How can you write an obit without knowing someone? You can’t!

Recently, I lost a friend of 32 years, and he is dearly missed. We laughed, we cried, we fought and made up, only to grow closer through the years. We had opinions about everyone and everything: some good, some bad and some downright terrible … those are the ones we laughed at the most. Doesn’t everyone?

During his 74 years, he was a husband, a father, a grandfather, a dear friend to many and a best friend to his family, the Ruscios.

Throughout his employment, he sold advertising and automobiles, fed half of Franklin County on special occasions and guarded the kitchen inmates at the Franklin County Jail (as it was known back then). He loved to cook but hated most foods — how he catered is a mystery to me, but year after year he and his best friend, Joe, pleased the palettes of repeat clients and friends.

They were great cooks.

He loved to entertain in years gone by, he loved antiques, he read The Recorder and The Boston Post from cover to cover daily and added a third on Sunday. He subscribed to multiple food magazines and would pore over them while ripping out recipes that he never tried.

He loved the Cape and went yearly, taking his books (he was an avid reader) and the makings for a great martini. He loved the Kennedys and made many trips to scope out the Kennedy compound. He was fascinated with them.

He enjoyed looking at homes, especially the ones with a sign saying “Keep Out.” He’d wait until he figured no one was home; then he’d drive up the driveway to take a peek. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who was infatuated with real estate books, and he didn’t care where they came from. … Each year, I brought some back from Virginia Beach.

He adored the Ruscios’ two grandkids, and the window over his sink overflowed with pictures of them. Whenever he spent time with them, he always brought two packages of Goldfish and M&M’s and shopped Magical Child for their gifts. He called Noni (Joe’s mother) daily to compare scratch tickets and their aches and pains. She was one of his favorites.

He was known for his great sense of humor and, sometimes, his caustic remarks, and he drove around Greenfield daily tooting and waving to anyone he knew … including many of his “kitchen inmates” from the jail, who still referred to him as Mr. Jordan.

As for me, I called him my stalker, because he found me no matter where I was while in town. He was a pain in my butt when he annoyed me — his housekeeper for many years, his confidant and shoulder to cry on, and most importantly, long-time friend.

His wish was to be cremated, and he wanted his ashes to join his brother’s in the waters of his beloved Cape Cod.

Donald Jordan, Don, D.J. and Big Boy (my special name for him) ,your heartaches are over and your pain is gone. Rest well, my dear, dear friend. I will never forget you.

Sheila Quinlivan lives in Winchester, N.H.