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
Beautifully written…a keeper! I share your view of the afterlife, although the Catholics view holds more hope. When you lose your parents it’s like losing your roots. We all experience it but it’s not easy.
ReplyDeleteSending much sympathy on the loss of your dear mom. May her memory be a blessing.
ReplyDeleteBrilliant.
ReplyDeleteOh, that is just beautiful. And Jim Tyree lives on nice again in your re-posting of this column. And I share in your grief Ali g with your hundreds of readers. What a gift you give us.
ReplyDeleteI always liked the saying from who knows when that “No one ever truly dies who is remembered with love”.
ReplyDeleteThose who came before us do indeed "ruffle our lives" after they are gone. Yesterday, Donald Trump publicly called Rep. Massie of Kentucky a "pathetic loser." In my head, I heard my mother, gone more than a decade now, saying: "How a person expresses himself says a lot about what's going on in his head." Wise woman. Thanks, mom.
ReplyDeleteI'm keeping this for the next time I'm asked to preside at a funeral. " 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."
ReplyDeleteIt is perfect, isn't it?
DeleteThe fourth paragraph is so beautifully written.
ReplyDeleteNeil, sorry to hear about your mom. I'm coming up on my mother's 3rd anniversary of passing. Still think of her a lot.
ReplyDeleteThat fourth paragraph is a fucking diamond.
ReplyDeletegreat joke, and a stand-in for bosses of every stripe
ReplyDelete"...we are left with nothing and wink out, with all the magic and wonder of a charge draining off a battery." Bingo, Mister S, You nailed it. Right outta the park and into the street.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was 13, I read James T. Farrell's Farrell's classic trilogy about the short, unhappy life of a South Side Irishman, William "Studs" Lonigan." Having led a rather pointless existence...work, drink, dissipation, and drunken debauchery, he falls ill at 29, lapses into a coma, and expires. And Farrell ends it all with: ..."through an all-increasing blackness, streaks of white light filtered weakly and recessively like an electric light slowly going out. And there was nothing in his mind but this feeble streaking of light...and then, nothing" He's dead.
My belief in that same fate has endured for 65 years. Like most Jews, I don't really agonize over an afterlife. Or about reuniting with friends, family, and pets. We're just light bulbs. There's no light bulb heaven or light bulb hell. The light within goes out when the brain ceases to function, and the bulb begins to decompose and has to be quickly disposed of. My choice? Up the chimney. No muss, no fuss.
Most faiths seem to be merely mental constructs that people use to stave off that fear of nothingness, which gets closer and more real as one ages. And there's the inevitable realization that life will continue to proceed, just as it always has, only without you. No snow. No summer. No baseball. No beaches. No cats. In heaven, there is no beer. And not only is there no beer, there's no heaven, either. So beer becomes an earthly paradise .And everyone has their own personal hell. Some of us are already living in it.
Used to enjoy visiting cemeteries. As 80 approaches, not so much. To walk through a lush and green cemetery on a beautiful summer's day, and to realize that all the markers are for people who once knew joy and sorrow and had thoughts like your own, or that a summer will come and that you will not be here to see it....engenders an all-pervasive melancholy. And feelings of sadness and of loss. If religion helps someone to deal with all that, fine. Good for you. Whatever works for you...and gets you through the night.
Nothingness. It's nice to think so.
DeleteCosmologists have been searching the universe for life somewhere other than here.
Not having found it doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Scientists have attempted to demonstrate the notion of nothing.
Without success. Even in a complete and perfect vacuum. Things are present . Even at absolute zero forces are present.
I suspect that consciousness exists along a continuum.
Sometimes explored by living beings using their brains.
Mostly separate from living beings.
I suspect consciousness exists unto itself as a force like gravity.
I disdain religion overall and most notions of God seem simple minded or farfetched.
When our body dies we are no longer alive but consciousness doesn't disappear it still exists. Everywhere. A sort of afterlife. As in after life.
The things taught us become a shared consciousness.
in this way those who came before us live on . As will we.
And temporarily we have beer
I have a theory (or, perhaps I should say, a story) that when we die, our consciousness goes into a great vat, which is constantly thoroughly stirred. When something needs consciousness, the proper amount is decanted from the vat. So it's sort of reincarnation, but never as the same consciousness.
DeleteSo, maybe when I die, some of me will become a cat, or a river otter, or another person. Or, perhaps, all of them at once.
Ah, the year, 2009. The year of the mass layoffs. I used to bring the Sun-Times to work every morning to read. Life changed and I didn't read the paper for years. I do know there are a few people who enter our lives and change us for the better. I am grateful for all of them. When Sister Mary Elephant would look up in ecstacy, waiting for God to take her away to a better place, I knew for me, I didn't want to go there. This is it.
ReplyDelete