Many, probably almost all of you, have never heard of George Cato.  He wasn’t an author or a media celebrity or a public figure.  What he was was my neighbor and closest friend.  He died unexpectedly on June 24, and a memorial service was held at Grace Episcopal Church in Silver Spring on July 7.  At the reception, I was honored to say a few words about George, and I’m going off-script here to share them with you. Sometimes, it’s important to do that.

Between blizzards in January 1996, we had the great good fortune to move into a house three doors from George and Elanor Cato.  As it happened, our sons David and Aaron were the same age as Paul and Charles Cato, and they quickly became friends and grew up together.  We all became as close as family, closer in some ways.

On Halloween, George and I would go out with the boys to walk the neighborhood in search of treats.  On Dec. 31, we parents would watch a movie and try to stay awake long enough to welcome in the new year. On many special occasions, including Thanksgivings, the Catos would come to our house.

On Christmas mornings, David and Aaron would go down to the Catos to help them celebrate with their new toys.

On Passover, the Catos were often at our Seder table, celebrating our holiday dedicated to freedom and taking turns reading passages from the Passover story. When our youngest son, Aaron, had his Bar Mitzvah, the Catos were there, too, and George read the prayer for our country. And when my mom died 20 years ago, George was there, too, helping us mourn.

George and I and the boys sometimes went to Wizards games, which we would watch from the nosebleed seats, taking Metro down to Chinatown early enough to eat first. We also went to many Nats baseball games together. Sometimes Elanor and Sandy would go along, not as sports fans but as friends who took the opportunity just to yak.

Aside from these events we shared as a family, George and I became the closest of friends. On many days, I would walk down to the Catos. If George was there, I could see him sitting in his armchair, with the TV on, ring the doorbell or knock on the door and hang out for a while in his front room, sort of a combination office, den and man cave, where we would sit and chat among his piles of files, wall bookcases and works of art.

My friend George was a charter member of the National Museum of African American History and Culture and we went there together at least once. His favorite spot was the contemplative court, where a fountain reins down on a circular pool flanked by benches.  There he could sit and simply reflect on the history the museum told.

That history became a lot more personal when he learned at a family reunion more about his enslaved ancestors, including the name of his great-great-great grandfather. From online sources, I was able to find and share with him the actual primary documents.

George did not suffer fools, but he was also one of the most sociable persons I’ve ever known. He genuinely loved people, and he could and did strike up a conversation with almost anyone anywhere. To put it another way: George could make friends with a tree.

George was immensely proud of — though sometimes perplexed by — his sons—a normal state of affairs known to any father–and he tried to counsel them without bossing them.

He was a devoted husband, and he loved his family.  He loved driving hours and hours to family reunions in the Carolinas and Georgia, which he helped to organize. He was about to drive down for another one.

He was also a proud Morehouse alum, a fact you could quickly discern from the vanity license plate on his burgundy Accord, and he also enjoyed the long, one-day drive to Atlanta to attend college reunions. One reunion was scheduled when our street was knee-deep in snow, but that did not stop him.  After helping to dig out a neighbor, he dug himself out and proceeded on his merry way.

Another example of George’s persistence: The Catos had a large tree in their front yard that had to come down, and down it went – professionally – leaving a large stump. Rather than rent a stump grinder, George undertook a months-long task with a large ax to chop it to bits. He was literally the Paul Bunyan of Harvey Road, as he reduced that stump to rubble, so there was no evidence whatsoever that a giant tree had once been there, and he planted a small bush in its place.

George was a capable chief financial officer for several nonprofits.  But he had a hobby on the side that was also a business. He loved residential real estate. He loved acquiring and managing rental properties, which he did in good times and bad.  They not only provided a source of income – and stress, when some went under water during the Great Recession — they fit in well with his entrepreneurial spirit.

That was another aspect of our friendship.  We entered into a real estate partnership in 2000 and co-owned two rental properties, selling the first just before the 2008 crash and the second one a few months ago.  It was about that time that George formally retired. But he was restless and looking for something to do. He just couldn’t do nothing. That wasn’t George.

After the boys left the nest, the four of us – George and Elanor, Sandy and I – would go out for dinner on a weekend night, usually to Alozzo on Georgia Avenue or Sergio’s, a family-owned and operated restaurant on Colesville Road in downtown Silver Spring.

On Friday night, June 14, we all went to Sergio’s, whose owner warmly greeted us like old friends. This was a few days before we left on a trip to South America.  We had no idea of course, that this would be our farewell dinner.  A few hours before we left for BWI, I went down the street to see him and talk about what we’d do when we got back—play some golf, after a long lapse, or maybe go to another Nats game, though he’d never really forgiven the Lerners for firing Dusty Baker.

Then, a few days later, while sitting in a mall in Buenos Aires, we got the news from our son David who had heard from Paul. It seemed so impossible to accept must less to understand. How could this happen? How could our world ever be the same without George Cato?

George was 65 years old.  May his memory be for a blessing.