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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Aging / Maturity
- Published: 09/18/2017
He was fifty two years old, thin, smart, with a wry sense of humor. He had been a journalist almost all of his life. He started his own newspaper when he was only seven years old, selling the one sheet paper door to door. All of his neighbors thought it was “cute” so they gladly paid the penny he charged. When he was nine he changed the price to a nickel— and still the neighbors thought it was worth buying. By eighth grade, his little one page (now front and back) paper was considered the best paper in town.
Yet, here he was, at age fifty two, after working as the Front Page Editor at the most famous paper in America for twenty years, being relegated to the Obituary Section. When Mark called him in to tell him the news; Mark was smiling from ear to ear. Not a Cheshire grin, not a bit of mischievousness or malice to be found in that smile. No, not at all, it was the kind of smile you give someone who won something big, did something big, or had a baby (big or little, but healthy with the requisite number of toes and fingers).
“Stephen, we are promoting you to the Obits. We think you have enough experience now to do the job.”
Stephen just stared at Mark. He had no idea they thought so little of him that at the pinnacle of his career, the peak of his journalistic powers, they would shuttle him off to the desolate, desperate and drab (journalistically speaking) Obit section. He could see it now:
“So and so died today. He had cancer and lost a long battle with it. He is survived by X amount of wives, children and brothers and sisters. He was loved by his community, and did church work after a thirty year career in business.”
Day in, day out, for the rest of his working life- Obits. Stephen almost quit on the spot. The giant smile that Mark had plastered on his face, the obvious delight he had in offering Stephen the position, the sheer joy and pride that Mark bristled with when he said: “Stephen, we have decided you are ready to work Obits.” That was the only reason Stephen did not quit. But he wanted to.
“Mark, why do you want me to work Obits? Why does that make you so happy? Did I do something to you? Is it my recent work? Why?”
Only then did Mark realize that Stephen wasn’t (to put it politely) enamored with his new position. Mark’s smile toned down a notch, but not much.
“Stephen, I worked Obits for five year before I became Senior Editor of this Paper.”
Stephen was stunned. Mark was not only the best Editor he ever knew, he was one of the few journalists that Stephen held in high esteem. Mark had won two Pulitzer Prizes, his stories about the plight of returning Veterans from all Wars- well, that wasn’t only a best seller, it won him the Nobel Prize for Literature. Mark could say much in just a few words- words chosen with the same care as parents pick baby names- only one will do and it will last a lifetime. That is how Mark felt about each word in a Story.
“You did? But…but…but..” Stephen’s voice trailed off.
“Ah. I see. You think this is a demotion. Stephen, only the best can write a real Obituary. Think about it. You have to put someone’s entire life, someone you probably never even met- into five hundred to a thousand words. Words that have to include, and span, that persons arc of life; from birth to death. You have to write not only the dates, but the hyphen where all the action was.
Stephen, you need the facts, but not to many, and then you need the heart, soul, all the passion for life that a life contains— and you have to be objective without being subjective. It is hard work, but great journalism. You celebrate their life by writing about their death. It isn’t easy, and most Obits that are worth anything, can only be written by a person old enough to understand their own mortality. You are writing their history for History. “
“Mark, I understand all that…but, well, isn’t one life pretty much like another? Some are famous, some are brilliant, some are wasted, but we all get just the one chance at it. “
“True. But think about how unbelievable it is to be alive at all. It is a miracle in and of itself. Now, take that miracle and make it play out on a National, or even International Stage. How, in one lifetime, do you go from a little kid born in apartheid in South Africa, imprisoned for twenty five years at hard labor, then become President of that country, an International Celebrity, and restore hope to millions of people. Certainly that is a life worth a decent Obituary. “
“Not everyone is Nelson Mandela, or Dr. Martin Luther King, or John F. Kennedy, or Winston Churchill, or Vera Rubin, or Eleanor Rosevelt, or Oprah for crying out loud Mark. “
“Exactly Stephen. Everyone’s story is unique. We cover all the famous people we can in our Obit’s columns, but we also cover the not so famous, the near famous, or the outliers too. They all deserve to have their lives captured not as a snapshot, but as a stream of meaning. Your job it to color a life with the events that happened to it, without smearing, shading, or shadows. You have to make their life glow with its breath and breadth. Try it for a week. Then come see me. If you don’t like doing Obits, well, we can find another position for you.”
“Okay. And…thanks, I guess.”
Mark smiled a softer smile as Stephen tured to go:
“Oh, you will thank me. Just make sure you write their lives without any judgement, malice, or exaggeration. Be honest, but never cruel. They are the dead you will be speaking of. Think of your life, what would someone say about it. Write with that kind of care. “
Stephen did thank Mark. It didn’t take a week. It took just one life that ended- to make his begin. Stephen not only stayed writing Obits until he was seventy- six years old, but he refused the Chief Editor and Senior Editor positions six times in those years. He stayed as the Editor of Obits until his own Obit was written. Here is the first Obit he ever wrote, the one that not only made him famous, but gave him a life’s work.
“Mary Rose Lee died today at the age of seventy three. She succumbed to complications from Asthma. She died holding hands with her two daughters in the very bed that birthed them both. Ed, her husband of all fifty one years of their married life gently rubbed her foot as the warmth of life and love ebbed out.
Mary did not travel much. She went to Copenhagen— once. Washington DC— twice. She only made those trips because that is where they give out such things as: the Nobel Peace Prize (2019) The Presidential Medal of Honor (2022) and the Award Ceremony at the Lincoln Center for an Extraordinary life.
And there-in lies the rub. For no one could have been more ordinary than Mrs. Mary Rose Lee. The middle child sandwiched in between an older brother and sister, and a younger brother and sister. She was a pleasant child, a perky teen, and a sparkling plain young adult. She married her college sweetheart and loved him until the day she died. She had her two children, a degree in English Literature, and was a Den Mother for the Girl scouts for more than a decade.
Ordinary in every way. Until…
Two of the most powerful men in History were meeting in a small town in Iowa. A town so small, so provincial, so stereotypical of an imaginary America-- it could have been called Pleasantville --but wasn’t. The Propaganda Department of both countries saw it as a wonderful opportunity to showcase their power and the: “we are just people like you” spin so important to Politicians. It would have worked too. Except no one counted on the actions or words of one: Mrs. Mary Rose Lee.
Mary was only 26 years old when those two World Leaders chose her town to showcase their down home spin: “Aw shucks, we only did what we did to help our fellow man.”
No one knows how she got that close to the two men, with two toddlers clinging to her skirt, but everyone knows that picture of her taking the two most powerful men in the world by their ears, and pulling them to the podium. The Secret Service of two countries standing by in aplomb. Barely able to conceal the smiles hidden in their firm drawn lips, unable to hide the delight in their eyes at all; the Secret Service Body Guards did not interfere. Nor would they. Like everyone else they wanted to see what happened next.
What happened next is History. A five foot ball of indignation called Mary, with two toddlers in tow, pulled the two most powerful men in the world to the podium by their ears. Neither man knew exactly what to do and just like boys who knew Mom was really mad, they wisely kept their mouths shut and followed Mary.
She took them to the podium and gave them both a good old: “What for.” Her speech to them, including her quick no nonsense “shush” of the President when he tried to interrupt her, almost any school child could repeat word for word- in two languages; won her the hearts, minds, and laughter of hundreds of millions of people, garnered her a Nobel Prize, a Presidential Freedom Medal, and changed the course of History.
On her grave marker are only the last few words of that famous speech:
“…you two boys have got to grow up. We all live here on Earth. Make it nice.”
We do. They did.
Goodbye Momma Lee. We will be good. We promise.
by Stephen Levin.
The Obit Man.(Kevin Hughes)
He was fifty two years old, thin, smart, with a wry sense of humor. He had been a journalist almost all of his life. He started his own newspaper when he was only seven years old, selling the one sheet paper door to door. All of his neighbors thought it was “cute” so they gladly paid the penny he charged. When he was nine he changed the price to a nickel— and still the neighbors thought it was worth buying. By eighth grade, his little one page (now front and back) paper was considered the best paper in town.
Yet, here he was, at age fifty two, after working as the Front Page Editor at the most famous paper in America for twenty years, being relegated to the Obituary Section. When Mark called him in to tell him the news; Mark was smiling from ear to ear. Not a Cheshire grin, not a bit of mischievousness or malice to be found in that smile. No, not at all, it was the kind of smile you give someone who won something big, did something big, or had a baby (big or little, but healthy with the requisite number of toes and fingers).
“Stephen, we are promoting you to the Obits. We think you have enough experience now to do the job.”
Stephen just stared at Mark. He had no idea they thought so little of him that at the pinnacle of his career, the peak of his journalistic powers, they would shuttle him off to the desolate, desperate and drab (journalistically speaking) Obit section. He could see it now:
“So and so died today. He had cancer and lost a long battle with it. He is survived by X amount of wives, children and brothers and sisters. He was loved by his community, and did church work after a thirty year career in business.”
Day in, day out, for the rest of his working life- Obits. Stephen almost quit on the spot. The giant smile that Mark had plastered on his face, the obvious delight he had in offering Stephen the position, the sheer joy and pride that Mark bristled with when he said: “Stephen, we have decided you are ready to work Obits.” That was the only reason Stephen did not quit. But he wanted to.
“Mark, why do you want me to work Obits? Why does that make you so happy? Did I do something to you? Is it my recent work? Why?”
Only then did Mark realize that Stephen wasn’t (to put it politely) enamored with his new position. Mark’s smile toned down a notch, but not much.
“Stephen, I worked Obits for five year before I became Senior Editor of this Paper.”
Stephen was stunned. Mark was not only the best Editor he ever knew, he was one of the few journalists that Stephen held in high esteem. Mark had won two Pulitzer Prizes, his stories about the plight of returning Veterans from all Wars- well, that wasn’t only a best seller, it won him the Nobel Prize for Literature. Mark could say much in just a few words- words chosen with the same care as parents pick baby names- only one will do and it will last a lifetime. That is how Mark felt about each word in a Story.
“You did? But…but…but..” Stephen’s voice trailed off.
“Ah. I see. You think this is a demotion. Stephen, only the best can write a real Obituary. Think about it. You have to put someone’s entire life, someone you probably never even met- into five hundred to a thousand words. Words that have to include, and span, that persons arc of life; from birth to death. You have to write not only the dates, but the hyphen where all the action was.
Stephen, you need the facts, but not to many, and then you need the heart, soul, all the passion for life that a life contains— and you have to be objective without being subjective. It is hard work, but great journalism. You celebrate their life by writing about their death. It isn’t easy, and most Obits that are worth anything, can only be written by a person old enough to understand their own mortality. You are writing their history for History. “
“Mark, I understand all that…but, well, isn’t one life pretty much like another? Some are famous, some are brilliant, some are wasted, but we all get just the one chance at it. “
“True. But think about how unbelievable it is to be alive at all. It is a miracle in and of itself. Now, take that miracle and make it play out on a National, or even International Stage. How, in one lifetime, do you go from a little kid born in apartheid in South Africa, imprisoned for twenty five years at hard labor, then become President of that country, an International Celebrity, and restore hope to millions of people. Certainly that is a life worth a decent Obituary. “
“Not everyone is Nelson Mandela, or Dr. Martin Luther King, or John F. Kennedy, or Winston Churchill, or Vera Rubin, or Eleanor Rosevelt, or Oprah for crying out loud Mark. “
“Exactly Stephen. Everyone’s story is unique. We cover all the famous people we can in our Obit’s columns, but we also cover the not so famous, the near famous, or the outliers too. They all deserve to have their lives captured not as a snapshot, but as a stream of meaning. Your job it to color a life with the events that happened to it, without smearing, shading, or shadows. You have to make their life glow with its breath and breadth. Try it for a week. Then come see me. If you don’t like doing Obits, well, we can find another position for you.”
“Okay. And…thanks, I guess.”
Mark smiled a softer smile as Stephen tured to go:
“Oh, you will thank me. Just make sure you write their lives without any judgement, malice, or exaggeration. Be honest, but never cruel. They are the dead you will be speaking of. Think of your life, what would someone say about it. Write with that kind of care. “
Stephen did thank Mark. It didn’t take a week. It took just one life that ended- to make his begin. Stephen not only stayed writing Obits until he was seventy- six years old, but he refused the Chief Editor and Senior Editor positions six times in those years. He stayed as the Editor of Obits until his own Obit was written. Here is the first Obit he ever wrote, the one that not only made him famous, but gave him a life’s work.
“Mary Rose Lee died today at the age of seventy three. She succumbed to complications from Asthma. She died holding hands with her two daughters in the very bed that birthed them both. Ed, her husband of all fifty one years of their married life gently rubbed her foot as the warmth of life and love ebbed out.
Mary did not travel much. She went to Copenhagen— once. Washington DC— twice. She only made those trips because that is where they give out such things as: the Nobel Peace Prize (2019) The Presidential Medal of Honor (2022) and the Award Ceremony at the Lincoln Center for an Extraordinary life.
And there-in lies the rub. For no one could have been more ordinary than Mrs. Mary Rose Lee. The middle child sandwiched in between an older brother and sister, and a younger brother and sister. She was a pleasant child, a perky teen, and a sparkling plain young adult. She married her college sweetheart and loved him until the day she died. She had her two children, a degree in English Literature, and was a Den Mother for the Girl scouts for more than a decade.
Ordinary in every way. Until…
Two of the most powerful men in History were meeting in a small town in Iowa. A town so small, so provincial, so stereotypical of an imaginary America-- it could have been called Pleasantville --but wasn’t. The Propaganda Department of both countries saw it as a wonderful opportunity to showcase their power and the: “we are just people like you” spin so important to Politicians. It would have worked too. Except no one counted on the actions or words of one: Mrs. Mary Rose Lee.
Mary was only 26 years old when those two World Leaders chose her town to showcase their down home spin: “Aw shucks, we only did what we did to help our fellow man.”
No one knows how she got that close to the two men, with two toddlers clinging to her skirt, but everyone knows that picture of her taking the two most powerful men in the world by their ears, and pulling them to the podium. The Secret Service of two countries standing by in aplomb. Barely able to conceal the smiles hidden in their firm drawn lips, unable to hide the delight in their eyes at all; the Secret Service Body Guards did not interfere. Nor would they. Like everyone else they wanted to see what happened next.
What happened next is History. A five foot ball of indignation called Mary, with two toddlers in tow, pulled the two most powerful men in the world to the podium by their ears. Neither man knew exactly what to do and just like boys who knew Mom was really mad, they wisely kept their mouths shut and followed Mary.
She took them to the podium and gave them both a good old: “What for.” Her speech to them, including her quick no nonsense “shush” of the President when he tried to interrupt her, almost any school child could repeat word for word- in two languages; won her the hearts, minds, and laughter of hundreds of millions of people, garnered her a Nobel Prize, a Presidential Freedom Medal, and changed the course of History.
On her grave marker are only the last few words of that famous speech:
“…you two boys have got to grow up. We all live here on Earth. Make it nice.”
We do. They did.
Goodbye Momma Lee. We will be good. We promise.
by Stephen Levin.
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