We lost a giant of a man this past weekend. Not a giant in stature, even though his was considerable, but a giant of quiet dignity, incredible strength and endurance, and a bottomless reserve of human kindness, charity and understanding. Jenny’s father, Phillip Leonard Baldwin, Leonard as he was known, passed away in the early morning hour of February 8th. If you’ve ever wondered how that deep well of goodness, inherent in Jenny in all aspects was formed, you need look no further than her kind and loving parents.

Leonard stood six feet three and was as strong as an ox, yet gentle as a lamb. In the forty-five years that I was given the privilege to know him, I never once heard him use a curse word or utter a derogatory comment about a fellow human being. He was the foundational rock of his family and a loving and giving parent, grandparent, surrogate grandparent and great-grandparent. He was a carpenter and a craftsman, a true renaissance man who actually looked the part. He had an indelible presence and he genuinely appeared as someone who could have stepped out of the canvas of one of the paintings of the great masters he so admired. Either that or a Biblical figure. He would have made a great John the Baptist in a theatrical study of the life of Christ.

He was the youngest of a large brood of siblings whose mother as a child actually travelled by covered wagon. Yet somehow, in defiance of time, here was Leonard, walking through the first quarter of the 21st Century. His father was a preacher, who in the racially divided years of the early-mid 20th Century, would leave his humble church to travel and preach at the humble churches of the neighboring African American communites. The Baldwin strength, dignity and dedication were apparently generational traits. Leonard could trace his family history all the way back to the Revolution and beyond. To hear the family legends you’d think they were characters straight out of a novel by Steinbeck, or maybe Michener.

As an offspring of 20th Century immigrants, I would often tease Jenny that a family with such deep roots in America had plenty of time to establish an empire that we might have enjoyed the profits of, but these were better people than that. Wealth and power were not their goals but instead, service and family. They were of noble stock, dedicated to the service of others, of service to country. Leonard’s three brothers all served in either the Army Air Corps or the Air Force as pilots. His eldest brother was killed in the line of duty in a tragic plane crash. Leonard himself, was a Cold War veteran of the Navy who served on an aircraft carrier while maintaining the types of planes his brothers flew. He was proud of his service and liked to tell how his Mediterranean shore leaves allowed him to walk in the footsteps of the Apostle Paul. They were the Americans of the past that we all look to and long for today.

Leonard’s working life as a carpenter was one of precision and hardy energy. The fact that he labored in the same trade as Jesus is not lost on those who knew him. He was proud of his work. He had many passions beyond the job and he approached each effort with the same exacting attention to detail. Among the many structures around the city of St. Louis that still bear the mark of his trowel, hammer and chisel are homes, schools, hospitals and businesses. Unseen are the countless calculations and improvisations that he contributed to the completion of projects. Projects that he rendered as a construction superintendent, job overseer and occasional architect. Probably his crowning achievement and one of which I know he was humbly proud, was his work as a superintendent in charge of the renovation and restoration of The Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis in the mid-1980’s. Working for G. T. Lawlor Construction, he was responsible for a variety of efforts toward the improvement and reconstruction of the cathedral’s exterior. Work that helped eliminate the progression of a moisture problem that was disintegrating the granite walls and roof. His work took him to most every nook and cranny, both inside and outside the structure.

While working on the project for seven plus years, he at one point was asked to personally remove several large sections of old plaster paintings, depicting the Resurrection of Christ. The scene was located in the east transept and the paintings and underlying plaster had to be removed to make way for the final, magnificent mosaics, designed by artist Mary Reardon, that now occupy both east and west transepts. As I recall, the archdiocese retained the image of Christ’s face for their historical archives, along with the faces of maybe an angel or two. Leonard, knowing that the remainder of the scene was to be destroyed, asked if he might not cut out and rescue one additional angel on his own time. That angel’s face, of heavy plaster adhered to a skeleton of iron screen and rebar, now graces our dining room wall. All two hundred or so pounds of it. The wooden case he built to house and protect this relic was almost a work of art on its own, but that was Leonard in a nutshell. Nothing was done half-heartedly. Though in the business of construction and destruction, he couldn’t stand to see that history completely reduced to rubble. Even if it were making way for the current world famous mosaics.

Sometime around 1985, while still working on the project, he took Jenny and I on a behind the scenes tour of the cathedral. We climbed a network of old stairs and ladders in essentially what would be considered the attic space of the building. It was dark and dusty and musty as I remember it, but fascinating too. He guided us to a point where we were peering through a small opening at the apex of the main dome, down onto the pews and altar below, which from that vantage point looked to be a mile beneath us. After that we climbed one final ladder to emerge in the open air of the cupola atop the dome for a view of St. Louis that I will never forget.

He built both fireplace mantels in our current home, the one in the kitchen a true replica of one in Abraham Lincoln’s Springfield home. Leonard was handy that way, all you had to say was, “I want a mantel like old Abe Lincoln’s,” and before you knew it, there it was. Whatever he built, it was built to last and I am confident that some of his indestructible, solid and pleasingly-functional furniture will be around and in use for decades to come, if not centuries. As a master of his vocation, in 1983 he was presented the Craftsmanship Award by The St. Louis Chapter of The American Institute of Architects.

If all of this weren’t enough, upon retirement he took up oil painting. He enjoyed watching and learning much from Bob Ross on PBS. Being a quick study, he was ready to graduate from those pastoral scenes in no time. A fan of C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower series, he was soon painting elegant tall ships and painting them with vibrancy and majesty. He would paint anything that pleased him, tackling faithful reproductions of the works of artists as diverse as Frederic Remington and Johannes Vermeer. Whatever he attempted, he attempted with the passion and dedication of a true artist.

His favorite artist of all and his most copied, was Vincent Van Gogh. Leonard, being a sensitive man, was touched deeply by Vincent’s desperate, harrowing and inspired life. He painted accurate and beautiful reproduction of dozens upon dozens of Van Gogh’s works. Our home has several on our walls and many more are scattered around the country as treasured keepsakes of children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews and cousins. He once made a painting for a plumber who visited their home on the job and offhandedly commented that he liked Leonard’s artwork. That is the kind of man he was.

In his later years, Leonard was confined to a wheelchair with only limited use of his legs. Where many men would have retreated into despair and bitter sullenness, Leonard instead took it in stride and simply continued doing the same things he had aways done, albeit from a much more awkward position. Home repairs, his hobbies, copious amounts of yard work; they were all done from a wheelchair. He planted flowers, he watered and weeded, he even raked leaves and wheeled full yard waste bags up to the curb. He did manual labor from that chair that would put many a twenty-year old, young man to shame. And as with everything else, I never once heard him complain about his plight. His strength was enormous.

It was from that chair that Leonard spent the last two years of his life, caring for his beloved Eleanor. Eleanor suffered a debilitating stroke in late winter, 2024. A stroke that could have easily justified a move to a nursing care facility. Leonard wouldn’t have it. He was determined to let Eleanor remain in the comfortable and familiar surrounding of her own home. And it was with great care, occasional calamity and the willing help of his wonderful family that he was able to do just that. It was all hands on deck for he, his children and grandchildren and through their combined generous love and commitment, they made it work. Until finally, the stress and strain of the monumental effort, simply wore his heart down. It wasn’t a heart attack that claimed Leonard, but the exhaustion of a man who had given his full measure for the entirety of his existence.

The legacy of Phillip Leonard Baldwin is not found in the brick and mortar, that through his skill will stand for years unknown. It is not in his paintings or his garden or his woodwork. His legacy will always be that of a scout leader and camping companion to his boys, Danny and Randy, and that of a hero to his girls, Jenny and Becky. His legacy will be that of a loving protector of his wife, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He was only ever about his family, from first to last, from beginning to end; and this will remain his most remarkable accomplishment.