Too Soon to Say Goodbye

by Art Buchwald

  Within a couple of weeks after he and his family settled here in Washington, I brought Art together with another of my best pals, a man named Harry Dalinsky, universally known only as Doc, who ran the Georgetown Pharmacy at the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and O Street. For most of us, Doc was the unofficial mayor of Georgetown, dispensing wisdom, advice, cigars, jokes, psychiatric consultations, and newspapers to his friends and customers from Jack Kennedy on down. When the New York Herald Tribune wrote something Kennedy disliked, he officially banned the Trib inside the White House, while asking Arthur Schlesinger to pick up the regular White House copies on his way to work every morning for him to read on the Q.T.

  Doc and Art became inseparable, and one day I figured out why. Art decided to visit his old man, who was living in Flushing. He wanted company and asked me to come along. We were sitting in some restaurant near the New York airport when this guys shuffles in, the spit and image of Doc. It was Art’s dad.

  Well, Doc left us some years ago, and now Art is threatening to do the same thing.

  Maybe.

  Some day.

  No hurry, pal.

  By George Stevens, Jr.

  Mr. President, Laura, Mr. Secretary General, Your Excellencies, members of the Diplomatic Corps, President Chirac, and friends:

  I was thinking during the flyover by the Marine Corps Fighter Squadron a few moments ago just how remarkable is the journey of that boy from a foster home in Queens who persevered and made his way to the top of the literary and social scene in the United States. Today he has, as he did so often during his brilliant career, brought America and France closer together and made the world a more loving place.

  As everyone here knows, Art was a very modest—yes, we might even say a humble man. So he would be surprised that we are gathered here to overflowing in the National Cathedral for his memorial. His humility led him to believe, when he was planning each and every detail of his own memorial service, that all of his friends and admirers would fit into the Washington Hebrew Congregation on Macomb Street. I don’t recall ever seeing so many beautiful women at a memorial service as have come here today to honor Art. Your presence brings to mind the words that Art lived by: “The sword is mightier than the pen.”

  Throughout his life Art shunned the spotlight and was deeply embarrassed by praise and adulation, so I will fulfill his mandate and keep my remarks to just three minutes—an achievement that evaded Art’s grasp through a long life of toasts and speeches.

  I met Art on a balmy spring evening in 1957. He was sitting on the terrace of the Carlton Hotel on the Croisette during the Cannes Film Festival. The glamorous Greek star Irene Papas was at Art’s side. At the next table was the matador Luis Miguel Dominguín. People had faces in those days. Art had placed himself at the center of the European glamor scene, having gained fame for his wry coverage of the Monaco wedding of Princess Grace for the International Herald Tribune.

  When Art and I shook hands that night, I had no way of knowing that the smiling man with a cigar would bring joy into my life (and into the life of the woman I would later marry) for the next forty-nine years.

  All through those years Art’s sense of mischief brightened the days of his friends—there was always fun to be had. Whether we were meeting for lunch, for dinner, for tennis, or for a Redskins game, Artie came to play. Ed Wynn, the great comedian from the vaudeville era, used to say that some people had the gift of “thinking funny.” Art had that gift.

  It was that gift—paired with a keen understanding of human nature—that enabled him to become the brightest writer of American humor of his day. My father, an admirer of the great James Thurber, observed that Buchwald was just as funny as Thurber had been in The New Yorker, but Art had to do it three times a week.

  And that humor added spice to the lives of his friends. One day during the Jimmy Carter years we were having lunch at the Sans Souci, a small restaurant where all the diners had a view of everyone else. Art spotted Mike Blumenthal dining with Robert McNamara across the room. Blumenthal was Carter’s treasury secretary and had launched a crusade against expense account meals, vowing to stop deductions for the “three-martini lunch.” Art dispatched a waiter to deliver six martinis to the secretary’s table.

  In 1967 Bob and Ethel Kennedy gave a seventy-fifth birthday party for Averell Harriman. The guests were asked to come in a costume that represented some phase of Averell’s long life. It was Art’s idea to go to the Washington wax museum, where we made a deal with the owner. At the climactic moment of the evening Art called for a curtain to be drawn to reveal Averell’s friends from World War II, Winston Churchill, Joseph Stalin, and Franklin Roosevelt, seated side by side.

  Art presided in full ringmaster’s regalia for twenty years as the Master of Ceremonies and chief judge at the Hickory Hill Pet Show for the benefit of Junior Village. He was shameless in awarding prizes to the children of his friends, winning the lasting allegiance of their mothers. And for decades Art could be counted on to dress up as a rabbit each Easter Sunday. During his stay at the Washington Hospice, a long-lost friend sent him an 8-millimeter color film of the 1967 Easter egg hunt at his and Ann’s house on Hawthorne Street with vivid images of Robert Kennedy, Walter Lippmann, and David Brinkley talking to the amiable rabbit with horn-rimmed glasses and long bunny ears while youngsters scrambled across the lawn in search of the golden egg. The Easter memories of two generations of Washington children are indelibly tied to Art Buchwald.

  And many of those children have Art to thank for getting into the university of their choice. Art would write recommendations describing his friends’ children in hilarious letters that somehow made the applicant appear to be an individual of surpassing quality, and gave university presidents the opportunity to boast to friends about the great letter Art Buchwald wrote them. Art claims that no one he recommended was ever rejected.

  So, Artie, in the sad times and in the glad times, you were the very best of friends. You brightened our lives and eased our burdens at the same time you were using your unmatched skill as a political humorist to make life miserable for the scoundrels.

  It is easy to say this—Artie, you are the very best.

  By Ken Starr

  Art was family. From the moment I first met him I realized he was a unique human being.

  We met when Peter Stone urged Art to have lunch with me (which we did at the Laurent in New York City). I became his “financial guy,” as he referred to me, and, eventually, family.

  My father and my brothers and I had always read his column, and meeting our household legend was a treat.

  If you read Art’s column you knew Art, because it reflected his feelings, humor, angst, and very inner being.

  He was outraged by injustice, as loyal as any person you could imagine, and as irreverent as we all wish we could be.

  He loved life with a passion most of us only dream about. Ann, his children, his friends, and his column were the focal points of his life. His priorities were always right.

  He grew up in the Bronx, as I did, and he had that fierce sense of loyalty that most Bronxites have.

  He was a Marine, and they gave him a parade which was one of the proudest moments of his life.

  He did indeed walk with presidents, kings, and the rich and famous, and never changed who he was; simply, he was Art.

  If you knew Art, you met the most interesting people, who all were on a first-name basis with him. Position, fame, or wealth never entered the equation; the most powerful people in every field were merely Pete, Sandy, Ethel, Frank, Barbara, Bill, and on and on.

  When Paramount and Art were at the most intense part of the now famous “Buchwald Clause” lawsuit, Marty Davis, then head of Paramount, asked Art to be the key speaker at a charity event where Davis was receiving an award. And as with all his speaking engagements, he was brilliant. His speeches were original, hilarious, and not to be missed. (I should know—one year I told him I would attend all his speeches. I attended many that year, but h
e gave over thirty.)

  At dinner parties, everyone wanted the wit and wisdom of Buchwald, and the choice seats were always the ones to his right and left. Women loved him, and men reveled in his humor and insight.

  He touched people’s lives by paying for the education of their children, health insurance, vacations, and numerous other gifts merely because he wanted their lives to be better.

  He was at our home every Passover, joining in the service with the gusto of a teenager.

  He was the family photographer, taking pictures constantly, to the extent that my daughters thought Uncle Art was a photographer by profession. When they asked for a picture of him, he sent one taken of him in a bunny suit along with Janet Reno.

  We had an almost ritual lunch every month at the Four Seasons Grill Room, which was always a highlight. We discussed everything personal, business, and political; he was always the focal point of everyone there.

  Over the years I realized that the most special thing about Art, the thing that could never be replicated, was that he was Art. He was part of our family, but I discovered that he was part of at least a hundred other families. The phrase “Art is family” has been used so often by so many, and it was always true.

  So we haven’t just lost a writer, a columnist, a man who stood up for all of us, a friend and a confidant, we have lost an integral part of our family. We will miss you, Art, but to paraphrase one of your books: “We will always have you in our hearts.”

  By Dr. Michael A. Newman

  Art was an acquaintance before becoming my patient. Doc Dalinsky introduced me to Art at the Georgetown Pharmacy. Doc was a great character known and special to almost everyone who has spoken today. Doc was Art’s surrogate father. A few years later, Art, age fifty-four, and Ann became patients. We were together as patients, friends, and extended family for nearly thirty years. And in a way, Art, who resembled my father, who had died at age fifty-four, became a surrogate father to me.

  As a patient, Art was always a challenge. He was pleased to be a poster boy for depression, along with Mike Wallace and Bill Styron. As one of the “blues brothers,” he was a great advocate for mental health. He always supported psychotherapy and psychopharmacology; he made referrals and always followed up to see how someone was doing. However, when it came to physical fitness, he was less enthusiastic. In the early 1980s, with other patients, he joined a seven A.M. exercise program at the George Washington University gym. Art was actually working out, getting in shape, and even reluctantly giving up his cigars. Within a few months he looked great, he’d lost weight, and his blood pressure was lower. But he became profoundly depressed and was hospitalized for several weeks. There were several contributing factors, but as Art explained, “Mike, the fitness program and quitting cigars nearly killed me. Anyway, I figured out that the time I would spend exercising exceeded my increase in life span. It isn’t worth it.”

  Admonitions about diet, exercise, weight, blood pressure, etcetera, were always met with “Aw, I know, I know, but gee, a guy has to have some fun.” Going over the results of his physical exam and of various tests, scans, etcetera, I commented that he looked better in person than on paper. His response was, “That’s good; that’s good.” In 2000 he had a stroke, and while hospitalized, developed major medical complications so that for weeks he was critically ill. As is common for patients, he had no recollection of these events, and when later all was recounted to him, his response was, “Well, it sounds interesting, but I’m glad I don’t really remember being there.” He loved rehab with the attentive nurses, physical therapists, speech therapists, occupational therapists. He worked hard, was always flirtatious, and was always able to make the staff feel good. Of course they loved working with him. This was his modus operandi: to make people laugh, feel good, and like him. It always worked.

  These past two years were privately difficult, but publicly he always rose to the occasion. He had a progressive decline in kidney function, and dialysis was anticipated. He agreed, but wanted to spend the summer on Martha’s Vineyard with the friends who were his extended family. Medically he always did better on the Vineyard and came home in better shape. This fall [2005] he was preparing to begin dialysis, when he had the acute onset of a circulatory problem in his right leg due to emboli from an aneurysm of the popliteal artery, which eventually necessitated amputation of his right leg below the knee. He was uncertain about having the amputation but understood that dying of a gangrenous leg was not a good option, so that whatever his final decision would be, he should at least begin dialysis and proceed with the surgery. Again, it was his decision, and it was a good decision to proceed, as it enabled Art to have remarkable and extended final weeks with family and friends, colleagues, diplomats, his adoring public, and also recipients of the Art Buchwald Award given to the most irreverent student at the USC School of Journalism. He got letters and calls from around the world, including North Korea!

  Dialysis was stopped and Art entered the Washington Home and Hospice. Defying all medical expectations, his condition stabilized and in some ways improved. Again, he looked better in person than on paper. Patients with end stage renal disease are usually on a restricted diet. Abandoning any restrictions, Art ate with enthusiasm—McDonald’s breakfasts, blintzes, Reuben sandwiches, cheesecake, lemon pound cake; in effect, anything and everything—and enjoyed it all. The most therapeutic influence was the outpouring of love and attention from all of you here. Every day he would remark about who had visited, called, and written, and who was coming the next day. Medically the last weeks were simply of supportive palliative care by the extraordinary staff of the Washington Home and Hospice. This was the perfect venue for Art’s final appearance. What really made a difference was not medical technology or support but rather this tsunami of affection, appreciation, and love whose currents swept across his entire life. The boy from the orphanage, never sure if he would ever be loved, had at the end of his life the certainty of an abundance of love, and he loved this. He was also energized by being able to speak about dying, death, and beliefs about what might happen after death. In his most telling style, poignant and with good humor, he raised the issue and gave it focus. And once again his actions, interviews, and columns had great impact on so many.

  When Art died, it was a good death. He was comfortable and understood that in his very good and extraordinary life he had achieved his goal of being loved, and that was the very best therapy.

  By Joel Buchwald

  We are here to say goodbye to my father, a man who became a living icon in his chosen profession.

  He was born to Eastern European immigrants. He was the only boy, the youngest of four children. He never met his mother, and it was only three years ago that for the first time he visited her grave. Dad spent his childhood in foster homes, eventually running away to join the Marines as an underage volunteer during World War II. He did this in part to impress a girl. He never stopped trying to impress girls. The Marine Corps became a home for him. All his life, when he went for a haircut, he wanted a Marine-style haircut—short.

  Following the war, he entered USC along with thousands of other newly discharged GIs. When told that he couldn’t graduate because he didn’t have a high school diploma, he didn’t let that stop him from attending classes.

  After three years he left for the pleasures of Paris, where he started writing a column for the Paris Herald Tribune, and he is still writing his column today. He’s been writing his column for over fifty years, and that may qualify him for the Guinness Book of World Records.

  In Paris his life changed. He met Ann McGarry. She led him to the altar and made an honest man of him. He and Mom adopted my two sisters, Connie and Jennifer, and me. He was always there for us, and he always provided a home for us. There may have been times when we didn’t want to come home, but home was always there if we wanted it.

  If I had a problem with something, Dad always taught me to look at it from another point of view. He was never rigid, but fairly leni
ent and liberal. But he didn’t tolerate jackasses.

  He started lecturing on college campuses and collecting honorary degrees. He probably received more degrees from more universities than even Billy Graham. It was his way of getting even with the system.

  And he became famous—a celebrity. We children grew up on the edge of the spotlight shining on him. People always ask, “What was it like growing up with him? Was he always funny? Did he make you laugh at home?”

  The answer is yes, but we had nothing else to compare it with; he was our only father. He used to crack that if the family didn’t supply him with one idea a week for his column, we wouldn’t get dinner!

  A little over thirteen years ago, Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. Following her death, Dad moved to New York, living on pastries from the local deli.

  Then, a few years ago, on Father’s Day, he suffered a stroke. He spent that summer in a hospital, completely out of it. Jennifer, Connie, and my girlfriend at the time, Tamara, all took turns watching him in the hospital.

  I remember quite clearly coming into the room and holding his hand and talking to him, not knowing if he understood me. His reaction was to grip my hand and to try to pull himself out of bed. He desperately wanted to be out of there. His reaction was characteristic of him. He knew what he wanted and he wasn’t going to stop trying for it. He was fighting for his life, and he never stopped fighting.

  This was an important lesson for me. Even today, when I think about it, I can still feel the strength and intensity of his grip, squeezing my hand.

  After his rehab, we decided that Dad would come and live temporarily with Tamara and me until we knew what shape he was going to be in, and what he might want for himself. He never left us. When Tamara and I married, Dad was the best man.