Four Deaths

I used to find it somewhat bizarre that my late mother would always turn to the obituaries, something I now find myself doing, if only to make sure my name is not among those listed. At a time when the tragedy following the earthquake in Haiti has rightfully captivated both national and international attention, it might seem all too self-absorbed to dwell on the deaths of people who lived (relatively) long lives. But as someone who came of age (whatever that means) in the 60's, I couldn't help but be struck by the confluence of deaths reported earlier this week in the New York Times.

This past Wednesday, the Times featured four obits, each of one involving people who had touched my life in distinctive, yet connected, ways. The oldest was the elegant George Jellinek, who lived to the (still) ripe old age of 90, and left his mark upon lovers of fine music everywhere. From my own vantage point as a folk-oriented musician who came to appreciate opera relatively late in life, Mr. Jellinek's soft and foreign-inflected tones as a radio announcer did much to improve my belated education to this most timeless of musical genres. After many years as program director for the (also late-lamented) radio station WQXR, he went on to host a number of interesting programs about opera, introducing novices to the different interpretations various artists gave to famous arias. For the initiate to this much-mocked, but enormously complex form of music, Jellinek's contributions were invaluable. Only the foresight of his Hungarian parents in 1938 spared him the death that awaited them in Auschwitz, and he came to the America that--as it did with so many in our nation of immigrants--nurtured his many talents. He married his wife the year I was born, and went on to be a major contributor to the appreciation of the art form that captured his heart upon his first hearing of "Traviata." Thank you, sir, for passing this love on to me.

Robert B. Parker, creator of "Spenser," the tough/sensitive private eye in the tradition of Raymond Chandler, died at 77. Parker, who gave us a great fictional character in the (apparently) single-named protagonist of countless detective novels, saw his alter-ego saluted in film by the great Paul Newman (whose penchant for making movies beginning with the letter "H" resulted in Spenser being re-named "Harper" ), and, later, by Robert Ulrich in the TV series which restored Spenser (for Hire) to his rightful name. Apart from the regional infirmity which made Spenser a fan of the Boston Red Sox, his other proclivities--staying in good shape, enjoying good food and drink, disdain of pomposity, and a thirst for justice were all to be admired. We will miss both Spenser and his creator, each of whom leave us with a distinctive voice.

Erich Segal was 72 when he died. I remember loving "Love Story" when it came out in 1970. Like most people, I was hooked from its first line ("What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?") to its teary conclusion. Needless to say, I read it more than once, both times in single sittings. While part of the knock on the book was its lachrymose treatment of the unspecified disease which robs young Jenny of her promising future, I think that some of the critical response was fired by envy over its enormous success, first as a book and then as the blockbuster movie with Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw. Just think, here was this eminent, Ivy League professor of classics (he also wrote several non-best-sellers on Greek Tragedy) having the temerity to write a book he himself admitted took less time to read than the movie based upon it. According to the obituary in the New York Times, the National Book Award fiction committee threatened to resign if "Love Story" was even considered. Poor babies! Couldn't they have better directed their shock and horror by simply voting for something else? I would further hazard a guess that "Love Story" will be read long after that year's winner of the National Book Award (betcha can't name it*).

Lastly, we mourn the passing of Kate McGarrigle, a folk-singer out of the Peggy Seeger tradition. Along with her sister Anna, she achieved cult popularity, if not international acclaim. Those who heard their close harmonies, intelligent lyrics, and always "spot-on" arrangements know that she was a musician's musician and a songwriter's songwriter. Listening to the McGarrigle sisters, one could hear the loneliness of the windswept prairies of Canada (which could have just as easily reflected Appalachia or the Great Plains of the U.S.), a kitchen in rural Ireland, or a country home in France. Those of you unfamiliar with her work might be surprised to know that Linda Ronstadt's hit, "Heart Like a Wheel," was penned by Kate, as was the extremely original Stephen Foster send-up, "The Work Song," performed by Maria Muldaur. And for the broken-hearted, few standards in the "Great American Songbook" can hold up to Kate's song about the lingering death of a love affair, "Go, leave." While her love of music will continue in the next generation through children (with former husband Loudon Wainwright, III) Rufus and Martha-and, of course, sister Anna, we wish her a fond farewell.

Kate, at 63, was the youngest of the four to die, but I feel linked to each of them as contemporaries, because of a shared reverence for different arts they each pursued. While only one of them would have been considered traditionally "highbrow," each made his or her own unique contribution to our popular culture--and each contribution stands on its own as invaluable. We are all the richer for the time they spent with us, and the poorer for their departures.

*The 1970 winner was "Them," by Joyce Carol Oates, an excellent book, but when was the last time you either thought about it or heard someone mention it?