If I Only Knew Then...
Page 18
I woke the next morning, which was Good Friday, and turned on the television as was my daily routine. The six a.m. news was just coming on and the anchor began the broadcast with “The remains of another New York City police officer were recovered overnight.” The remains of Detective Claude Richards had been removed from the vicinity of where Tower 2 once stood. I stared at the TV and cried. It was as if Danny had told me the night before, “Hey, buddy, they found me.”
This incident has had a profound impact on my life and my religious beliefs. After September 11 I questioned how God could let this happen. How could he allow so many innocent people to be murdered? But after Danny was recovered, I understood that God needed some more angels in heaven. Danny had gone home to God and entered heaven to a welcome reserved for heroes. I am sure that although he never received his detective promotion to first grade on earth, First Grade Detective Claude “Danny” Richards is keeping his eye on us while on patrol in a better place.
WHAT I LEARNED
A man like Danny comes along so seldom. While I’m sure he was aware how highly I thought of him, I wish I had been comfortable enough to have told him so more openly. Male machismo seems to prevent that. I learned never to leave any admiration or love unexpressed.
IRWIN REDLENER, MD
President and Cofounder,
Children’s Health Fund
It’s not that I haven’t made mistakes in my life; on the contrary, there have been more than I can remember. My problem is that many of these offenses of misjudgment, miscalculation, sloth, and simple stupidity are in one of two categories: far too embarrassing to reveal or completely devoid of any practical lesson to anyone—myself included.
More profound to me is the notion of a “near mistake.” That’s when we come perilously close to doing something truly regrettable but turn away and take a different course at the last minute. Experiences like this can be especially sobering, even poignant, as they remind us how fragile situations are. A turn here, a snap decision there, something important accepted or rejected at the last moment: all of these can have a profound impact on what happens in our lives.
My son Jason’s life was a study in thrills. When he was a toddler and a young child it was about the excitement of running and exploring. Barriers were challenges and everything was entertaining—to himself as much as to the rest of us. And he laughed a lot. He laughed when he was running around and when he was fooling around with his siblings. He laughed at everybody’s jokes—including his own. And he got away with murder, as people do when they are utterly charming and totally beautiful, as he had been from the moment he was born.
He more or less graduated from high school not that sure of what he would do. He went to Hunter College in New York and he went to Hawaii to learn how to make furniture from exotic koa wood. And I think he went there to meet part of his personal destiny, the lovely Sheareen. She was blond and smart and liked big dreams. Perfect for each other. They came back to New York and eventually married. Koa wood furniture was not in high demand in NYC circa 1995, so Jason began renovating apartments in New York and Philadelphia.
When they made enough money to support their real dream, Jason and Sheareen headed west. Karen and I were in New York and had loved having them “in the neighborhood.” They, on the other hand, were both deeply into the world of aggressive X-gen sports: snowboarding, mountain biking, and skateboarding. So why not go to Mecca? Indeed. And in 1998, ground zero for this lifestyle was a pristine town at the base of Mount Bachelor—Bend, Oregon. They knew no one there but were totally exhilarated by finding this place, their place, and starting a new life. My God, they were in love, and they were overwhelmed with anticipation.
When they got to Bend, this was the plan: Jason would build Sheareen a store (she wanted to sell “New York fashions” for teenage girls in their new community) and, once the store was built, he would spend a few months trying to figure out what he would do next. And while he was at it, he would absorb the environment, wallowing in the wonders of that extraordinary atmosphere from the seat of his souped-up mountain bike in the mornings and on a snowboard in the bowls of Mount Bachelor in the afternoons.
All of this was an incredible adventure for the lovebirds. For our part, Karen and I were truly happy for them—mostly. In fact, we were actually thrilled when murmurs of having children began to surface, and we got into serious “grandparent-think.” We were, on the other hand, a little disconcerted at the gradual realization that they planned to stay out west—and, worse, they were starting to think about a second store for Sheareen. And this time, they were talking Hawaii. Yikes. I just didn’t deal with this well. Not at all. But the more I laid a guilt trip on Jason, the less he felt like speaking to me. Phone calls became increasingly tense—and less frequent. Our relationship was not, as they say, in a good place.
And there it stood, for a few crucial months. My relationship with this wonderful twenty-eight-year-old adventurer, dreamer, philosopher, risk taker, sweetheart, was on ice—and it was terrible.
It might have remained there, but I decided that we would visit Jason and Sheareen. Karen and I would go to Bend, see where they lived, see the new store, and just hang out. I tell you, it was wonderful—more than we could have hoped for in so many ways. We laughed and cried and played and talked. That was it. The little problem we were having—now fixed. That was in August of 1998.
On March 27, 1999, Jason was snowboarding off-trail in a fresh powder bowl. The sky was crystalline, a bright sun shining on the mountain overlooking Bend. Sheareen was waiting for him at the base. Some hikers in the distance had their eyes on Jason, a random boarder on the far decline of the bowl. No trees in sight, no boulders or obstructions. And Jason, a tremendously talented and very careful athlete, was making his turns in the fresh snow. Then, it seems, the tip of his board caught on some unseen branch or snow-covered rock. He flipped and spun over, landing on his abdomen. He lay there in the snow, bleeding internally, waiting for the distant observers to call for help, waiting for the rescue teams to find him and call for evacuation.
He was still alive when they reached him, but not for long. A week later one of the members of the rescue team told me his last words were “I’m sorry, Dad.”
Years later, the pain is there—and will stay there—for every living soul who ever met Jason. For Karen and me, for Jason’s mom and his brothers and sister, the loss is unspeakable.
Yet I have often, very often, thought of how much worse it almost was. What if we hadn’t made amends, reconciled our “differences of opinion” over whatever? Where they would live and how inconvenient it might be to visit them? Preposterous. I would simply never have forgiven myself if we hadn’t made that visit a few months before Jason died.
So, this was almost a monumentally terrible mistake.
WHAT I LEARNED
Fundamentally, this was the most profound lesson I have learned in life. It is about the necessity to attend to the relationships that are of deep and abiding importance to us. The relationships that matter most must be cherished and nurtured. When they fall off track, they need to be fixed with compassion—and haste. I have learned much from my own “close call.” I now think about all of my relationships virtually every day. None of us is perfect, of course, and none can know when the worst will happen. But the very last thing we want is deep regret that can’t be fixed, because time steadfastly refuses to be rolled back, no matter how many tears a human being sheds.
PAUL NEWMAN
Actor, Director, Food Impresario
I’ve never learned from my mistakes. I thought I had, but the mistakes that I made sixty years ago, I still make today. Joanne will back me up on this. Actually, there’s something quite enjoyable about making the same mistakes. You’re never surprised; you are only disheartened—there’s some comfort in that. I understand Woody Allen feels the exact same way. In fact, he wrote a long article about this in the New York Times, which I didn’t read because I knew it would cover familiar
ground. I’ve been asked to write stuff like this before, which, as you can see, is the same old mistake.
WHAT I LEARNED
Nothing!
Acknowledgments
My editor at Springboard, Karen Murgolo, was so easy to work with, along with somehow always seeming to be cheerful. My agent, Eileen Cope of Trident Media, was dedicated and always had a strong belief in this book. Karen Murgolo’s worthy assistant, Tom Hardej, was sensitive, kind, and right on top of everything. Sarah Parrish at HELP USA was invaluable, as was my assistant, Rose Snyder. Two very nice ladies.
Some of the contributors were particularly helpful in reaching out to other contributors. A big thanks to Susan Ungaro, Bill Dana, Bob Ellis, John Gabriel, Rich Martini, Kenneth Cole, Shelly Schultz, Alan and Arlene Alda, and Gene Wilder.
Also, Matilda Cuomo, Maria Cuomo Cole, and Scott Smith were devoted allies.
Thanks to all.
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About Charles Grodin
CHARLES GRODIN is a recent recipient of the William Kuntsler Award for racial justice. He is credited with gaining clemency for four women in prison under New York’s Rockefeller Drug Laws, and was noted by New York’s governor George Pataki for helping to get those laws reformed. He is also a recent recipient of the HELP Hero Award for his humanitarian efforts on behalf of the homeless.
Mr. Grodin is best known as a movie actor (The Heartbreak Kid, Midnight Run, and the Beethoven mov
ies are among his many films). He has written five books, including the bestseller It Would Be So Nice if You Weren’t Here, and received an Emmy Award for writing the 1977 Paul Simon Special. He is currently a commentator for CBS News and was nominated for the New York Festivals 2007 Radio Broadcasting Lifetime Achievement Award.
All of Mr. Grodin’s proceeds from this book go to HELP USA, one of the nation’s largest providers of services for the homeless.
* Paraphrasing Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day,” 1992.