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Frank Drew: A Samaritan’s Life Spectacularly Lived
Frank Drew: A Samaritan’s Life Spectacularly Lived
By John Sherman
Frank Drew died the way he lived: a Good Samaritan.
He was shot to death in Rectortown after he pulled over to treat the driver of a wrecked car. The driver, who later committed suicide, was being sought by police for the murder of his father hours earlier. A random, senseless tragedy.
Frank Drew worked with me at The Ashby Inn as maitre d’hotel and sommelier during the 1980s and 1990s. The staff—-from the dishwasher to the bartender to the servers on the floor—-revered him as a quiet, attentive, professional with a ready smile and a wry sense of humor. Most of all, he was admired for his generosity and sincerity.
“He was brilliant and charming, yet possessed this deep authenticity and modesty,” said Martha Hughes, an Ashby server and midwife. “He was a man at peace in his own skin.”
He grew up in New York City. He and his twin brother, Chris, graduated from Georgetown University in the same class as Bill Clinton. Soon after, he drifted out to our area.
For as long as I can remember, he rented a modest apartment right on the railroad tracks in Markham. Just across the tracks he lived in a ramshackle building and began creating exquisite furniture. I sleep on a four-poster bed he made of cherrywood and write at a desk of the same wood.
“Frank valued things that spoke of great care and attention to detail. He was always generous with his friendship and his love for beautiful things,” Tara Welty remembered.
“I have a wooden bowl Frank made a long time ago. I polished it to a beautiful sheen the other day,” said Debbie Cox, our office manager.
I don’t remember exactly when Frank gave himself over to the pursuit of wine—-beyond a glass full. He must have read volumes. He would sit in on tastings at the inn and, in his modest way, showed a knowledge that chagrined the wine rep. He could tell you the two hectors on a south slope in Burgundy that produced the most coveted pinot noir grapes.
“Frank was consumed by excellence,” recalled Jim Law, owner and wine maker at Linden Vineyards. “Whether it was expressed in peaches, craftsmanship, cheese or wine. He lead us down a wonderful path. His influence raised our bar and improved our wines. He was a natural teacher. Sharing gave him great pleasure. He was our humble mentor.”
When Frank delved into something, he read and researched until he was expert. From wines, to gardening to woodworking, he developed an expertise for everything that interested him, and his interests were broad.
Lately he had turned his focus on his neighborhood birds. “He understood which type of feeder mesh and seed each bird preferred, and daily he battled the squirrels trying to steal the seed.” That from a mutual friend, Saud, who, 25 years ago, gave Frank his credit card and told him to amass a wine cellar.
After months of research and tasting, Frank created that wine cellar whose depth and reach were stunning. He found extraordinary caches of Italian and French reds that matched Saud’s myriad Middle Eastern dishes. These hours over table brought back my best memories of our times together. (Frank’s glass was always half full; mine was always half empty.)
“I hatched a plan to drink Frank out of house and home,” said Bush Nichols, an Ashby bartender. “Fortunately for Frank and unfortunately for me, I never quite pulled it off”
Frank’s life took a radical turn in his 50s when he entered training to become an EMT.
“He chose a life of service at a point when most folks are more focused on when they get to retire,” said a friend. Once certified, he worked with Marshall Fire and Rescue. He went on to the emergency rooms of two hospitals, including Fauquier, finally working for Novant’s hospital in Haymarket.
“Frank was almost always the first staff member in the room of every new ER patient,” recalled a colleague. “His warm smile, confidence in his skills and his ability to connect at the human level put us and every arrival at ease,” added another.
A friend wrote a poem on Frank’s death. The last lines:
…as all futures that from This moment do arise, are emptied, My friend’s voice made silent --- And no more his smile.
One night long ago, Frank and I were the last ones left after close out. We were on watch. The inn rooms were all taken by a group of women in their 30s. They brought along a boom-box now blaring the Four Tops, James Brown et al in the upper dining room. Sing along and foot falls filled the inn. Frank looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, broke into a wicked smile. Pointing upward, he said, ”Let’s dance.”
Frank Drew, always the Good Samaritan.
