Even though it has been a decade since I wrote my last play, my friend Lowell would always greet me with, “Hello, Playwright.” That’s because he was my patron. Lowell Lebermann passed away in Aspen this week, and like a lot of Austinites it has taken me a while to tabulate just how great an impact he had on my life.

When I met Lowell I was a teenager on my first visit to Austin at his invitation (full disclosure, I was dating his step-daughter). I was taken by both the city and the man. He was a great storyteller, but he was a great listener as well. Maybe it was a function of his blindness that made him so interested in the stories of the people he would meet, but personal history and narrative was of primary importance to him. And I was never short on stories. So I guess that may be why he asked if I would be interested in working for him.

So during my college years, whenever I was on a break from classes I would come to Austin and work as an “Aide.” There were always a couple of recent college grads on staff (usually from Lowell’s UT frat, KA) that arranged travel, drove, read correspondence, guided, and generally assisted the man as he moved about the world. And that is exactly what he did. I never made one of the astonishing international trips with Lowell, but I do remember lobbying politicians in DC and rubbing elbows with the stars at the Sundance Institute (Lowell was a board member). He was always on the move in Austin and beyond, and it was an aide’s job to get him where he was going.

Most aides worked full time for a couple of years, then rotated off, their service complete, but I lucked into an extended stay. When I returned to Austin a couple of years after college to get my MFA at the University of Texas, Lowell invited me to live in what would become known as “the garrett” — the third floor loft of his magnificent West Austin home. For almost a year I concealed my living arrangements from my starving artist colleagues at UT, a bit embarrassed by how posh I had it. Maid service. Chef prepared meals. A stocked beer fridge (did I mention Lowell was the Miller distributor for Central Texas). In return I was expected to do some reading. Hang out. Be available for conversation. Tough life.

I remember in the spring of that first year in grad school; Lowell decided that I should come clean with my fellow students in a big way. When all my hippie writer friends showed up at the door of Lowell’s mansion the night of the party, there was Chef Donald in his crisp whites offering canapes. We had a blast sipping wine and goofing

I remember in the spring of that first year in grad school; Lowell decided that I should come clean with my fellow students in a big way. When all my hippie writer friends showed up at the door of Lowell’s mansion the night of the party, there was Chef Donald in his crisp whites offering canapes. We had a blast sipping wine and goofing in the big back yard, playing at being literary lions.

The party was classic Lowell style. And the style was part of what Lowell passed on to the young men that worked for him — a classic, old world, Southern Gentleman style that we don’t see much of any more. From Lowell you learned a lot about the art of living: about food and wine, about entertaining, about the practice of politics and business at the highest levels. But most importantly, we all learned about the things Lowell valued most, loyalty to friends and dedication to service.

Managing Lowell’s calendar was an exercise in tracking selflessness. How many more charity events and boards and benefit parties can we cram in? As many as possible as long as it does not come at the expense of celebrating friends, and honoring requests for help and advice.

I was often the beneficiary of this advice. For me, every major life decision was approached via a dinner prepared by Chef Donald at Lowell’s house to ask my patron his opinion. I remember one panicky moment when I was sure that writing was a dead end and it was time to pack it up and go to law school. Lowell found that notion pretty amusing. He was always incredibly generous with his time with me, a treasure I now appreciate to an even greater degree.

I doubt I’ll be able to make it to Lowell’s memorial service at the LBJ Library on Thursday, which pains me. Chance has it that this week, I’m with my family in a rustic house on an island off the east coast. The remoteness has always been a selling point, but it make a quick trip home impossible, so barring a miracle (involving a private jet) I’ll miss it. I’m not sure how I’m going to square this with the loyalty that Lowell taught me. I hope he would have understood. He met my kids, thankfully. So I think he would.

My thoughts are with Jenny and Henry, Donald, Cindy and all the folks at Centex, and all the “Aide” alums. As Lowell would say, “pax vobiscum.”