EDWARD BRINKERHOFF TAYLOR, JR.
Died February 14, 2013 in Martinsville Virginia, after a brief illness. Born March 20, 1936 on Staten Island, New York to Edward, Sr. and Marion Schuller Taylor, he was a completely self-made man, having always hustled to make his living. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he was honorably discharged from the Army and had a successful early career selling commercial printing presses. Honoring the example of his mother - one of New York's few lady stockbrokers in the Roaring 20's - he then began with D.C.'s Hayden-Stone and retired with A.G. Edwards over three decades later. Never quite reconciled with being tied to one place, he lived for many years on his boat in both Annapolis and Alexandria, frequently casting off to sail the eastern seaboard with friends. From a Schwinn bicycle bought as a boy with money earned in a butcher shop, to the massive Cadillacs of America's least fuel-efficient era, to a series of convertibles bought and wrecked in his retirement, Mr. Taylor always indulged a fondness for a flashy set of wheels. He was an accomplished woodworker, bowl-turner and photographer, and enjoyed well-told tales (veracity optional), fine food, interesting company and passably decent red wine. Somewhat to his regret, he outlived a number of the more venerable restaurants of the capital region and Midtown Manhattan, of which he was a habitual patron. He lives on in two accomplished daughters, whose photographs graced his table - made with his own hands - to the end of his life, Monica Taylor Monday of Martinsville, Virginia and Jennifer Linda Taylor of Schaumburg, Illinois; one grandson and one granddaughter. He will be sorely missed by his son-in-law, Eric Helms Monday. Edward Taylor, or "ET" as he preferred, lived his life as he pleased, and the friendship of this delightful curmudgeon was much appreciated by those privileged to enjoy it. A lunch gathering for recollection and to reminiscence will be held in Washington later in the Spring, as Mr. Taylor emphatically loathed cold weather his entire life. As he would himself have said, with a slightly impish grin-and a decisive clink of Tanqueray on ice,
". . . end of story."