THE FOIBLES OF FAME
The passing of Tim Russert on June 13th took a nation by surprise. It is sad in so many ways. He was young, his son had just graduated in Boston, the family had just returned from a trip to Italy. It is interesting, though, in just as many ways, the way it affects us when someone famous dies, particularly, someone that a large group of people felt close to, or felt that they knew. Mr. Russert was one such man. Apparently affable, a keen sense of humor, a work ethic rooted in a blue collar upbringing in Buffalo, New York. He was known to be a devout family man having recently written a loving account of his childhood, centering on his father, and his relationship with his father. So, a large portion of us feel as though we have lost someone close, when in fact, nearly none of us were actually close to him. Attributable to the fact that he won our affection through being a gentlemen, even during a tough interview, and always being fair. His death brought sincere grief from all quadrants.
In ways, it reminds me of when Elvis died, and the collective gasp heard across the country. Again, a kid from a spare upbringing who rose to the top of his field by virtue of his talent and tenacity. When Jimmy Stewart died, I remember a similar sense...like the country itself had lost a son. The common thread through these, and I could mention many more, was that in spite of their fame, they had remained in-touch. None of the three I've mentioned ever really left their respective small-town upbringing. The common thread is vulnerability. Russert had it, Presley had it. An ethereal sense that they were like us somehow, despite their fame.
I remember when Johnny Carson died. I wasn't shocked at my sorrow. Johnny was to me, like millions of others, an institution. It was religion for me to stay up for the late show, and aside from 30 years worth of laughs, he provided more than that. It was the moments he was moved that hang with me. When Jimmy Stewart recited a poem for his dog, and shed a tear himself, Johnny followed, knowing, as I did, that Jimmy was still crushed over the loss of his wife, and the poem was a double-header. What I wasn't ready for, was how long the sense of loss hung with me. Go figure.
Still, as I talked to people over the weekend, the common remark was the same as it is for anyone beloved who passes too soon. "Makes you think, doesn't it?" Yeah, it does. We all get wrapped up in our daily day at the races. Life is as stressful as it has ever been in recent history. People are stretched financially, the future is uncertain, and yet it seems always to take an untimely death, or some other tragedy, to inspire us to pause once again to count our blessings.
And in the end, with no disrespect to the memory of Tim Russert or the man himself, it happens every day. Fine people of good virtue who are taken from us with no apparent good reason. They aren't famous in the world-view, but they are famous to the people who loved them, and loss is loss, regardless of your station in life. One of my very first columns was of a World War II veteran whose obituary I happened to stumble across and I found it absorbing. He was a retired forester for the State of New Hampshire at the time of his death, but his life story read like a Hollywood script. An incredible life that had taken him all over the world, active in organizations committed to world peace, and yet in death, he had just a few family members remaining. No worldwide commentary, no 24/7 coverage on every news station, but nonetheless, a life just as worthy of that kind of attention, like thousands of others every day.
|