Whose name was Ted?
For some people, his name mattered. For many of you, it didn’t—at least not until I mentioned it.
To me, Ted was a mentor. A guide. A friend.
He was one of those rare people who enters your life at exactly the right time and quietly changes the direction of it.
We all have a Ted.
Their name may not be Ted. It may be a parent, a coach, a teacher, a boss, a neighbor, or a friend. It’s that person you can talk to about things you’re afraid to tell anyone else. The conversations that feel uncomfortable. The ones where you’re worried you’ll be judged, laughed at, or misunderstood.
Ted never did any of that.
What Ted cared about was simple.
How could he help John become a better man?
He knew my struggles long before I understood them myself. He knew I battled dyslexia. He knew I bounced from school to school. He knew that as a young man I often used my fists when I couldn’t find the words. He knew I wanted an education. He knew I wanted more from life.
Most importantly, he believed I could get there.
He would nudge me along in subtle ways.
“Have you listened to this piece of music?”
“Have you read this?”
“Have you thought about it this way?”
He never forced anything. He simply opened doors and let me walk through them.
Ted taught me things that a kid from the streets never would have known.
He taught me about Scotch and brandy. Not drinking for the sake of drinking, but appreciating the craftsmanship behind it. He taught me about wine and how to notice the color, the aroma, and the way it moved in the glass.
He even taught me how to smoke a cigar.
Not because those things mattered by themselves.
Because he was teaching me something bigger.
Culture.
Curiosity.
Elegance.
He wanted me to understand that there was a larger world beyond the one I grew up in.
I met Ted through work. He was my boss before he became my friend.
After work we would go to dinner. We’d sit for hours talking about life. He told me about his wife and how deeply he loved her. She had been gone for more than fifteen years when I met Ted, yet he never entered another relationship.
His love for her never faded.
I admired that.
He taught me that real love isn’t always measured by how long someone is with you. Sometimes it’s measured by how deeply they remain with you after they’re gone.
This week my phone rang.
I looked down and saw his name.
“Ted.”
I smiled.
“Hey Ted, how’s it going? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
But it wasn’t Ted.
It was his son.
His voice sounded so much like his father that for a moment I didn’t realize.
Then he told me.
Ted was gone.
For almost thirty years, he had been part of my life.
He bought every book I ever wrote. He handed them out to family and friends. He proudly told people, “My friend John wrote this.”
What Ted probably never fully understood was that he was one of the reasons I became a writer.
For years I would tell him, “One day I’m going to write a book.”
And every time he’d say, “Then start today.”
I’d laugh and tell him nobody wanted to read my stories.
He’d smile and say, “Someone will.”
When I doubted myself, Ted believed in me.
Looking back now, I think he saw the writer long before I did.
He encouraged curiosity. He encouraged creativity. He encouraged me to think beyond the limits I had placed on myself.
Even as his eyesight failed and reading became difficult, he still bought every book.
That’s what friends do.
Ted was more than a friend.
He was a mentor.
A beacon of light.
Someone who often understood me better than I understood myself.
He introduced me to the symphony. We bought season tickets and attended performances together. He taught me to appreciate the layers of music, the instruments, the coordination, the emotion behind every note.
When he couldn’t attend, he’d tell me to take a young lady and enjoy the evening.
That was Ted.
Always finding ways to enrich someone else’s life.
We listened to vinyl records.
We debated philosophy.
Business.
Politics.
Life.
Sometimes we disagreed completely.
But we always respected each other.
Years ago, when I moved away from Vancouver, I left many people behind.
Ted was one of the few I never truly left.
Every time I returned home, we met at White Spot.
He would order a burger, even though the doctors told him not to.
We’d drink coffee for hours and catch up on life.
And before we’d leave, he’d always tell me he was proud of me.
Those words mattered more than he ever knew.
Right now, writing this is harder than I expected.
Not because I’m heartbroken.
Because I’m sad.
I was planning to see him again this year.
I was three months too late.
I can almost hear him now saying,
“Why would you write all this about me?”
And then quietly adding,
“Thank you.”
Ted, I love you.
Thank you for the wisdom.
Thank you for the friendship.
Thank you for believing in me before I fully believed in myself.
You were ninety-one years old.
And yet somehow, it still feels like you left too soon.
The next time I sit with a good book, listen to a symphony, enjoy a glass of Scotch, or share wisdom with a younger person, I’ll think of you.
Because the greatest mentors never really leave us.
They simply become part of who we are.
Your Friend and Student,
Rinaldo
Thank you for reading. This work is reader-supported, and your presence here matters.
About the Author
The Positive Pen by John Rinaldo is a weekly publication centered on soul work, reflection, and the quiet process of becoming. Through honest writing and lived experience, he explores what it means to grow, endure, and find your voice.
He also hosts the live podcast The Positive Pen: Stories, Soul Work & Substack, where writers, authors, and artists share their journeys through meaningful, real conversations. The show airs every Monday at 4 PM EST.
John is currently working on Ciao Bella: Forgotten in the Shadows, a documentary project telling the story of Italian families who, during World War II, risked everything to help Jewish families escape to safety across the Alps.
© 2026 John V. Rinaldo. All rights reserved.
This work is protected under U.S. and international copyright law. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, displayed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission. Official publications are released only through verified accounts directly controlled by John V. Rinaldo.
What a heartfelt tribute. We all need a Ted in our lives.
Sorry to hear Ted is no longer with you as a physical presence, but the way you write about him I'm sure you will continue to hear whispers from him across time. He sounds like a very special soul.