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Un Grand Homme Est Mort! (A Great Man Has Died!)

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“You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” – Kahlil Gibran

Dale Critz of Savannah, Georgia

When learning this weekend of the passing of Savannah’s gentleman citizen, Dale Critz at 91, I flashed to Commodore Charles Henri Hector, Count of Estaing of France, and what he exclaimed while lying next to the mortally wounded Count Casimir Pulaski inside of Bonaventure’s neighboring Greenwich during The Siege of Savannah – as Pulaski drew his last breaths, D’Estaing cried out, “Un grand homme est mort! (A great man has died!).” Mr. Critz’s reputation well precedes his grand and telling obituary for certain. I further understood the magnitude of this loss when hearing it in the voice of Dale Jr.’s voice today in Bonaventure while expressing condolences. His loud, robust voice, very much his father’s, and he very much his son, struggled not to crack, and I knew in an instant this was a man who’d lost not just his dad, but also his hero. It broke me a bit, and just the human part wanted to stand there with them and mourn. After all, they’d been my neighbors downtown for years when I was in my teens and had many other connections.

Dale Critz Jr & Dale Critz Sr

Mr. Critz brought their dogs to Bonaventure often, and it was just weeks ago that I saw him buzzing through the place with the gait of a college boy, and although a little hard of hearing, we’d stop and catch each other up for a brief minute. He wasn’t famous for standing still; quite the opposite! In person, Mr. Critz was kind of a handsome blend of Jimmy Stewart and Mr. Rogers, and even at 91, he had a kind of dashing quality for all of his humbleness.

Dale Critz (Far Left) the late 1950s/early 1960s with father and business founder over 80 years ago, Horace Dale Critz.

When seeing Mrs. Critz today near the family plot, she truly looked more beautiful than ever. She stood silently there with a glow of deep pride over her husband, but also with wisdom regarding this final chapter of their 65 years together. As I let her know that her husband’s encouragement of my work had meant a lot to me, she smiled and noted that I was one of so many whose lives he’d touched – “Well now! (gesturing with one arm) -WE old people have to do good for young people like yourself!” I replied happily, “Yes ma’am, no question.”

Dale & Lila Critz, married 65 years. (Photo Savannah Mornings News)

The words “charity” and “community” might as well have been what all of their lives had really been about, and what all of the businesses were truly for. Just like the original inspired Georgia motto, Non Sibi Sed Allis (Not For Ourselves But For Others). It’s hours like these that remind you that the Critz family are people who’ve kept that spirit alive for generations and that it lives on through grandchildren and so many life works. You might even say it’s like the amenities of a new luxury car – “Too much to list!” It’s worth noting that their Saxony name suggests the life arc as it translates as “cross” and their people in Europe are defined by “humble beginnings but rose to prominence by contributing greatly to their medieval society.” That sounds about right! Many years ago as a young student, I was blessed to make great character studies of my new Savannah surroundings through my workplace, Eli’s Deli. Not surprisingly with Critz Auto being so close by, Mr. Critz came in daily for his lunch and for some years. He struck me as a man with no ego, a drive, and a work ethic that rarely slowed, he was old stock and everything he knew was hardwired in generationally. That he was originally from Arkansas should then not surprise! Or that he was a Navy man! Mr. Critz was always carrying a newspaper, and while cordial and gave hellos to his old friends, he didn’t make much chit-chat. He’d come up to the counter, and then came that bellowing straightforward voice of a man letting you know he needed some sustenance for a moment so he could get on with the mission, “Lemme have a tuna fish sandwich on rye with onion, no tomato please – thank you.” He’d read his newspaper, gobble down his sandwich, and then was gone in a flash. Mr. Critz truly liked what he liked, did what he did, loved what he loved, created what he created, shared what he shared, knew what he knew, and went where he went, knowing it was the way to do everything. And seemingly without thought to it all. It was like he was a living vessel for a “No time to waste” credo handed down by ancestors or God or both. Mr. Critz was his own motivational Keys-To-Success series, but was way too busy creating it all of the time to ever stop to package and market it. That I don’t think was in his own nature. All of which is why when seeing Dale Jr. today I simply said, “Man, they truly broke the mold with your dad.” Mr. Critz came from a time before cookie cutters. He was made with a mold of men that is rarer to find. Some of that is just the natural turn, but makes you wish that molds such as his didn’t get lost or broken as the world needs more men and leaders like the one they had in Dale Critz. Perhaps, just perhaps, God will take exception and look to him to model some more. God love him, and peace upon his family and friends. Thank you Mr. Critz for being true to us by being true to yourself most of all.

On a final personal note, if just for some kind of record later, I find it serendipitous that they will bury Mr. Critz on October 5, 2023 in Bonaventure Cemetery which is the same day as Diane “Dee” Sutlive’s birthday who was loved and adored by Dale & Lila, and she loved them both dearly. Dee is buried just 100 yards or so away from Dale. That’s good company. 
Fantastic Obituary of Dale Clements Critz Here from Fox & Weeks Funeral Home

Savannah Quality Auto that became Critz Auto Group (W. Bay & W. Broad St)

5 Nights of Halloween 2023 – Evolution, Full Moons & More (Part Two)

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“For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.”

― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

I’m not a particularly scare-fest person but I like a good cemetery. I’ve celebrated them for as long as I can remember. My “dark side” was shaped by being an introspective child who never craved scary experiences. I preferred reading about others who were famed for plumbing darker subjects. But I recall being fascinated, if not thrilled by Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Three Detectives” to the point of obsession. I found a kind of lust for the novel and film, “Escape To Witch Mountain,” and was delighted by “Return To Witch Mountain” and finally “Beyond Witch Mountain” I recall some sort of gothic esthetic was born in me, a strange passionate sensation that shaped my sense of life beyond explanation upon discovering the film “From The Mixed Up Files of Basil E. Frankweiler.” That one somewhat terrified me as much as it intrigued same time and think it was a mistake to watch it alone on a Saturday in my basement. Throw in “Something Wicked Way This Comes,” along with endless episodes of The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of, and every Hardy Boys’ book with just a touch of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, and there’s not much more that one needs to understand who I was made into well before high school. In fact, if you’d told me by age 13 that there was nothing else past some Chronicles of Narnia and a few Stephen King books to come along and at that moment I’d been given the option of being locked in a room with just all of those things for the rest of my life, I’d 100% snatched that key from the offering hand to never be heard from again! But as no such opportunity or framing of the world was presented as such, I drifted on to become the artsy goth kid who eventually took a job in a Victorian cemetery in my hometown. And the rest is his-story so to say. I became The Cemetery Man of my own design.