This respectful act is one reason.
Kimberly Marlowe Hartnett's reviews, news, theories and quibbles.
Archives for Death
A fitting tribute
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I woke up thinking about some friends, who today must put their beloved dog to sleep. It is time, they all know it, but it is so hard to say goodbye to such a faithful companion.
I have a wonderful book called The Book of Eulogies: A Collection of Memorial Tributes, Poetry, Essays an Letters of Condolence, edited by essayist Phyllis Theroux. (You may remember her from Jim Lehrer’s NewsHour.) If it sounds like a downer, it isn’t. It has some funny, touching, wonderful and revealing bits of writing by and about people from all walks of life. There are a few eulogies for departed animals as well.
One of the pieces was published in 1931 by E.B. White, author of acres of columns for The New Yorker, as well as Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, Trumpet of the Swan and other books. (And for my money, one of the best writers to come out of America.) It was a eulogy for his beloved dog Daisy.
White begins this way:
“Daisy died December 22, 1931, when she was hit by a Yellow Cab on University Place. At the moment of her death she was smelling the front of a florist’s stoop. It was a wet day, and the cab skidded up over the curb–just the sort of excitement that would have amused her had she been at a safer distance. She is survived by her mother, Jeannie; a brother, Abner; her father, whom she never knew; and two sisters, whom she never liked. She was three years old.”
Anyone who has written an obituary or a eulogy has experienced the “what-will-they-say-about-me?” moment. None of us could hope for a better send-off than White’s last line about Daisy:
“She died sniffing life, and enjoying it.”
Teddy (1932-2009)
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We all called him by his first name, a nickname, really, and our parents never corrected us. In Massachusetts, we had the Kennedy Seat and we had an extra one for other people who wanted to run for the Senate. Teddy was a given, like four seasons and Plymouth Rock and sales tax.
He didn’t have the panache of John or the drive of Robert. He was the younger brother always trying to live up to what the Old Man would have wanted. He was the sometime-fuckup who drove drunk, cheated on an exam; who married the prettiest girl and then sneaked out on her. He might wake up with a ferocious hangover, but he put on his work clothes and went to the job he’d signed on for. He was just like us. He was one of us.
We mourned his fallen brothers, but Teddy was the guy who bought the round, who came to the funerals, who took care of his own. We watched him age, just like our fathers did, just like we did. He put on weight, his hair turned white. He quit tomcatting and settled down with a good woman. Whenever one of the Kennedy clan stumbled, or fell, he was the one who stood at the front of the church and explained the unexplainable.
In the end, Senator Kennedy had done more for America than all his brothers and sisters combined. He was braver and tougher than the Old Man.
Whenever we looked, he was on the job; he had our backs and we will always love him for it.
The hand of the diligent maketh rich
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Long before organized religion in America was infiltrated by evangelical-meets-Amway versions of Christian leaders, there was Reverend Ike.
Long before “Right-wing” and “Christian” were inexorably linked, decades before the Messiah was co-opted as bumper-sticker content, and a generation before the presumptuous question, What Would Jesus Do? was abbreviated (WWJD?) on millions of imitation-silver bracelets, there was the Rev. Frederick J. Eikerenkoetter II.
This larger-than-life minister, a self-made African-American Billy Graham-meets-P.T. Barnum, who preached personal gain as a direct result of devotion to God, died last week at age 74.
The New York Times quotes him: “Close your eyes and see green…Money up to your armpits, a roomful of money and there you are, just tossing around in it like a swimming pool.”
They heard, they closed their eyes, they saw green, and they sent a lot of it to Reverend Ike.
The IRS and the US Postal Service turned over every rock in the Reverend’s yard, looking for a way to nail the founder of the United Church of Jesus Christ for All People, for his stable of fine cars and lavish homes. They didn’t deter him or dampen his devotees’ enthusiasm. The man lifted his church and radio listeners way up. Reverend Ike talked of something beyond original sin and the long wait for the Promised Land. He distracted them from the here-on-earth realities of bigotry and want. He spoke the universal language of success, the creed of capitalism and the benediction of upward mobility.
It is a safe bet that no one dozed off during Reverend Ike’s sermons. As writer Christopher Lehmann-Haupt points out in The New York Times:
“Reverend Ike could be an electric preacher, whether at the old theater or on the road appearing before standing-room-only audiences. And he could make his congregations laugh, drawing on the Bible to drive home his message about the virtues of material rewards. ‘If it’s that difficult for a rich man to get into heaven,’ he would often say, citing Matthew, ‘think how terrible it must be for a poor man to get in. He doesn’t even have a bribe for the gatekeeper.’ “
Organized religion may well have once been the opiate of the masses. These days, when the opiate of the masses is well, opiates, a guy offering up some lively pastoral rhetoric doesn’t seem so awful.
Progress and social change in America have always been driven by religious movements and leaders. A lot of that change has been painful, much of it good. Commandment-embracer or nonbeliever, you can thank someone in a pulpit for some of your nearby food banks, transitional housing, health clinics and daycare.
And we can all mourn the passing of a man who put on a good show, and who figured God wouldn’t mind if we piled up a little treasure here on earth, not just in heaven.
Filed under Death, Organized Religion
Jul 31, 2009
Just Ed
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Get ready to read and hear the phrase “second banana” repeated a million times over the next few days. The death of Ed McMahon, the most famous sidekick in broadcasting history, is the reason.
The man McMahon sat next to for almost 30 years was my all-time favorite television figure. I mourned his death like a beloved uncle. To be honest, McMahon used to be a bit of a distraction. Any sentence he uttered meant that was one less I could hear from my hero.
But McMahon was an important part of the mix. On the rare nights that he was missing from the second chair, the show just wasn’t as crisp. When the joke was on him, as it often was, McMahon wasn’t a fall guy. He was a funny guy, and there’s a difference. It seems to me he deserves at least one obit in which he does not have to share billing with the Man behind the desk.
He was a hustler, McMahon was. He shilled for any number of brands and clients, from dog food to sweepstakes. He was a 1950s-era salesman at heart. He was also a type found in the early days of television: someone who came to the medium because he was a good talker, a clever wit and would grab any break that came along.
He was also a decorated combat veteran. In this and other ways that are less openly admired, he was a real survivor. He did work he loved, he did it well, and he did it for a long time.
Godspeed, Ed.
Filed under Death, TV & Radio
Jun 23, 2009
A Day In Which Our Heroine Uses a Magic Bed to Meet a Hells Angel
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When I saw the obit for John Houghtaling in the NYimes today, I had to laugh. No disrespect meant to the family of the late Mr. H., but the headline took me back to a memorable event: “Inventor of Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed, Dies at 92.”
My first and only experience with one of these coin-operated vibrating beds was in, of all places, Montpelier, Vermont, around 1978. I was a (very) young staff writer for The Associated Press, based in Concord, NH. As the least-senior staffer, I was sent to Montpelier as vacation relief several times that summer.
I don’t remember much about my work, other than being generally terrified that someone would notice that I was way over my head. Alone in the bureau, I spent a sweaty few moments trying to figure out (in those pre-Internet days) if commas went inside or outside of quotation marks. At 2 a.m. in Montpelier, there were not a lot of ways to get an answer. The other thing I recall is that the keyboards on the Vermont computers were slightly different than the Concord ones, and every time I’d try to hit the return key to make a new paragraph, I would wipe out the last sentence I’d typed.
But, these mental challenges aside, I understood that I was on a Real Adventure. The AP put me up in a motel nearby–the kind with the doors right on the parking lot. When I arrived, every other room was occupied by bikers and biker chicks, all wearing Hells Angels leathers (with that famous sans-apostrophe logo). I slipped past them, and locked myself in the room.
There, in all its glory, was a Magic Fingers Bed. For the uninitiated, let me explain. These beds were touted as “sleep aids” — and you slipped a quarter in the coin box in order to get a few minutes of gentle vibrating. Of course, people found the vibes more conducive to other bedtime activities as well. I knew this, being a sophisticated woman of the world and all, but this was the first time I’d come face-to-pillow with one of the real deals. Naturally, I had to try it.
So, I slipped a quarter in the slot and waited for the thrill. The Magic Fingers motor hummed for a few seconds and then kicked on. All hell broke loose. If you’ve never heard a queen-size bed with a metal frame slam itself against a pine-paneled motel-room wall, you’ve never heard real noise. I’m sure I rose off the mattress like a cartoon figure: still horizontal and three feet in the air.
To make matters worse, this was a more-for-your-money version of the Magic Fingers bed, apparently. It ran for a full 15 minutes, hurling itself against the shuddering wall. Five minutes into it, I could hear the bikers next door cheering. Something along the lines of “Go get ‘er!” as I recall.
When the thing quit, it took an hour for my heart rate to return to normal, and I spent a tense night half expecting the thing to rev up again.
I emerged from my room very early the next morning, and some of the bikers were packing up their saddlebags for the day’s ride up north. One of the grizzled guys looked over at me with a big grin. “Well, honey,” he said, “You sure sounded a lot more fun than you look.”
So, to the family of John Houghtaling, I will just say this: My condolences. He invented something worth remembering.
Filed under Death
Jun 20, 2009
Who’s in charge around here?
I’m a former daily newspaper journalist who worked in the Pacific Northwest and New England. Now a book reviewer, writer, editor, iMac user.
Read more in the About section.
Email me at kimberly@typelikethewind.com
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