Category: Life

Written by Gary Tucker

As anyone who received one of his infamous Christmas letters will attest, Michael Nelson never met a page limit that he couldn’t break. In keeping with his inimitable style of paying no heed to inconsequential things like expenses and word-counts, we shall strive to honor and recount the life of this true original without worrying (too much) about the bottom line. 

But Michael would have objected to our burying the lede, so to get all the factoids out of the way: Born in Garden City, Michigan, he was raised in Westland, 16miles outside of Detroit. Michael earned his BA (a major in English with a concentration in drama and a minor in art history) from Oakland University in Rochester, MI, where he met his lifelong friend Lisa Mills Walters with whom he shared a love of musical theatre and arcane trivia. A year later, in the summer of 1978, he moved to Seattle, shortly after King Tut took up residence at the Seattle Center Flag Pavilion. Unlike the Boy King, Michael stayed and planted his roots here. He made his home – rather, he made many homes – in Seattle over the next 45 years. While he dreamed of ultimately retiring in Palm Springs, he had to settle for dying there instead. An inveterate obit-reader, Michael often complained when a write-up failed to mention the cause of death, so for the record, let’s say he died from a severe case of hospital. Good friend Jennifer Davis and his beloved husband, David Updike, were by his side. 

Michael held a variety of jobs in his early years in Seattle – most entertainingly, for his friends, being a long stint in the City of Seattle Department of Licensing – but he truly found his calling in 1982 when he purchased a dilapidated house at the corner of 22nd and John, named it, audaciously, East Egg, and set about restoring it himself. East Egg became the site of countless parties, dinners, and celebrations, with a rotating cast of roommates (Michael, Gary Tucker, and Surrey Tribble were the best of the bunch.) Restoring East Egg lit a spark in Michael that pushed him into the world of real estate. First hired by Matt Carroll, owner of Greenlake Realty in 1987, Michael and David quickly forged a successful real estate partnership, counseling and guiding countless buyers and sellers over the years, many of whom became lifelong friends. In 1997 Michael was hired as the managing broker of the Windermere Eastlake office, overseeing and supporting its agents during his 26-year career there. Like the connections he made with his clients, he formed a unique, personal connection with agents and was instrumental in helping them build successful businesses. And while most people knew him as a manager, one could say that “homeowning” was his true career, and he did it with a vengeance, buying and remodeling ten different homes (“This one is definitely our last”) which he and David lived in amidst construction squalor and subsequent splendor…before inevitably selling, moving, and starting all over again. (“THIS one is definitely our last!”) All of his home projects were done with incredible thought, impeccable taste, and not a pinched penny in sight. (To outsiders, Michael and David seemed to be perpetually on the brink of financial disaster, because – as Michael would say – what’s the use of having great taste if you don’t enjoy it?) True to form, Michael and David’s last home project, in Palm Springs, is still one kitchen shy of completion. 

Michael had a complex, analytical, highly organized and opinionated mindset. (Just try to convince him he was wrong about anything.) He loved to give directions and he loved a good-sized planning calendar.  

When Michael turned 30 in 1985, his (three-page) birthday party invitation included a 20-point list of lessons he’d learned over the past three decades that he chose to share with one and all. (“ONE: It is always a good idea to carry a book or magazine or newspaper with you at all times. TWO: Having a full head of hair is terrifically unimportant. THREE: Pets, real pets (fish and birds and things like that do not count) are more than just nice to have, they are essential. FOUR: Jobs do not matter, they are only a means to an end.” And on and on.) 

Also in 1985, David came along. Michael had placed an ad in the personals section of the Seattle Weekly (thank you Larry Woods-Palmer!) Interested parties actually had to write a letter (by hand) and mail it in to the newspaper!) Surrey and Gary observed Michael’s methodical way of filing the responses into separate categories – woe be unto ye who included spelling or grammatical errors – and winnowing out the few who merited replies. Somehow, miraculously, David passed muster, and Michael was smitten almost immediately. They met on Feb 12, 1985 (which he had tattooed on his arm) and legally married 29 years later to the day. 

As Michael gained clients and hired service people and construction crews and suppliers, he built an incredible army of colleagues and friends that he was fiercely, loyally dedicated to. You could always count on Michael as a trusted referral service for contractors, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, construction crews, you name it. Almost all of Michael’s referrals usually started with Joe and Kim of JAS Design Build, and Nathan of KERF Design, who, after initially wondering what they had gotten themselves into, patiently and happily put up with their exacting, smart, always entertaining client year after year and home after home after home. 

Michael’s art collecting began in 1988 when Greg Kucera encouraged him to buy his first piece. That began a lifelong love of art appreciation and acquisition which enhanced their homes and brightened their lives. He also collected friends like today’s influencers collect followers. (Not everyone was a fan: some folks found him too gruff, or couldn’t understand his bone-dry sense of humor.) Everyone though, at one point or another, got added to his prodigious mailing list, which eventually led to…The Letter.  

At the end of 1988, Michael sent out a cheery one-page letter with a wall calendar to all of his friends and clients. It was well-received, and the next year came with another calendar and another letter, this time six pages. It continued to hover around the chatty 6-12 page range for several years, but in 2003 The Letter weighed in at 20 pages, and from that point on, Michael’s output could not be stopped. Friends would contact each other during the holiday season to exclaim “The Letter arrived: It’s 24 pages this year!” It reached its maximum length in 2015 with a whopping 30-page edition. Michael’s dear friend Merritt Green was annually tasked with proofreading each opus before it went to press (much to Lisa’s and her red pen’s chagrin.) Despite their girth, Michael’s letters were always entertaining, audacious, mind-boggling, opinionated, and eminently readable. Old friends never had to ask how Michael and David’s year was, because it was all laid out in (excessive) detail on the pages of The Letter. It will be a sadder, quieter December 2023 without the next edition. 

Michael loved his routines, his morning coffee and his evening cocktail, the New York Times (print, never digital) and action movies (but not fantasy films and most definitely not animated features or, as he called them, “cartoons.”) He loved receiving mail in a post office box. He did everything better, more creatively, and with complete passion. He was a dedicated home cook, clipped countless recipes from the New York Times, hosted decades of fantastic dinner parties and Thanksgivings, and made the best mac and cheese from scratch, never a box. His passion for remodeling and design extended to landscaping, giving equal thought and time into each home’s gardens, including larger and more intricate koi ponds, unusual fences, metal work, and a vast assortment of trees and plants. Every one of his (many) tattoos came with a story, and he could give hour-long tours of his garden. He could just as easily quote from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” as from People magazine. And while he loved Seattle and planned to retire to Palm Springs, Michael’s favorite city was definitely New York: Michael and David could cram more shows and meals and sights into a visit to the Big Apple – usually accompanied by their dearest friends Rebecca Evans and Cherese Campo – than seemed humanly possible. He was wickedly funny, occasionally exasperating, generous with his time and knowledge, a mentor, a mensch, a terror, and a teddy bear. 

For the past 14 years, Michael was bedeviled with a series of serious health issues that we’re opting to not delve into, but suffice it to say that he remained stoic and fought like a warrior, even as they whittled away at his ability to live life as fully as he loved.  

Michael was preceded in death by his parents, Edwin “Mike” and Mildred “Eileen” Nelson. He is survived by his husband, David Updike, sister Lynn (Hugh) DeVoll and their sons, Travis and Kyle; cousins Marsha Mumm, Susan Mumm, and Mark Mumm; Aunt Geraldine Mumm; his beloved Weimaraners, Opal and Daisy; his trusted, much loved office manager, Tracie McGovern; the entire Windermere family of agents, support staff, managers, and owners, and an enormous circle of friends.  

The world is a far less interesting place without Michael Dennis Nelson, and his loving friends already miss him madly. In accordance with his wishes, Michael will be transformed into soil through the services of Recompose. (For more information about human composting, visit recompose.life.)  

“We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good 
We’ll do the best we know. 
We’ll build our house and chop our wood 
And make our garden grow.” 

David and I subscribe to both the New York Times and the Seattle Times.  A national newspaper and our local newspaper.  And by subscribe I do mean seven days a week, every day of the year, delivery of the physical papers to our front porch.  Lately the papers, delivered at the same time by the same man from his car, have been arriving late.  Too late.

(Long gone are the days of actual paperboys between the ages of 10 and 17 doing a few streets on their “route” in their neighborhood on bikes or by foot.)

Since the new year started our papers have been late.  Yesterday, Saturday, the papers didn’t arrive until after 8:00 AM.  We are up at 6:00 AM.  David kept saying he was going to call the NYT and complain.  I said it might be better to complain to the delivery guy.

Today I walked into the kitchen at 8:20 AM and I see David at the kitchen table having his morning espresso and reading on his iPad and the first thing he says to me (after “Good Morning” of course) was, “The fucking papers aren’t here yet and I have to leave for my gym by 9:00 o’clock!”  His “morning experience” was being ruined.  So I make my cappuccino, put on sweatpants & a sweatshirt, slip on my yard shoes, and I walk outside.  Frost.  Everywhere.  It may be 8:40 AM but it’s still cold in Seattle.  But I don’t mind.  I think about waking up in Palm Springs.  Finally, after pacing back and forth for ten minutes, I think to myself how absolutely nutty most people would think this is.  Nutty that we don’t want to read the news on our laptops or phones or iPads AND SUPER NUTTY that I’d wait in the cold to scold our “paperboy.”  Yet there I was.

David finally did leave for his gym.  A minute or so later my phone rings and it’s David saying, “I saw him, he’s heading south on Flora just past Eddy delivering now.”  David didn’t want me to miss him.  At 8:57 AM his car pulls up at our house and he gets out with the two papers.   He sees me, likely as a lone cranky nut drinking coffee in the street when it’s freezing cold out, and looks chagrined.  I approach with my iPhone held up showing the time as 8:57 AM and me pointing at that time.  I just said this is way too late.  He started to say something and I said and it was way too late yesterday also.  It’s been late all year and it seems to be getting later.  I told him we have been up since 6:00 AM (well, one of us has) and in our minds this is a full 3 hours late.  I told him we could cancel and read it on our devices if he can’t do better.  I did not tell him how unlikely that was to ever happen, it’s a completely different experience, one that we both don’t like.  Nor did I remind him that I’m one of the households that mails him a significant tip along with a calendar for the next year every December.

There’s no point to this other than me amusing myself with the clear vision of David and I getting more cranky and more grumpy as we age.  If we’re like this at 62 what does 71 hold in store?

“When a man tells you he’s going to take care of something you don’t have to remind him every six months.”

~ I walked over to Smoketree Plaza (Palm Springs) for lunch today.  I was sitting in Jersey Mike’s Subs having my sub and at the four top next to mine was a man, his wife, and their two late teenage looking sons.  I was reading a Dwell magazine so I wasn’t paying attention to the topic.  But I heard that sentence and loved it.  I immediately started saying it to myself with emphasis on different words and swapping out some words to see if I could improve upon it.  But no, as I heard it, straight, no hot words, just simple and plain, is the best version.

This is a really small thing but when it happens it makes me very happy.  I was just folding laundry and listening to NPR and then, at 2:44 PM, I heard those familiar musical notes and I realized I actually had the radio on at the exact moment Garrison Keillor was about to do The Writer’s Almanac.  It gives me such pleasure.  Sometimes I’ll be in my car returning from seeing property and as I pull in the garage at work I realize The Writer’s Almanac is about to come on.  I’ll actually sit in my parked car in a dark cold garage and text people or send emails for a few minutes until 2:44 PM.  Sometimes I’ll decide to get up from my desk at work and run an errand, or take a coffee break where I drive to get to the coffee, just to be in my car at 2:44 PM  Simple pleasures.  Even better is David loves this too.  Not long ago I realized I was married to someone who also knew exactly what time NPR would be broadcasting The Writer’s Almanac each day.