I'm taking time off from the newspaper to mourn my mother and help tie up her worldly affairs. This chestnut from the vault seems apt.
Catholics believe that when a person dies with his soul in a state of grace, that person ascends to heaven. And as Jim Tyree, the owner of the Sun-Times, who died Wednesday, was both a Catholic and a man of thoroughness, it is safe to assume that he took care of the necessary preliminaries, and so now is in a better place than this, freed of the suffering he endured for so long fighting a series of maladies with courage and humor.
Jews, of which I am one, do not generally believe in heaven as a place, a celestial sphere with angels and clouds and shafts of light. We believe heaven is here on earth, God help us, that our rewards are found in this life, and after we die our spirit continues living in the form of our children, of which Jim had three, and in our loved ones and good works, which he had many, and in the good name we leave behind, which in Jim’s case constitutes a kind of immortality, in that he pulled off the rare trick of being both a hugely successful businessman and a universally acclaimed nice guy. I’ve worked for five owners at the paper, at least, and Tyree was easily the best — friendly, modest, direct, candid, ethical.
Myself, I share the view of the poet Samuel Coleridge, who wrote, “We all look up to the blue sky for comfort, but nothing appears there, nothing comforts, nothing answers us, and so we die.” Yawning eternity stretches before our arrival, we flash into being at birth, a miracle of chemistry and electricity.
We blink at the world and chew on it and gradually discover who we are and what it is, live and laugh and love and grow in complexity and understanding, manifesting ourselves to the indifferent cosmos until, suddenly, just when we were getting good at it, the tide goes out again, and every gift that life has given us — youth and beauty and strength and intelligence — is snatched back, one by one, until we are left with nothing and wink out, with all the magic and wonder of a charge draining off a battery. And eternity rolls on.
Though not without a ripple. While we do not, in my view, literally live on in those who knew us, we do continue to ruffle their lives, like wind through leaves. The dead linger with us, at times. To this day, a question will come up at the paper, and I’ll think: this is something I should run by Steve Neal . . . or Charles Nicodemus, or Ray Coffey. Then I’ll realize that they’re all gone, and I’m the old guy now and will have to figure it out for myself.
So Jim Tyree will endure, not only in the hearts of his family and friends, but also in this newspaper. In October 2009, the Sun-Times was being quick-marched toward oblivion when Jim interceded. Without him, I and hundreds of other writers, photographers, editors, advertising reps, computer geeks, office managers and assistants would be out of work, and there would be a big gaping hole in the civic life of Chicago.
Instead he gave us the daily gift of employment and gave you a paper. “After that, it was all gravy, every minute of it,” to quote Raymond Carver. “Longer than I or anyone expected. Pure gravy. And don’t forget it.”
We won’t. We’ll try not to. The day Jim Tyree passed away my column was about tragedy and humor, and how jokes can relieve sorrow. I truly believe that, and here is an old chestnut I’d like to present as evidence:
A priest, a senator, and a newspaper owner die on the same day, and ascend to heaven, where St. Peter greets them at the pearly gates and tells them he will be escorting them to where they will spend eternity.
First the group arrives at a fancy house: arching windows, double doorway, lush lawn.
“Father,” St. Peter says to the priest, “this is your home in paradise.” The priest thanks him and walks up to the door.
They continue to a much larger home — a mansion really — with a fountain and a circular drive. “Senator,” says St. Peter, “you will be spending eternity here. Enjoy.” He hugs the senator, who strides up the walk.
St. Peter and the newspaper owner walk on. They come to a truly enormous residence, with towers and gardens. A palace, really.
“And here is your home,” says St. Peter. He turns to go, but the owner grabs his arm.
“Wait a minute,” says the owner. “It’s very nice. Too nice. Much nicer than the priest’s home or the senator’s home — why?”
“Oh that’s simple,” says St. Peter, with an angelic smile. “We get lots of priests here, and even a few senators. But you’re the first newspaper owner who ever made it to heaven.”
I think Jim Tyree, who liked a joke and a beer, might chuckle at that. Condolences to his family and many friends.
Rest in peace.
— Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 17, 2011
Jews, of which I am one, do not generally believe in heaven as a place, a celestial sphere with angels and clouds and shafts of light. We believe heaven is here on earth, God help us, that our rewards are found in this life, and after we die our spirit continues living in the form of our children, of which Jim had three, and in our loved ones and good works, which he had many, and in the good name we leave behind, which in Jim’s case constitutes a kind of immortality, in that he pulled off the rare trick of being both a hugely successful businessman and a universally acclaimed nice guy. I’ve worked for five owners at the paper, at least, and Tyree was easily the best — friendly, modest, direct, candid, ethical.
Myself, I share the view of the poet Samuel Coleridge, who wrote, “We all look up to the blue sky for comfort, but nothing appears there, nothing comforts, nothing answers us, and so we die.” Yawning eternity stretches before our arrival, we flash into being at birth, a miracle of chemistry and electricity.
We blink at the world and chew on it and gradually discover who we are and what it is, live and laugh and love and grow in complexity and understanding, manifesting ourselves to the indifferent cosmos until, suddenly, just when we were getting good at it, the tide goes out again, and every gift that life has given us — youth and beauty and strength and intelligence — is snatched back, one by one, until we are left with nothing and wink out, with all the magic and wonder of a charge draining off a battery. And eternity rolls on.
Though not without a ripple. While we do not, in my view, literally live on in those who knew us, we do continue to ruffle their lives, like wind through leaves. The dead linger with us, at times. To this day, a question will come up at the paper, and I’ll think: this is something I should run by Steve Neal . . . or Charles Nicodemus, or Ray Coffey. Then I’ll realize that they’re all gone, and I’m the old guy now and will have to figure it out for myself.
So Jim Tyree will endure, not only in the hearts of his family and friends, but also in this newspaper. In October 2009, the Sun-Times was being quick-marched toward oblivion when Jim interceded. Without him, I and hundreds of other writers, photographers, editors, advertising reps, computer geeks, office managers and assistants would be out of work, and there would be a big gaping hole in the civic life of Chicago.
Instead he gave us the daily gift of employment and gave you a paper. “After that, it was all gravy, every minute of it,” to quote Raymond Carver. “Longer than I or anyone expected. Pure gravy. And don’t forget it.”
We won’t. We’ll try not to. The day Jim Tyree passed away my column was about tragedy and humor, and how jokes can relieve sorrow. I truly believe that, and here is an old chestnut I’d like to present as evidence:
A priest, a senator, and a newspaper owner die on the same day, and ascend to heaven, where St. Peter greets them at the pearly gates and tells them he will be escorting them to where they will spend eternity.
First the group arrives at a fancy house: arching windows, double doorway, lush lawn.
“Father,” St. Peter says to the priest, “this is your home in paradise.” The priest thanks him and walks up to the door.
They continue to a much larger home — a mansion really — with a fountain and a circular drive. “Senator,” says St. Peter, “you will be spending eternity here. Enjoy.” He hugs the senator, who strides up the walk.
St. Peter and the newspaper owner walk on. They come to a truly enormous residence, with towers and gardens. A palace, really.
“And here is your home,” says St. Peter. He turns to go, but the owner grabs his arm.
“Wait a minute,” says the owner. “It’s very nice. Too nice. Much nicer than the priest’s home or the senator’s home — why?”
“Oh that’s simple,” says St. Peter, with an angelic smile. “We get lots of priests here, and even a few senators. But you’re the first newspaper owner who ever made it to heaven.”
I think Jim Tyree, who liked a joke and a beer, might chuckle at that. Condolences to his family and many friends.
Rest in peace.
— Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 17, 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments are vetted and posted at the discretion of the proprietor. Comments that are not submitted under a name of some sort run the risk of being deleted without being read.