A Stuffed Shirt

I loved Palmer the moment I met him. A salt-of-the-earth guy from Texas, he’d found success developing land and water rights. When a rancher hesitated to sign a huge contract from the legal department, Palmer would just toss it into the trash and pull out a sheet of paper. “Let’s just write this up ourselves,” he’d say.

To the chagrin of his attorney, Palmer conducted business on a handshake. A pink While You Were Out slip, from a time before cell phones and voicemail, hangs framed on his attorney’s wall. Palmer had left a short message with the secretary, “Sold the Stroh Ranch for $20M. Write up a contract.” 

Before Palmer and I met, a mutual friend had told him I was “a stuffed shirt.” It was an understandable characterization. The friend had only known me during my undergrad years and medical school, when my nose was firmly applied to the proverbial grindstone. But Palmer and I had connected immediately. I told him jokes about Texas ranchers until I feared he might burst a vessel laughing. We were eating dinner with our mutual friend when Palmer divulged the “stuffed shirt” crack. We just kept laughing.

A few weeks later, Palmer sent me a picture of his newest Christmas tree ornament. His wife had sewn a tiny red and white striped shirt and tie—literally a stuffed shirt—and written my name on it. They still put it on their tree annually.

Be careful what you say. It might be repeated or memorialized.