who have shaped our lives.
In Memoriam: Norman C. Kreuz (1929–2019)
It all began on the farm. Before the sales career, the golf clubs, the gin rummy games, the Buffalo neighborhood where the garage door was always open—there was a young man from rural Ohio, the seventh of eleven children, who learned early what it meant to work, to rise before dawn, and to do so with a quiet steadiness that stayed with him all his life.
Norm was born into a big family—7 of 11, as he liked to say—and carried with him the practicality and humor that come from growing up in a household where everyone pitched in. He served in the Navy near the end of World War II, came home, and married Eloise, the love of his life. Together they would raise six children in ten years—Hub, Joe, Ferd, Mike, Mary, and Butch—and eventually welcome eighteen grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.
In 1969, he was offered an opportunity to help expand LM Berry’s Yellow Pages presence in Western New York. Without hesitation, he and my mother packed us up and left Cleveland for Buffalo. He walked into a house he likely looked at for no more than two minutes and bought it on instinct. What he chose was not a perfect home—but the perfect neighborhood. Corner lot. Garage door always open. No one knocked; you simply walked in. That was the home Norm and Eloise made.
On the first day in Buffalo, we stayed at the Holiday Inn—one of the very few times our entire family ever stayed in a hotel together. Monday morning, Dad drove five of us to St. Gregory the Great School, and from there, lifelong friendships began—for all of us. The rhythm of that household, the warmth, the movement, the welcome—it was who he was.
The Salesman
My father was a salesman, and he was born for it. Scissors. Rubber cement. A pen. A phone. A smile. And more than anything—integrity. He didn’t oversell. He didn’t posture. He didn’t push. He simply connected. He remembered your kids’ names. He followed up. He cared. He was, as I used to joke, able to sell a ketchup popsicle to someone wearing white gloves.
His clients renewed because they wanted to renew. They trusted him.
From the Yellow Pages to the Talking Phone Book to working with Rick Zurak later in life—he loved every job he ever had, because every job gave him people. It also gave him time for what mattered most—golf with his friends, a deck of cards, laughter, and the joy of an ordinary day done well.
He never had a headache. Never owned a lawn mower. Never wore the same outfit twice. Never seemed to worry. He made the putts that mattered. He made the sales that mattered. He lived simply and generously.
And whenever life presented a change—
You want to play golf? OK.
I’m getting married. OK—great.
We’re not advertising anymore. It’s Norm—OK.
No drama. No hesitation. Just grace.
A Father Who Taught by Example
I followed in his footsteps—into sales, into early mornings, into the belief that relationships matter more than transactions. While he milked cows at sunrise on the farm, I delivered newspapers before school. The habit of rising early became our shared inheritance.
By the time I started knocking on doors at PAYCHEX, writing handwritten thank-you notes, and building my own book of business, I realized that the most valuable education I ever received happened at our kitchen table. It was the rhythm of conversation, attention, humor, timing, empathy, and respect. It was Emotional Intelligence before people had a term for it.
Years later, when I told my mother that in my new business model I would be searching for salespeople “like Dad,” we laughed. Because there really was only one.
The Long Goodbye
Alzheimer’s is a slow erasing. A long goodbye. He lived to ninety, but we always said he lived a hundred years. When we stood beside him that final day—each of us hugging him one last time—we were not shocked, not shattered. We were grateful. We had time to say goodbye. We had years to remember who he was, even as the illness slowly loosened his hold on memory.
Through all of it—my mother, Eloise, was extraordinary. She cared for him with devotion and dignity. She typed more term papers than anyone in the state of New York, balanced the checkbook, raised six kids, and kept our household—and my father’s heart—steady. She is the quiet anchor of this story, and always will be.
Stories That We Will Always Tell
- The 20 shots of Black Velvet at my wedding (which became 25 when someone questioned him).
- Mom’s hole-in-one.
- The Dead Dog story. (“Hey, I had to tell her something.”)
- The boxing match between Ferd and Butch—over nearly as soon as it started.
- The par-3 walk at Audubon with pull carts and laughter echoing across the fairway.
- The Pinch’s house.
- The trophy with the head mysteriously removed.
And for every woman who came through our house growing up—daughters, nieces, girlfriends, wives—he adored you. You were safe in that home. Loved. Seen. Welcomed.
Closing
To the families from LM Berry, The Talking Phone Book, Rick Zurak Golf, the Ragusa family, Ransom Oaks, Lockport, Audubon, and every kitchen table, living room, and golf cart he ever occupied—thank you. You were his community.
My father’s life was not that of a tragic salesman chasing an unattainable dream. Death of a Salesman never applied to him. He lived a full life—rich in friendships, humor, family, and purpose. He never chased success. Success followed him because he showed up, every day, as himself.
His legacy is simple, and it is profound:
Work hard. Love people. Keep your door open. Smile first.
Rise early. Live lightly. Enjoy the day you are given.
We will carry that forward.
We always have.
And we always will.
Gisela Driscoll
Celebrating the Remarkable Life of Gisela Driscoll.
Here’s to the extraordinary life of Gisela Driscoll—Cindy’s mom, our beloved Oma! She passed peacefully on February 15, leaving behind a legacy of love, resilience, and wisdom that continues to inspire us. As we celebrate her incredible journey, we are reminded that she was the very definition of being young at heart, proving that age is just a number. And let’s not forget the countless infamous “Omaisms” that she left us with—each one a cherished gem, bringing smiles and laughter to her children and grandchildren.
Oma’s life was a testament to perseverance and strength. Born in 1932, she navigated the unimaginable hardships of her childhood in Oberndorf am Neckar and Heilbronn, Germany. She grew up beneath skies filled with Allied bombers, in a world that seemed to crumble around her. One story she often shared was the bombing of the Mauser weapons factory in Oberndorf. While the factory itself remained unscathed—hidden in the valley of the Neckar River by artificial fog—the town was not so lucky. Bombs rained down on the local brewery, its restaurant, and nearby homes. It was a story she recounted time and time again, reflecting the resilience of innocent German citizens who faced the terrors of war with unwavering strength.
Despite the chaos, Oma and her family found refuge in shelters, clinging to hope amidst the wailing sirens. She emerged from the devastation determined to rebuild, finishing nursing school and helping her homeland rise from the rubble. In 1958, she embarked on a new adventure, crossing the ocean with Staff Sergeant William Driscoll, a post-war soldier stationed in Germany. Together, they began a new chapter in America, filled with promise, challenge, and love.
Oma’s journey was not without sorrow—she endured the profound loss of three important men in her life. Yet, her spirit remained unbreakable. Her books became lifelong companions, transporting her to new worlds and fueling her insatiable curiosity. She was always eager to learn, always ready for the next adventure—whether in real life or between the pages of a great story.
Above all, the greatest joy in her life was her family. The bond she built with her children was profound, one that transcended generations and shaped our lives in immeasurable ways. She taught us resilience, love, and the art of embracing life with open arms. Her wisdom and humor left an indelible mark on all of us.
So this week, as we come together to celebrate her life, we choose to honor the joy, laughter, and love she brought into our lives. Oma, your legacy as a matriarch shines brightly, guiding us with the warmth of your wisdom and the strength of your heart.
Here’s to you, Oma. May we carry your spirit forward—living with the same resilience, curiosity, and boundless love that defined yours.
Bill Kistner
We lost Bill Kistner Sr. to Covid a few weeks ago with his wife and family at his side. The family was fearless of that disease to spend every waking moment with him.
I met Mr. K when I met Mike and the rest of his family in 1973. That was 48 years ago, and over the years it became increasingly him holding court and sharing his wisdom about business, life, and family. I’d lob up a topic or question, and off to the races we would go. Once we started spending time at the lake 20+ years ago, we’d share a drink or two, and he never disappointed.
I loved his stories. Mr. K brought his brother Santa Claus and sister Joan into the business, and he remained at the top of the perch. Joan liked reading more than answering the phone. Santa’s mind was elsewhere. And in true Kistner fashion, it didn’t fracture the family. When Joan told him one day while I was there, “You fired me,” his response was, “You didn’t work.” She laughed and agreed she liked reading more than working.
That paved the way for Bill Jr., Mike, and Ken. Mr. K often told me stories about the boys, what they’d done, and how he gladly tossed them the keys. He remained an ardent listener on weekly calls until his passing. My last visit with him was on his 89th birthday in August 2021. I asked him about the latest bridge installed in Lockport—he knew the dimensions, weight, engineered load specs, and concrete depth. Remarkable.
Who could forget Mike’s stag at Transit Lanes? It began with a respectful dinner with Mr. K at the head of the table. The usual suspects were there: Comaratta, Bestine, Gaffney, the Leonard’s, Weber, Murray, etc. As things began to turn chaotic, Mr. K quietly paid the bill, said his goodbyes—and into the night we went. And how about the blue siren, or Mike and I racing down Sheridan Drive like a scene from Dukes of Hazzard?
Mr. K was the consummate entrepreneur. He made his first mold in the garage and bought his first truck with his GM earnings. He was old-school and one of the best of a dying breed. My friends and I all had great dads. Mr. K became the last steward of that group. He held court, and we listened.
For Mr. K, it was 89 full years. A full life. And I never had a dull moment with him. I was famous for dropping in unannounced because he could care less about answering his flip phone or responding to a text.
I told Mike, “You’ll have to assume the chair at the lake.”
That gives us 30 more years of storytelling about him.
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Tom Davis
March 3, 2013
Nancy and Michael asked me to deliver the eulogy for our dear friend Thomas W. Davis. I first crossed paths with Tom in September 1973—nearly 40 years earlier. I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to Michael and Nancy than during the final 196 days Tom spent at Millard Suburban, ECMC, and Niagara Lutheran Home.
Tom maintained his humor and his watchful eye throughout it all. “Dr. Davis,” as we affectionately called him, observed every move made by every doctor. His spirit remained bright. We were blessed to accompany him on that journey.
We extend gratitude to the potential kidney donors who stepped up: Donny Fitzgerald, Stephanie Medcalfe, Jen Labbe—along with Trish Pozdyn, the final match. The effort itself brought hope.
Why do some people endure so much? Perhaps to remind us of the joy they gave us, and the love we must carry forward.
Tom approached life with courage. After brain tumor surgery, I visited him expecting recovery to be slow. Instead—there he was, upright. I just shook my head and said, “WTF.”
The memories overflow: Fwibbles and Fwies. Mighty Taco runs. Running red lights in Amherst. Ernie D basketball camp. Painting the Buffalo Braves locker rooms. Jobs from Amherst Sealers to the airport. He was a spark in every group he touched.
Tom celebrated my mother Eloise’s first hole-in-one with more joy than she did—calling her instantly and cracking a Coke.
He once said: “You can watch the world from the shore or dive in.”
And he dove, every time.
I’ve never been a fan of goodbyes, and Tom knew that. So I’ll say what I always said when leaving the hospital:
See you later, pal.
Gary Stott
In 1983, I received a call that would shape my career. Gary Stott, a former Price Waterhouse colleague of Mike Schwimmer, reached out to me. I thought I was going to sell him payroll services. Instead, Gary opened a door that would define the next chapters of my life.
He made an impression immediately—Weejun loafers, crisp monogrammed O’Connell shirt, Riverside Men’s Shop suit. Confidence without arrogance. Warmth without show.
In 1984, he called again: “Come meet my boss at Robert Half.” I joined as his sidekick. We spent three unforgettable years working together—and making the rounds across Fields Pub, Santasero’s, The Cherry Hill Club, the Saturn Club, and countless golf courses.
Gary later invited me to the Cherry Hill three-day Invitational. I joined the club the next week.
In 2024, at the PwC alumni golf outing, I received a vintage Price Waterhouse audit bag. Everyone signed it. Out of 20 people in the room, I knew all of them because of Gary.
He didn’t just network—he connected. He made people feel part of something.
Gary taught me things I still do to this day: weekly shoe shine, monthly haircut, lunch with someone just to stay connected. And stories—we never ran out. We embellished more every year.
I still catch myself expecting my phone to ring, to hear his voice say:
“Hey — you get your haircut yet?”
JosephKreuz.com 