Art Buchwald (October 20, 1925 – January 17, 2007)
I only met Art Buchwald one time. But I will never forget it. Or him.
It was the spring of 1974 – my senior year in high school. This was when the country was beginning to understand the enormity of Watergate.
Although Mr. Buchwald’s thrice weekly syndicated column appeared in some 400 newspapers, our local paper was not one of them. I had to go to the school library to read it in “The Washington Post”. This was when you got your news through print, instead of a computer screen.
I loved Mr. Buchwald’s satirical style. It was clever, biting, inventive, topical and funny. Incredibly funny. Like a contemporary Jonathan Swift. This was before “Saturday Night Live” came along and reduced satire to kindergarten drivel.
Because I was on the high school newspaper, and under Mr. Buchwald’s spell, I copied his style for my column. The students and faculty seemed to enjoy it. The school administration was less impressed. Perhaps because they were so often my foils.
I quickly landed in trouble, where I stayed my entire senior year.
I don’t remember where the idea came from, but I decided to write Mr. Buchwald a letter, asking if I could interview him for our school newspaper. I mailed it off and a few days later started checking the mailbox for a reply. This was when people wrote letters, and communication was not instantaneous.
Soon, the reply arrived. Mr. Buchwald would love to have me interview him. When would I like to come to Washington, DC and meet with him?
I had intended to interview him over the phone. This was when there was only one phone system for the whole country. And long distance was something like $2 a minute, instead of coming free with your cell plan. But the chance to meet him in person?
I excitedly showed the letter to my parents. We lived outside Pittsburgh, so it would be a four-hour drive. Both of my parents worked, and taking time off from work to chauffeur me to Washington, DC was unlikely. This was before time was cheap, and gas was not.
After researching the cost of an airplane ticket, and making arrangements with Mr. Buchwald’s secretary, a date was set. My parents wrote a letter that I took to school, requesting special permission to miss a day of school without being sick. The administration was very
supportive of my request.
For the next few weeks, I went to the library and researched Mr. Buchwald’s past. This was before the Internet or Google did the work for you. I learned about his troubled youth. His service in World War II. His time spent in Paris as a correspondent. How he met his wife, Ann. The children they adopted. How he eschewed celebrity, including having a listed telephone number. I even secured a copy of “Sheep on the Runway”, a play he had written for Broadway four years earlier. I wrote and re-wrote my questions.
At last, the day came. I packed my reporter’s notebook, two pound portable cassette player, extra batteries, a bulky Polaroid instamatic camera, plus a Kodak 110 camera, and extra film for each, into a small satchel and headed to the airport.
Mr. Buchwald’s office was just a few blocks from the White House. I made my way to the office and was warmly greeted by his secretary. His door was partly ajar and I could hear him talking on the phone. Nervousness set in as I practiced my lines. At last, it was time for “the interview”.
His secretary ushered me into his compact office. Mr. Buchwald came around from behind his desk and enthusiastically welcomed me. One would have thought he was visiting me. I found a plug for my cassette recorder, flipped open my book, and began asking my questions.
The interview soon became a conversation. You couldn’t help it. Art Buchwald was just that way in person. He was funny as all get out. And when he wasn’t laughing, he was smiling. He talked willingly of his run ins with presidential administrations and power brokers in Washington. I shared some of the problems I encountered. He encouraged me to hang in there. To not let “them” get the better of me.
At last, the interview ended. I got to ask all of my questions. And dozens more. He suffered through the many pictures with me, and the different cameras. He even took a picture of his secretary and me.
I headed back home, but didn’t really need a plane to fly high. My feature article appeared in the next issue, and was well received. But in the issue after that, I took Mr. Buchwald’s advice and went back to lampooning the administration. Because that’s what youth does. And Art Buchwald said it was okay.
My article went on to win the Duquesne University Scholastic Press Association Award for “Best Feature Article” in 1974. I went on with my life. And Art Buchwald went on with his.
I thought about him many times over the years. I was saddened by news last years of his illness. And was encouraged at his resilience. Last week, he finally lost his fight.
I was glad I got to meet Art Buchwald. Things change. But not always for the better. I am glad I have lived in my time – a time when a young person could write a letter to a hero, and they replied, in their own handwriting, making it possible for a once-in-a-lifetime dream to come true.
I lived in a time when giants walked the earth, and I didn’t realize it. Because they looked like us. And sometimes smoked cigars.
In that long ago interview, forgotten by everyone but me, Art Buchwald let me in on his secret, although I did not recognize it until his death: You have to grow up. But you don’t have to grow old.
