” My personality is genuinely one of energy, good attitude and eager-to-please. I have this sick gene that makes me really, really like work of any kind – hands-on or strategic. Sandy was smart and typically brought me in on several different types of projects because he knew I’d do whatever had to be done.
More importantly, he didn’t hesitate to snap me back into line when I veered off course. This was new for me. I rarely had anyone tell me that I was doing anything wrong (big anxiety #24) because, I think, they were afraid I’d stop doing stuff altogether. Sandy knew I could take criticism and I appreciated the respect.
One time Sandy sat me down for a serious chat (big anxiety #13). I had applied for a position at UConn’s bookstore. He had given me a high recommendation to the manager, also his close friend. I was a little late to the interview and, apparently, the manager had checked up on my track record of working with the bookstore’s sister business. Yup, late there too.
A concerned Sandy let me know that my lateness gave me very unfavorable marks. He told me that if I expected to be successful, I needed to be on time. “It may seem small,” he said in a direct, even tone, “but if someone who doesn’t know you only sees that you don’t respect their time, they won’t take the time to get to know you at all.” I’m still late in my personal life but when it comes to business, never. The thought that somehow somewhere I might be disappointing Sandy makes me get up earlier, put on less make-up and drive faster.
I don’t think Sandy ever stopped to think about his influence through Curbstone’s good works or with the many Curbstonistas that milled about that creaky old Jackson Street house over the years. He was always thinking ten steps forward, ten books forward, ten causes forward and, always, ten authors forward. For many, Sandy is Curbstone. For me, Curbstone is one of the finest creations from Sandy, a surrogate uncle to good works, authors that may not otherwise occupy shelf space and wannabe publishing upstarts. I have lost a friend and mentor. My life is better for knowing Sandy Taylor. Crazy onion-jam sandwich and all.
