Several years after it was published and became a best seller, I finally caught up with this book. I am ashamed that I didn't read it while Tim Russert was still alive. I am heartsick that this paean to his beloved father is now a daily reminder that Dad actually outlived his son, a deadly quirk of life that should never even happen.
If you're like me and never dove into this tome, please make skidmarks and do it now. If you grew up in the Northeast circa the 60s and 70s, it is an absolute memory jogger. If you went to Catholic schools with nuns as teachers, it will sing to you even more. You will come away with a wonderful story of growing up and a renewed appreciation for whoever were your parents.
For me, the book is marvelous but bittersweet. Tim Russert got to experience his dad for many years into his adulthood. And, as a result, he had a lot more time to ask all the questions and get some of the answers. Big Russ' generation was one that really didn't offer personal information up very readily. I hear the same from my compatriots. My good friend and fellow blogger, the esteemed Djinn From The Bronx, lost her dad earlier this year. The deliciously erudite Mr. G. She's been talking about all the things she never heard or learned from him, despite the fact that he lived to the ripe young age of 90.
If Djinn From the Bronx is missing a few chapters, I, indeed, am missing an entire set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. I could spent weeks asking the questions that I will never get answers to. From both my parents. And it is not like I have a lot of other sources for that info. For some strange reason, all their contemporaries (my aunts and uncles) got wiped out mostly over one single decade. I wonder how that happened. Yet, when I look at old family slides, I get my answer. In every picture of every family party or gathering, there are cigarettes and booze. And more cigarettes and booze. My father used to take pictures of the kitchen table where the liquor bottles were stacked up. I guess it was their bade of honor.
So, at the end of today, tomorrow, and eternity, I still am missing large clumps of history. If I could send just one essay test to the great beyond, here's what I would ask:
Dad, on several occasions, you tried to advance your life by changing careers. At one point, you studied how to be a court stenographer. Then, you learned how to repair TV sets. Why did you never follow up on either?
I am told that you were a huge Yankee fan in the 50s. You even went to several games a week. How the heck did you wind up a Met fan? Was this because of me?
I've heard that you were engaged once before. To some woman in church named Muriel. When you picked me up every week at Sunday school, you used to run into her and talk to her. What happened there?
Mom, you once mentioned that you dated my father's brother, who was killed in WWII. I was even named after him. How did you wind up with Dad?
Mom, you told me your parents died when you were 12. What happened to them? Why were there never any pictures of them?
And that's just the surface. There are many others I think of every single day. So, don't let this happen to you. If they're around, ask the questions now.
Dinner last night: Chicken salad wrap and pasta salad back in LA.
3 comments:
I think about writing a book about my parents but the subject is so depressing. My book wouldn't have a smiling father and son on the cover.
Len: I rarely take advice on reading books, but in this case, you've persuaded me to make an exception.
Russert always intrigued me -- despite working for a network that was in the tank for the Democrats, he was a square-shooter, an example of what we were taught that journalists were supposed to be. Few media figures would have been mourned by the "common folks" the way he was. And his devotion to (and affection for) his dad made him much more real than most of the phonies who populate the mainstream media these days.
Your reflection on what our parents didn't tell us also rings true. It made me think of dozens of things I never asked my mom before she passed away -- and dozens more I want to ask my dad.
So ask.
Post a Comment