This essential sketch of the soul that remains him, is a playful soul.  I could speak of how many lives he has touched in special ways . . . and present a sort of re-make of It's a Wonderful Life, as surely he has touched many, but that which is most remarkable about Bill has to do with his special perspective.  He had a spark that was not extinguished with adulthood, and I suspect that neither was it extinguished with his death.  He was one of the most genuine and honest people I have had the pleasure of knowing . . . and he also was a charmer.  This is particularly the case with women (and he knew it).  It is not that he put 'the make' on them (he would never do that), but they would always respond to his easy and honest way.  An elderly woman at Sycamore Glen Retirement Community, where he has lived for the last four years, once took me aside and said:    "Of all the men here, and that I have known in the past twenty years, your father is very special; he makes us feel like women again.  Although always a gentleman, he really makes us feel like women . . . I mean he gets our juices flowing again. Do you know what I mean?" I had to smile, and think, 'well, that is about the nicest thing I have ever heard about my dad.'  He and Ruth had the kind of relationship most folks today cannot imagine actually happens; how many of us can say that they never heard their parents fight or exchange hurtful words?  Certainly not my own son.  And, he was affectionate.  I often would catch them smooching in the kitchen as I came to breakfast; and I recall often feeling embarrassed when he would put his arm around me on a train or in some other public place (especially during those years when we looked about the same age).  One might expect such a personality to express an overly sentimental quality, but not Bill.  You could see his emotions clearly upon his face, yet only twice have I seen a tear in his eye: once when Ruth died; and when I looked into his eyes the night that he died.  More often than not, a playful -- almost mischievous -- twinkle danced around the corners of his blue eyes.  One never had to analyze Bill; he always presented himself directly and honestly.  Never did he wear masks or hide emotions, but (to a degree that is extraordinary in this day) he never had to.  He was a genuinely happy and good man . . . and perhaps that is a large part of why so many people liked or loved him (and simply enjoyed his company).  We grieve his passing, and mourn our loss, but can take solace in the knowledge that his was a very good and full life. 

As for Bill's legacy, well . . . that is as difficult to capture in words as is his nature.  Certainly his many paintings are a part of it, but for myself it is a glimmer of hope and a hint of meaning in a world that at the same time appears both too full and too empty.  I will continue to miss him in ways that I never imagined.  He is off sailing somewhere . . . an artful mix between Aladin and Sinbad who retains that unadulterated  quality that (more than anything) captures the essence of who he was (and, I suspect, remains).