As a young man, I imagined that the last quarter of my life would be taken up with a little travel, good eating, walking my dog along the seashore and taking my grandkids to the ballpark. But now, at 61, things look a little different. After 30 years at The Poynter Institute, when I peer down that road yonder, I see many more years of productive work -- with a little golf thrown in.
I have always been guided by role models, personal champions whose lives blazed a trail in work and in life. If I imagine doing satisfying and interesting work into my 80s, perhaps into my 90s, I need only follow in the footsteps of three pioneers: Les Paul, Shirley Clark and Gene Patterson.
Les Paul died in August at the age of 94, leaving behind two great legacies. As a musician and an inventor of the electric guitar, he was enshrined in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. His innovations in sound earned him a spot in the Inventors Hall of Fame. He began his acceptance speech: "I'm happy to be here -- on earth."
Up until the months before he died, Paul played weekly gigs at the Iridium Jazz Club in New York City, joking with a loving audience and relearning how to play the guitar with arthritis. (After he fractured his elbow in 1948, Paul had his doctor set the arm at an angle that allowed him to continue playing.) My brother Ted visited the club often and got to meet the jovial genius, who signed guitars that would be auctioned for charity.
About 20 miles from the jazz club, Shirley Clark, my mommy, just turned 90. She lives on her own in the Long Island house in which she raised me and my brothers. She drives an old Ford Taurus, so please wear your seat belts when you cross the Nassau County line. Clark recently completed her second term as president of the Herricks Senior Citizens, and turned down a third. She still testifies at school board meetings to protest increases in property taxes. As a volunteer, she visits elementary classrooms and reads to the children, to great acclaim.
Born Speranza Marino, the oldest daughter of immigrant parents, Clark grew up during the Depression on the Lower East Side. Her sharp and earthy sense of humor makes her a popular emcee at American Cancer Society lunches and communion breakfasts. For more than a half century, she has been writing, directing and performing in local talent shows. Her signature number is "Second Hand Rose." She adores the New York Yankees and has the hots for Derek Jeter. She's flying down to Florida next month -- on her own -- for her granddaughter's wedding, where she plans to sing.
Which brings me to another famous singer, Gene Patterson. One of America's legendary newspaper editors, Patterson will turn 86 next month and still roars like a lion. As editor of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution from 1960 to 1968, Patterson won a Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing and, with his friend and mentor Ralph McGill, helped turned Atlanta into the city "too busy to hate."
Patterson wrote a signed column for the paper every day for eight years, a body of work captured in a collection I edited with Ray Arsenault: "
The Changing South of Gene Patterson." More recently, he wrote and had published a thin volume of military history, chronicling the unsung contribution of Patton's army, in which he served, during the Battle of the Bulge.
On a recent morning, I was surprised by the
appearance of a profile Patterson wrote to honor the passing of Jim Parkhill, a home builder who befriended Patterson upon his arrival in Florida, and who completely rebuilt the home where Patterson still lives. He recalls this piece of dialogue between the builder and Patterson's wife Sue:
" 'No, no, Jim,' she said. 'I want both of those columns knocked out of there, too, so we'll have one big room.'
" 'I can do that, Mrs. Patterson,' Parkhill replied agreeably, 'but the house will fall down.'
"She withdrew. The columns remain."
That last sentence -- the columns remain -- was meant for a builder, but it could stand as a tribute to Patterson's own work. He continues to write and inspire.
Not long ago, I was asked by the editors of the Atlanta newspaper to write an advanced obituary for Mr. Patterson. The titans of the Atlanta civil rights era were beginning to climb that golden staircase, so the paper wanted material they could use upon the occasion of Patteron's death. Though this is standard practice in the news world, I was more than a little uncomfortable with the assignment and wanted Patterson's permission to fulfill it. After he encouraged me, I told him that I wanted to share with him my lead:
"Legendary newspaper editor Gene Patterson died last night at the age of 124 from a sexually transmitted disease he contracted in the south of France."
Patterson's reply? "
Cherchez la femme."
We baby boomers, it has been said, will not be put down quietly. Death panels notwithstanding, we will, as the poet advises, rage against the dying of the light. But there are two ways to make an exit. We can bleat like sheep grazing over the good old days. Or, like Les, Shirley, and Gene, we can go out playing, singing and writing.
