by Peggy Noonan
And I found out later he thought, as he gave the speech, that it had not succeeded, it didn’t somehow mysteriously do what needed doing. And that happens. And I picked up a little of that, I picked up his mood.
But the next morning something had shifted. I got a phone call from Tip O’Neill, the Democratic Speaker of the House of Representatives, a tough, burly pol from Cambridge, Mass. It probably goes without saying that Tip O’Neill didn’t spend a lot of time calling Ronnie Reagan’s speechwriters. But he did that day, he tracked me down and said, “I just want to tell you the president did a great job yesterday and thank you for your service.” What a great moment, a gracious thing. Then a call from George Shultz, the secretary of state, then others.
And then a call from the president who, God bless him, was honest and told me he somehow hadn’t thought the speech worked but then afterward knew it did. I asked how he knew it was OK and he said with a sort of self-teasing voice that he got a call from Frank Sinatra saying it was great, and Frank Sinatra didn’t call after every speech!
He asked me how I knew he knew the poem “High Flight,” and I said Mr. President, I didn’t know, I just had a feeling.
It turned out he knew it because the poem was written on a plaque outside his daughter Patty’s grade school, and when he’d drop her off in the morning sometimes he’d read it.
Later I was told but have never been able to confirm that the film actor Tyrone Power, who’d been a flier in World War II, had carried a copy of the poem in his wallet, and Reagan knew it in part because it was read at Power’s grave site by Laurence Olivier, and Reagan was there…
So what do we learn?
Presidents lead in many ways, including with words.
Presidents are sometimes called to give context and meaning to the inexplicable. They are called to explain but also to stand for, to be. America felt wounded that day, and so did Ronald Reagan.
And sometimes presidents have to remind us we will get through this, it is painful right now but we’ll all get through it, together. “And we will have more shuttle flights and more exploring and nothing stops here, we keep pushing on.”
This is what presidents are called on to do sometimes: Face the tragedy, explain the tragedy, move on from the tragedy.
And for me, personally, I will tell you something about the professional lives you are about to have, about to begin.
Sometimes, and I’m not sure it happens more than half a dozen times in a professional life, you will have a day, or a week, or a moment, or a season, when you get to think to yourself, “This is why I’m here.” This is why I’m in this office on this day. “This is why God put me here.”
I had one of those days that day.
And when you have that day, that is a great day. You will never forget it.
I wish you many such days.
CHAPTER 2
People I Miss
When a great ship goes down, you want to point toward the horizon and mark where it was, what it looked like. You want to remember its beauty—its speed and route, and how it cut against the sky.
When Tim Russert died I wrote of what the world really values. “The world is a great liar. It shows you it worships and admires money, but at the end of the day it doesn’t. It says it adores fame and celebrity, but it doesn’t, not really. The world admires and wants to hold on to, and not lose, goodness. It admires virtue. At the end it gives its greatest tributes to generosity, honesty, courage, mercy, talents well used, talents that, brought into the world, make it better… That’s what we talk about in eulogies, because that’s what’s important.”
I have always been interested in trying to sum up or capture on deadline the meaning of the lives of people who have died. I’m not sure why. I think it’s just that a life is a big thing and it bothers me to see someone leave without a full definition of, or tribute to, their achievements, their nature, their efforts.
I am interested in careers, in what all the commitment given to a job or a vocation in the end means.
I don’t write about those I don’t admire. I think inspiration is part of what we all need and part of what I myself am looking for. Most people, whatever their condition or place in life, are just trying every day to keep up their morale. Thinking about the lives of people who’ve moved us reminds us of what is possible, of how life can be adorned or made better.
All these appreciations are brief, limited in size to a column’s or broadcast’s length, or a magazine’s available space. Some are about people I knew, some not. A few I had met, and carried from the encounter an impression. After some of these pieces I add some additional information or a thought I’ve had about the subject since I wrote about him or her.
* * *
A Life’s Lesson
Tim Russert teaches us what the world really values.
The Wall Street Journal: June 20, 2008
When somebody dies, we tell his story and try to define and isolate what was special about it—what it was he brought to the party, how he enhanced life by showing up. In this way we educate ourselves about what really matters. Or, often, reeducate ourselves, for “man needs more to be reminded than instructed.”
I understand why some think that the media coverage surrounding Tim Russert’s death was excessive—truly, it was unprecedented—but it doesn’t seem to me a persuasive indictment, if only because what was said was so valuable.
The beautiful thing about the coverage was that it offered extremely important information to those age 15 or 25 or 30 who may not have been told how to operate in the world beyond “Go succeed.” I’m not sure why don’t we tell the young as much as we ought, as clearly as we ought, what it is the world admires, and what it is they want to emulate.
In a way, the world is a great liar. It shows you it worships and admires money, but at the end of the day it doesn’t. It says it adores fame and celebrity, but it doesn’t, not really. The world admires, and wants to hold on to, and not lose, goodness. It admires virtue. At the end it gives its greatest tributes to generosity, honesty, courage, mercy, talents well used, talents that, brought into the world, make it better. That’s what it really admires. That’s what we talk about in eulogies, because that’s what’s important. We don’t say “The thing about Joe was he was rich.” We say, if we can, “The thing about Joe was he took care of people.”
The young are told, “Be true to yourself.” But so many of them have no idea, really, what that means. If they don’t know who they are, what are they being true to? They’re told, “The key is to hold firm to your ideals.” But what if no one bothered, really, to teach them ideals?
After Tim’s death, the entire television media for four days told you the keys to a life well lived, the things you actually need to live life well, and without which it won’t be good. Among them: taking care of those you love and letting them know they’re loved, which involves self-sacrifice; holding firm to God, to your religious faith, no matter how high you rise or low you fall. This involves guts, and self-discipline, and active attention to developing and refining a conscience to whose promptings you can respond. Honoring your calling or profession by trying to do within it honorable work, which takes hard effort, and a willingness to master the ethics of your field. And enjoying life. This can be hard in America, where sometimes people are rather grim in their determination to get and to have. “Enjoy life, it’s ungrateful not to,” said Ronald Reagan.
Tim had these virtues. They were great to see. By defining them and celebrating them the past few days, the media encouraged them. This was a public service, and also what you might call Tim’s parting gift.
I’d add it’s not only the young, but the older and the old, who were given a few things to think about. When Tim’s friends started to come forward last Friday to speak on the air of his excellence, they were honestly grieving. They felt loss. So did people who’d never met him. Question: When you die, are people in your profession going to feel like this? Why not? What can you do better
? When you leave, are your customers—in Tim’s case it was five million every Sunday morning, in your case it may be the people who come into the shop, or into your office—going to react like this? Why not?
* * *
One of the greatest statements, the most piercing, was something Chuck Todd said when he talked on a panel on MSNBC. He was asked more or less why Tim stuck out from the pack, and he said, “He was normal!” In a city, Washington, in which many powerful people are deep down weird, or don’t have a deep down, only a surface, Tim was normal. Like a normal man, he cared about his family and his profession and his faith. Pat Buchanan later said they’re not making them now like they used to, Tim’s normality is becoming the exception. The world of Russert—stability, Catholic school, loving parents, TV shows that attempted only to entertain you and not create a new moral universe in your head—that’s over, that world is gone. Pat had a point, though it’s not gone entirely of course, just not as big, or present, as it used to be.
Which got me thinking about one way in which Tim was lauded that, after a few days, was grating. And what’s a column without a gripe? Tim, as all now know, was a working-class boy from upstate New York. But the amazement with which some of his colleagues talked of his background made them sound like Margaret Mead among the indigenous people of Borneo. An amazing rags-to-riches story—he was found among an amazing Celtic tribe that dragged its clubs across the tangled jungle floors of a land called “Buffalo,” where they eat “wings” and worship a warrior caste known as “the Bills.” Here he is, years later, in a suit.
This reflected a certain cultural insularity in our media, did it not? Tim came from a loving home, grew up in a house, in a suburb. He went to private Catholic schools. His father was a garbageman, which when I was growing up was known as a good municipal union job. Tim’s life was as good as or better than 90% of his countrymen in his time. His background wasn’t strange or surprising—it was normal.
Something not fully appreciated is the sense of particular sadness among conservatives, who felt Russert gave their views and philosophy equal time, an equality of approach. When Kate O’Beirne had a book out on the excesses of feminism a few years ago, the only network show on which she was asked to give the antiabortion argument was “Meet the Press.” When I was on the book tour in 2000 for “The Case Against Hillary Clinton,” Tim’s was the only show that asked me to state my case at length, balancing it with an appearance of the same length by a Hillary supporter. I’m not sure network producers understand how grateful—embarrassing word, but true—conservatives are to be given time to say not only what they think but why they think it. Russert was big on why. He knew it was the heart of any political debate.
* * *
On the train coming back from his memorial on Wednesday, I talked to Tom Kean, a former governor of New Jersey and chairman of the 9/11 Commission. He told me of how a few years ago Tim, concerned about nuclear proliferation, invited Mr. Kean and Sam Nunn on “Meet the Press” to talk about it at length. No particular hook, he just wanted to gin up concern in Washington on an issue he knew was crucial. Mr. Kean said he had listened closely to all the journalists the past few days talking about how Tim prepared rigorously, was open-minded, civic minded, serious. He hoped they were listening to themselves, hoped they were reflecting on what they said. Emulation would be good there, too.
* * *
Joan Rivers: The Entertainer
The Wall Street Journal: September 5, 2014
There was nobody like her. Some people are knockoffs or imitations of other, stronger, more vivid figures, but there was never another Joan Rivers before her or while she lived. She was a seriously wonderful, self-invented woman.
She was completely open and immediately accessible. She had the warmth of a person who found others keenly and genuinely interesting. It was also the warmth of a person with no boundaries: She wanted to know everything about you and would tell you a great deal about herself, right away. She had no edit function, which in part allowed her gift. She would tell you what she thought. She loved to shock, not only an audience but a friend. I think from the beginning life startled her, and she enjoyed startling you. You only asked her advice or opinion if you wanted an honest reply.
Her intelligence was penetrating and original, her tastes refined. Her duplex apartment on the East Side of Manhattan was full of books in beautiful bindings, of elegant gold things on the table, lacquered boxes, antique furniture. She liked everything just so. She read a lot. She was a doctor’s daughter.
We met and became friends in 1992, but the story I always remember when I think of her took place in June 2004. Ronald Reagan had just died, and his remains were being flown from California to Washington, where he would lay in state at the U.S. Capitol. A group of his friends were invited to the Capitol to take part in the formal receiving of his remains, and to say goodbye. Joan was there, as a great friend and supporter of the Reagans.
That afternoon, as we waited for the plane to land, while we were standing and talking in a ceremonial room on the Senate side, there was, suddenly, an alarm. Secret Service men and Capitol police burst into the room and instructed us to leave, quickly and immediately. An incoming plane headed for the Capitol was expected to hit within minutes. “Run for your lives,” they commanded, and they meant it. Everyone in the Capitol ran toward the exits and down the great stairs. Joan was ahead of me, along with the television producer Tommy Corcoran, her best friend and boon companion of many years.
Down the long marble halls, down the long steps… At the bottom of the steps, in a grassy patch to the left, I saw Joan on the ground, breathless. Her high heel had broken, the wind knocked out of her. I’m not going any further, she said to Tommy. Keep going, she said. I should note that everyone really thought the Capitol was about to be attacked.
I stopped to ask if I could help, heard what Joan had said to Tommy and then heard Tommy’s reply: “I’m staying with you.”
“Run!” said Joan. She told him to save himself.
“No,” said Tommy. “It wouldn’t be as much fun without you.” He said if anything happened they’d go together. And he sat down next to her and held her hand and they waited for the plane to hit.
Needless to say it didn’t; some idiot flying an oblivious governor had drifted into restricted airspace. I don’t know if they ever had any idea how close they’d come to being shot down.
But that was a very Joan moment, her caring about her friend and him saying life would be lesser without her.
* * *
I was lucky to have known her. I owe it to Steve Forbes, the publisher and former presidential hopeful who, with his family, owned a chateau in France near the Normandy coast. It was the family’s custom once a year to invite friends and associates for a long weekend, and in the summer of 1992 I went, and met Joan. Talk about a life force.
We all stayed in beautiful rooms. Joan amused herself making believe she was stealing the furniture. It rained through the weekend, which Joan feared would make Steve and Sabina Forbes blue, so she organized a group of us to go into town to a costume-rental place so we could put on a show. All they had was French Revolution outfits, so we took them, got back to our rooms, and Joan and I wrote a play on what we announced were French Revolutionary themes. Walter Cronkite, another guest, was chosen by Joan as narrator. I think the play consisted mostly of members of Louis XIV’s court doing Catskills stand-up. It was quite awful and a big success.
The highlight of the weekend was a balloon lift, a Forbes tradition—scores of huge balloons in brilliant colors and patterns would lift from the grounds of the chateau after dawn and travel over the countryside. It was so beautiful. I stood and watched, not meaning to participate, and was half pushed into a gondola. By luck Joan was there, full of good humor and information on what we were seeing below.
We held on hard as we experienced a hard and unplanned landing on a French farm. We were spilled out onto a field. As we scrambled and stood, an old farmer
came out, spoke to us for a moment, ran into his farmhouse and came back with an old bottle of calvados. He then told us he hadn’t seen Americans since D-Day, and toasted us for what America had done for his country. No one was more moved than Joan, who never forgot it.
* * *
I last saw her in July. A friend and I met her for lunch at a restaurant she’d chosen in Los Angeles. It was full of tourists. Everyone at the tables recognized her and called out. She felt she owed her fans everything and never ignored or patronized an admirer. She smiled through every picture with every stranger. She was nice—she asked about their families, where they were from, how they liked it here. They absolutely knew she would treat them well and she absolutely did.
The only people who didn’t recognize Joan were the people who ran the restaurant, who said they didn’t have her reservation and asked us to wait in the bar, where waiters bumped into us as they bustled by. Joan didn’t like that, gave them 10 minutes to get their act together, and when they didn’t she left. But she didn’t just leave. She stood outside on the sidewalk, and as cars full of people went by with people calling out, “Joan! We love you!” she would yell back, “Thank you but don’t go to this restaurant, they’re rude! Boycott this restaurant!” My friend said, “Joan, stop it, you’re going to wind up on TMZ.”
“I don’t care,” she said. She felt she was doing a public service.
We went to a restaurant down the street, where when she walked in they almost bowed.
She wouldn’t let a friend pay a bill, ever. She tipped like a woman who used to live on tips. She was hilarious that day on the subject of Barack and Michelle Obama, whom she did not like. (I almost didn’t write that but decided if Joan were here she’d say, “Say I didn’t like Obama!”)