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Remembering William F. Buckley, a Year Later
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From Palin and Blago to the trillion-dollar stimulus, if only we could know what he would make of all this.
My father, William F. Buckley, Jr, died a year ago this week, and I thought to mark the occasion in this space, normally devoted to making raspberries at the cosmos and endorsing Democrats for high office.
I’ve found myself reaching for the phone so many times since last February 27, not just to hear his voice, but to ask him what—on earth—he would have made of (in no particular order): Sarah Palin, the future of the GOP, John Thaine’s $35,000 commode, these trillion-dollar “stimulus” programs, Senator Roland Burris, Caroline Kennedy’s about-face, Judd Gregg’s about-face, the on-going nationalization of the U.S. banking industry, and President Obama as he deals with one of the worst in-boxes in U.S. history.
I lost (or misplaced) my faith, but I find myself on this anniversary hoping that I’m wrong, and that he’s there, correcting God’s grammar.
It’s tricky, trying to channel your father’s ghost. Hamlet tried it. I think I won’t. But I miss WFB’s takes on—everything that’s going on.Often, I’d find myself flailing aimlessly or circularly about some issue, trying to sort it out in my own head. Then I’d ring him and he’d nail it for me in two or three neat sentences that left me laughing and shaking my head, for the thousandth time, in amazement. Even if I suspected he might be wrong, he was always elegantly wrong.
He died at his desk in Stamford, Connecticut, while working on a book.He’d been ill for many months, worn down by emphysema. His wife of 57 years had died ten months earlier, and he missed her desperately.A DVD had been made of her memorial service, with a PowerPoint slide show I’d assembled of dozens of photos of her through the years. He watched it again and again, tears streaming down his face. I understand now, the business of long-time mates not outliving each other by long.
My father was a man of devout, unflinching, sometimes exasperating Catholic faith. He believed absolutely in heaven and hell. I lost (or misplaced) my faith, but I find myself on this anniversary hoping that I’m wrong, and that he’s there, correcting God’s grammar. I have on my desk an editorial cartoon showing him arriving at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter whispering to an angel, “I’m going to need a bigger dictionary.”
I got the phone call at 9:30 in the morning—I’d been doing my income taxes; death and taxes, all in the same day.I’d been mentally preparing for this day for months, and yet when it finally happens it comes embedded in a shock wave. I actually found myself thinking, Maybe I’ll just go on doing the taxes. That way no one will notice it’s happened. After taking a few deep breaths, I made my calls and sent out the first emails.
The New York Times had his obituary up on its website within an hour and a half.His death was announced from the White House, and a few minutes after that, the President of the United States called to express his condolences. I had always known my father was a great man—great, that is, in the literal sense of the word. He changed the era he lived in. The reaction to his death, from far corners of the world, confirmed this for me, not that it mattered. To the world he was William F. Buckley, Jr. To me, he was “Pup.”
I buried him in Sharon, Connecticut, where he grew up and where he had been, by his own admission, happiest, between the ages of five and seven. A month later, his funeral mass was held at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, in front of a full house of 2,200 souls.
Jews observe a formal period of one year’s mourning for a parent, called an avelut. We aren’t Jewish, but I get, and like, the idea, even though I don’t suppose the mourning ever really ends, until one’s own time comes. In the meantime, ave atque vale.The eulogy I gave at St. Pat’s I reproduced here, below.
We talked about this day, he and I, a few years ago. He said to me, “If I’m still famous, try to convince the Cardinal to do the service at St. Patrick’s. If I’m not, just tuck me away in Stamford.”
Well, Pup, I guess you’re still famous.
Pope Benedict will be saying Mass here in two weeks. I was told that the music at this mass for my father would in effect be the dress rehearsal for the Pope’s. I think that would have pleased him, though doubtless he’d have preferred it to be the other way around.
On the day he retired from Firing Line after a 33-year long run, Nightline (no relation) did a show to mark the occasion. At the end, Ted Koppel said, “Bill, we have one minute left. Would you care to sum up your 33 years in television?” To which my father replied, “No.”
Taking his cue, I won’t attempt to sum him up in my few minutes here. A great deal has been written and said about him in the month since he died, at his desk, in his study in Stamford. After I’d absorbed the news, I sat down to compose an email. My inner English major asserted itself and I found myself quoting (misquoting, slightly) a line from Hamlet,
He was a man, Horatio, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
One of my first memories of him was of driving up to Sharon, Connecticut for Thanksgiving. It would have been about 1957. He had on the seat between us an enormous reel-to-reel tape recorder. For a conservative, my old man was always on the cutting edge of the latest gadgetry—despite the fact that at his death, he was almost certainly the only human being left on the planet who still used Word Star.
It was a recording of MacBeth. My five-year old brain couldn’t make much sense of it. I asked him finally, “What’s eating the queen?” He explained about the out-out-damned spot business. I replied, “Why doesn’t she try Palmolive?” So began my tutelage with the world coolest mentor.
I placed inside his casket a few items to see him across the River Styx: his favorite rosary, the TV remote control—private joke—a jar of peanut butter, and my mother’s ashes. I can hear her saying, “Bill—what is that dis-gusting substance leaking all over me?” No pharaoh went off to the afterlife better equipped than he does.
The last time I was with him in Sharon was last October. It was a fundraiser for the local library, billed as “A Bevy of Buckleys”—my father, Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Pitts, Aunt Carol, me—reading from the aggregate Buckley oeuvre—a word I first heard from his lips many years ago, along with other exotic, multi-lingual bon mots: mutatis mutandis; pari passu; quod licet Jove, non licet bovi.
An article had appeared in the local paper a few days before, alerting the community to this gala event. As I perused the clipping, my eyes alighted on the sentence: “The Buckleys are a well-known American family, William F. Buckley being arguably the best known.”
I concealed my amusement, and handed Pup the clipping and waited for the reaction I knew would come. Sure enough, within seconds, he looked up with what I would describe as only faintly bemused indignation and said, “Ar-guably?”
He was—inarguably—a great man. This is, from a son’s perspective, a mixed blessing, because it means having to share him with the wide world. It was often a very mixed blessing when you were out sailing with him. Great men always have too much canvas up. And great men set out from port in conditions that keep lesser men—such as myself—safe and snug on shore.
One October day in 1997, I arrived from Washington in Stamford for a long-planned overnight sail. As the train pulled into the station, I looked out and saw people hanging onto lampposts at ninety-degree angles, trying not to be blown away by the northeast gale that was raging. Indeed, it resembled a scene from, “The Wizard of Oz.” When the train doors opened, I was blown back into the carriage by the 50 mile-an-hour wind. I managed to crawl out onto the platform, practically on all fours, whereupon my father greeted me with a chipper, “We’ll have a brisk sail.”
I looked up at him incredulously and said, “We’re going out in this?”
Indeed we did go out in it.We always went out in it. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother, shrieking at him as the water broke over the cockpit and the boat pitched furiously in boiling seas, “Bill—Bill! Why are you trying to kill us?”
But the cries of timorous souls never phased him. He had been going out in it for years, ever since he published his first book, God and Man At Yale.Nor did he need a sailboat to roil the waters. His Royal typewriter—and later, Word Star—would suffice.
How many words flowed from those keyboards.I went up to Yale recently to inspect his archive of papers. They total 550 linear feet. To put it in perspective, the spire of St. Patrick’s rises 300 feet above us. By some scholarly estimates, he may have written more letters than any other American in history. Add to that prodigal output: six thousand columns, 1500 Firing Lines, countless articles, over 50 books. He was working on one the day he died.
Jose Martí famously said that a man must do three things in life: write a book, plant a tree, have a son. I don’t know that my father ever planted a tree. Surely whole forests, whole eco-systems were put to the axe on his account. But he did plant a lot of seeds and many of them, grown to fruition, are here today.Quite a harvest, that.
It’s not easy coming up with an epitaph for such a man. I was tempted by something Mark Twain once said, “Homer’s dead, Shakespeare’s dead, and I myself am not feeling at all well.”
Years ago, he gave an interview to Playboy Magazine. Asked why he did this, he couldn’t resist saying, “In order to communicate with my 16—year old son.” At the end of the interview, he was asked what he would like for an epitaph and he replied, “ ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’” Only Pup could manage to work the Book of Job into a Hugh Hefner publication.
I finally settled on one, and I’ll say the words over his grave at sunset today in Sharon, as we lay him to rest. They’re from a poem he knew well, each line of which, indeed, seemed to have been written just for him:
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die.
And I lay me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be.
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Christopher Buckley’s books include Supreme Courtship, The White House Mess, Thank You for Smoking, Little Green Men, and Florence of Arabia. He was chief speechwriter for Vice President George H.W. Bush, and the founder and editor-in-chief of Forbes FYI.
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I was in awe of your father.
Whenever he wrote or spoke, I had writers envy. Is that a sin?
WFBj. is in a far better place but not forgotten. Christopher, you are a great writer with a wicked wit as well. My sin continues.
May his memory continue to comfort you this coming week. And, I hope you find your misplaced faith again.
Save for the unfortunate but forgivable needling of our Sarah (in no particular order), this column was enjoyable in a weird way--and interesting as well.
Thanks for the memories, Mr. Buckley. Fathers are giants and your father towered over many. R.I.P.
Heartwarming. Bless you for being a loving son.
What happened to the conservatives of today? Why are they totally unemotional, to the point of being cruelly inhuman?
Excellent article, Christopher. You did well.
You seem a thoughtful, principled and caring man. Your father must have been so proud of you. And how you must miss him.
Venezia: I don't know, myself. I know someone who used to know Dick Cheney rather well about 15-20 years ago and said that back then, he was a really nice guy, liked by virtually everybody. "What happened to him?" I said. "I have ~no~ idea," my friend said.
The (unsuccessful) attempts to rebrand as "compassionate convervatism" never addressed the implied differentiator of "as opposed to the regular, kick-you-in-the-teeth-when-you're-down conservativism you're used to seeing from us." Conservatives used to be the ones who cared about the environment 100 years ago, for example. That seems to have completely gone by the wayside.
Militant Christianity, maybe? I'm honestly not sure. It's quite upsetting. I cannot imagine Barry Goldwater being as much of a jerk. Even Nixon, for his myriad failings as a human being, actually was in favor of universal health care and a guaranteed basic wage. (Who would have thought we'd come to a day where we'd miss Nixon?)
Too bad there wasn't a bit more osmosis between you (aka Obama fan) and the old man.
For those wondering "what happened to conservatives?" it's worth noting that no intellectual leaders in the conservative camp, much less the libertarian conservatives like WFB ever considered W. Bush or VP Cheney to be conservative. Likewise Richard Nixon. The extent to which Goldwater was villified and hated by democrats in the 60s was not exceeded until Reagan won the election of 1980. People have forgotten the hateful impugning that was heaped upon Ronald Reagan throughout his Presidency. But, all that pales in comparison to the hatred for the House Republicans for impeaching Clinton, which itself pales in comparison to the hatred by democrats for George W Bush for the 2000 election.
It seems there are two things going on here: 1) people like conservatives who lose elections, and 2) there is nearly a complete ignorance of what it means to be a conservative. We can't help you with No.1, but for No.2, Russell Kirk's Ten Conservative Principles is a very good place to start. And, it's guaranteed to surprise you, as well. Google it.
Enjoy.
Wonderful, warm article, Mr. Buckley. For what it's worth, I also miss your father's wit and wisdom.
Having lost my own father just under 8 years ago, I can certainly attest that, for me, the first year without him was certainly the worst. No, the pain of his loss will never go away, it just becomes a little bit easier to live with over time.
My father was just shy of 81 years of age at the time. With the exception of his emphysema, he was in otherwise good health, both physically and, most certainly, mentally. Still played golf two to three times per week. Well, that emphysema triggered a heart-attack once evening and he died five days later. I got the phone call about the heart attack, and I was present when he died though Dad, himself, was in a coma.
Even adult children have unresolved issues and complicated feelings where their deceased fathers are concerned. While my father wasn't famous, as Mr. William F. Buckley was, I have both the honor and emotional burden of being my father's namesake. Dad wasn't a perfect father (or a perfect man), but he was honorable and beloved, and I try to live up to his fine example.
Like yourself, Mr. Buckley, I, too, want to pick up the phone and call Dad often, and for many of the same reasons that you cited above. Dad was a Republican, so I'm certain that he would have voted for McCain, especially being a fellow Navy veteran, but I think that he would have shaken his head at the Palin selection and prayed for McCain's good health.
I think of all of the things that I've seen since Dad's passing and how I'd love to have discussed these with him, things that some of us never imagined seeing in our entire lifetimes - wonderful things such as a black man elected president, the Red Sox winning not one but two World Series, and the Arizona Cardinals in the Super Bowl, but also the sadness and horror of 9/11. I'm glad that Dad was spared that experience.
Be grateful that you father got to see you married and enjoying a successful career, Mr. Buckley. Also be proud that you gave your father the greatest gift that a son can possibly give to his own dad - grandchildren.
Christopher, this is beautifully written and deeply felt by those who read it. I never agreed with one thing your father said, but I so loved the way he said it. I'd say this: If God has made us in His own image, then He made your dad as His finest match with one exception -- God's a Democrat.
I, too, would love to hear the discussion going on between them on the "other side." Happily, one day we will.
Dear Mr. Buckley,
I too lost my parents in a very short space of time a few years ago. I know the pain and loss you feel missing that unconditional love. Please know that your parents are gone, but I believe they see your loving heart. In any event, whether you believe this or not, love never dies.
I had wanted to write when your Dad died so thanks for providing an opportunity to do so now. I am a bleeding heart liberal raised in Texas amidst conservatives and eccentrics. Even though he said some things I didn't like WFB was so utterly cool. So in love with life and so above the fray in such a marvelous way. He had grace in his demeanor that shone out from him and was magnified by his humour. What a great guy just to be delighted by. I wish there were another around as I watched all his appearances just to soak up the whole deal. Thanks again for sharing on this anniversary.
I disagreed profoundly with WFB's views, but always enjoyed his presentation of them anyway.
And, by the way, it's "Ave atque vale."
I sat in St. Patrick's Cathedral that April morning at marveled at your poise and eloquence in a so noble, yet so difficult duty. Amid all the French and Latin, what I thought belonged was a word from Hebrew, for this was a true mitzvah.
Be well, Christopher. Anniversaries of this kind are difficult, to say the least. I particularly liked the references to family and the cajoling between Father and Son. I remember the same with my own Dad who passed last April; different in detail, but very much the same in both spirit and content. It does beg the question "where have all of the great men gone?" Sadly, there is no evidence of any left in these days, the starkness of this dissimilarity can be seen in the Trillions. "We'll have a brisk sail" might equally apply in other areas of life, as we go tilting at Keynesian Windmills.
Peace, brother. I am quite sure your Dad is safely beside the Almighty, mesmerized at the detail of that man's inventions, having finally met his match...and being rejoined with a lifelong one. Namaste!
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This, sir, was a work of art...and love. You have always been one of my favorite writers, but this piece...this piece left a tear in my eye, Thank you.
Chris,
Your father was indeed ("ar-guably"!) a giant and is sorely missed, by both conservatives (what few are left) and liberals. He may have been a stuck-up hard-headed obnoxious pain in the a$$, but we loved him anyway. As a liberal, I almost never agreed with him on anything having to do with society, economics, or politics, but he brought to the table an enormous capacity to MAKE YOU THINK, even when every fiber of your being was screaming NO!!! You do a marvelous job of keeping the intellectual side of things going, while adding a much-needed jolt of reality and self-deprecating humor into the howling darkness that has overcome modern conservatism. Your father would be immensely proud of you.
Thank you for sharing this with the world. For many of us who only knew of him through his writing and the media, it is a glimpse into a truly vibrant life and (speaking as one who has lost both parents) brought many fond memories and tears as well.
Beautifully written.
I grew up reading your father's columns in NR, though admittedly back then I was more interested in the cartoons and Florence Kings back page. As I became more political, your fathers works help shape my opinions. When I read that WFB had died, I knew that my last remaining tie with the republican party had been severed.
He must be so proud to have such an eloquent son with such a well honed wit. I only wish that more people would strive towards his intellectualism.
Thank you for this post. I had the honor of meeting your father in 1990, some months ago I published this tribute in a Spanish newspaper, "Diario ABC":
http://www.abc.es/20080903/opinion-tercera/espiritu-bill-buckley-200809 03.html
There is not his equal living or writing today. I think sometimes that when William Buckley died, he took conservatism with him, along with grace, erudition and the art of informed bemusement. Although a life-long liberal, and a democrat from an early age, I never missed Firing Line, and I never once listened to "Mr. Buckley" without taking away something of value. One thing for sure, I learned to be prepared with my dissent -- at least to the extent I was able. It became my ambition to include a pre-Socratic reference (any will do) and quotations from Augustine, St. Anselm and the Rolling Stones, all in one witty sentence deftly destroying an opponent's conservative argument. I did, at some point, but it lacked the authenticity and power of William Buckley because I had to work at it -- he, on the other hand, could toss off declamations such as this with effortless ease.
Mistakes? Yes. Misjudgments? Yes. Logical dead ends? Sometimes. Inauthentic? Never.
He is still missed.
Yes, the first year is the most difficult. But you'll always miss him and yet he'll always be with you.
What I most remember about your father is his wit. He made me laugh.
You, too, make me laugh. Thanks.
Having recently re-read Airborne, I still believe that no greater tribute to WFB could be written then your letter that closes the book.
It occurred to me that there are probably millions who, reading the headlines, wonder what your dad would make of it all and feel a bit of the emptiness in realizing that we'll have to figure it out ourselves.
Dear Christopher, Thank you for this; we all miss WFB and are glad to have you to remind us of him. (I am remembering the buried treasure, the silver, on an island off Stamford. Was it ever found?) I have a question: WFB introduced the episodes of Brideshead Revisited when it first aired on TV. Are those clips anywhere to be found?
I have the Charlie Rose interview where your father said he had written all he wanted to write and was ready to go. This thought alone must sustain you, as this state of mind happens to few. I, too, disagreed with much of your father's views, but I, too, loved the way he expressed them. We are glad we have you, a big part of him.
While I didn't often agree with Mr. Buckley, I respected him. What more could any man want?
Thank you.
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