Some thoughts from Louis Loaiza on the passing of Daniel J. Bantle. Founder of Optical Specialists and an icon of the optical industry.

I want to preface this with the fact that there are a lot of directions I could go with this, and I know there is no right direction. My thoughts are a bit scattered at this late hour, and honestly, I'm unsure if I could do any better than the obituary written for Dan. I could have written double or triple what I have here, but this seems the right length.

First, I'm writing this because many years ago, Karen's daughter, Stacey, pushed Dan to call me for an interview. I'm not sure I've ever adequately thanked Stacey enough for making Dan call a guy whose resume was full of optical chain stores. Then again, no one could make Dan do something he didn't want. Without the nudge, it is safe to say I wouldn't be where I am today.

 When I walked into Optical Specialists in the fall of 2010, I didn't know what to expect. I saw a gentleman in a starched white shirt and tie. In some respects, it was like walking into a time machine. Most people in the optical field traded in shirts and ties for polo shirts and khakis. However, I noticed a well-worn ruler, a nice pen in his shirt pocket, and a head of brown hair that I could swear was dyed. In the back room, I noticed a wall of patterns and a lens edger that could have been as old as my youngest brother.

 I sat down with Dan and Karen that day. It didn't seem like much of an interview. Instead, we had an easy conversation about my work experience, Dan's business, and how I lost my wife's engagement ring in New York City. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have ended our conversation with the lost engagement ring story. Undoubtedly, Dan thought I must have been an idiot or, at the very least, careless. Still, Dan gave me a chance. Thank God he did; no one else would call me back! I walked back to the car I'd parked in the IHOP parking lot, hoping that the attractive and successful couple who had just interviewed me would not see the junky car I was driving.

I suspected that my new workplace would be different. I didn't know what I was in for when I walked in on my first day. I saw Dan on the front porch of the building having a cigarette before starting the day. I put my lunch in the refrigerator, noticed a six-pack of bud light, and thought, ' I think I'm going to like working here.'

When I got home every night, I told my future wife about my new place of employment. I told her how customers would come in, with Dan greeting a female customer by name, kissing her, and then teasing her husband with comments like, "oh, it's you." They then sat down and updated each other about what they had been up to since the last time they saw each other. It was special what I saw happen at that moment, and it happened all the time. Relationships that would go on for over 40 years started with a new pair of glasses.

As time passed, Dan and I would chat. For instance, I'd say I needed to buy something, and he replied, "I know a guy. See him. He'll take care of you." Dan knew many "guys" who were fantastic at what they did. Eventually, my wife asked who are these "guys." I just said, "it's best not to ask. He is Italian, after all." The don't ask questions joke eventually spread to my in-laws. After discovering that I was going camping with Dan's sons Matt and Stephen, my father-in-law asked me, "is this where they kill you for knowing too much?" I just asked him to pray for me.

Dan and I had a rhythm to our working together. Small things like him pushing me to order lunch sooner than later so we wouldn't eat so late in the afternoon. Of course, the secret to driving business into the store is trying to eat your lunch!

When we did have a chance to eat lunch, I would read New York Times on a screen, and he would read the St. Louis Business Journal on good old-fashioned paper. He would look at real estate ads and ask me if I wanted to buy a house or a farm. I would ask how many bedrooms, how much it costs, or how many acres. And I would say, "I could never live in a house with only ten bedrooms, or I could never hide the dead bodies on only 100 acres." He'd agree, and we'd move on to the next order of business. Sometimes he'd look at me and say, "F.E.A. Louis, F.E.A.!" I'd laugh and ask, "All of them?" And he'd respond, "ALL of them!"

So it went. The days would go on with Dan holding court with our customers, and the more people in the store, the better. Everyone traded opinions on potential frame choices, shared inside jokes developed over the years, or told stories about the kid's latest antics. Laughter flowed freely; occasionally, alcoholic beverages did too! Perhaps like when Dan and Karen were on vacation, Matt and I had a six-pack and sandwiches while watching the world cup! Taunting Dan with text messages about what we were doing, and he couldn't stop us!

The longer we worked together, the more we acted like an old married couple. We constantly bickered about everything. You'd think we couldn't stand each other. Even Dan's son Matt would hear us and high-tail it out of the office, saying, "I'm glad it's not me." Yet, underneath all of the bickering, there was a deep love and respect for each other.

All these little anecdotes, the mundane, the fun, and the spaces in between are where I realized I had a second family. A family that invited my family to gatherings, where my kids played with Dan's grandkids like they were cousins. If I had a problem, I could ask Dan for his opinion. Whatever that opinion was, he would give it to me straight.

Eventually, and not long ago, Dan turned the keys to the shop over to me. After we signed the papers, we sat on the sales floor and talked about the future. (If you knew Dan, you'd know he was pretty sentimental but rarely showed it.) He looked at the front door. His voice cracked a little, and he said, "You know, Louis, if you take care of everyone who walks in the front door one by one, you'll do well. In this 800-square-foot space, just this little space, you can raise your family. Take care of the customers, and do good work, and you'll do well."

So that's the plan- honor Dan's memory by sharing his story, taking care of his customers, and doing good work. Sounds pretty simple right? But god damn, those are some massive shoes to fill.

Twelve years ago, I walked into an optical shop called Optical Specialists because I needed a job. I never thought I would gain a second family in that twelve years. I never thought that in twelve years that I would be the successor to an ICONIC optical family's business. And I never thought 12 years would be all I would have with Daniel J. Bantle.