Formidable

William F. Buckley died today, aged 82, at his desk. His cook found him at 10 a.m.

I found myself drawn to his intelligence, energy, immensity of output and influence, charm. By the greatness of the life he lived. By the idea that he was not like today’s conservatives, bullying, nasty, bankrupt, partisan, that he treated his opponents with respect, was decent, gracious, large.

This is the impression I’ve formed from a distance, not paying much attention. A certain fondness, even though I had no affinity for most of what he stood for, and to pick up a copy of the National Review made me clench my teeth with fear and loathing. To me Buckley was like a pope—his presence forced me to give consideration to what I didn’t agree with. He had that kind of ballast.

We grew up watching Buckley perform on Firing Line on our black-and-white TV, that sprawling presence, the darting tongue, flashing eyes, feral smile, the evident joy he took in measuring, pouncing on and dismantling his opponents, the sheer style and humor with which he did it. We didn’t like him, but we were mesmerized by him.

Our father expressed admiration for Buckley, along with amusement at his mannerisms. This led to a period of years when a Buckley book was regarded as the logical birthday and Christmas present for Dad; when these events came around we pooled our money and bought him one, until at last one Christmas, after he ripped off the wrapping paper, he couldn’t help exclaiming, in a somewhat exasperated voice, “Who told you guys I like Buckley anyway?” There was a pause for us all to gulp. Then the reprieve: “I mean I do,” he said, “but…” I don’t think he read any of them.

Here’s the other connection: Eudie, my mom’s friend from girlhood, worked for Buckley in the early years of the National Review, as a secretary. She spoke of him with reverence.

He was a figure from my childhood, one who in recent years I would turn to for a principled conservative opinion on the war in Iraq, at a time when I didn't know what to think. I probably wouldn’t agree with him but I had to take him seriously. I could trust in his integrity and had to respect his opinion. For whatever reason, I assigned him not just with intelligence but with wisdom.

Remote control

It’s a curious thing how a switch in the mind can suddenly be turned on after long lying dormant. This happened to me recently with regard to the television in the kitchen. We installed the thing when the kitchen was remodeled, eight years ago now; it perches on a black metal stand at the end of a jointed arm bolted to the wall, so that it takes up no counter space. It is a somewhat guilty pleasure, but a pleasure indeed: cook’s companion, weather guide, boon to dish-washing. Many the Phillies game I have checked on, the political debate I have sampled, the episode of Scrubs I have caught the end of. Without this television I would have no experience of either Everybody Loves Raymond or Deal or No Deal.

Placing a television in the kitchen has its hazards, however. Chief among them is food spillage, which, except on Superbowl Sunday, is not as much of a threat in the den. When a television set sits suspended above the coffeemaker, when a busy cook or a dishwasher is handling the remote control on a daily basis, problems are bound to ensue. In our case, the poor remote suffered so many wet thumbs and splashes of spaghetti sauce over the years that it gradually ceased to function. First the number keys, then the mute, and finally the on-off button became stubborn and unreliable. We were left with a crippled TV. To turn it on or change the channel required accessing the controls on the front of the set itself. In an age of fewer channels and less obnoxious commercials, this might not have posed a problem. But when you have to toggle 28 times to get from CNN to MSNBC, and 40 to get from PBS to Nickelodeon, it becomes a source of considerable frustration.

The point is we lived with this frustration for a very long time. From the first refusal of the “Previous channel” button, when I thought we needed new batteries, to the current state of all-but-total paralysis, where only the “5” key works, the remote had been in a state of advancing failure for at least two years. And for the length of that time, we had suffered with it, toggling those arrow buttons up and down every time there was a commercial or other lull.

Finally, yesterday, when Lori said she had some things to pick up at the store, it occurred to me to ask her to purchase a new remote, the kind they call a universal, that can be programmed to work for anything. The very concept is amazing.

Anyway, she brought home the device, I quickly got it programmed, and our troubles were over. After two years of struggle, we instantly had a television that was no longer crippled. What a relief!

But the question I’m asking myself now is: What the hell took me so long? Why on Earth did I keep muddling along with the damaged remote for two years, shaking my head, lamenting, cursing, before it finally occurred to me to just replace the damn thing? Why did it take so long for the Sun to break through the clouds?

I can identify the precipitating event. I had started to worry that the accumulation of all that rapid-fire toggling, that rough handling, was going to end up damaging the television itself. And the next thought was that if the set broke we were not going to replace it; we didn’t have the money, and anyway how would we manage to get one that would fit in as well as this one did? It was the fear of losing the source of pleasure that finally pierced through the inertia. When that fear became real, the idea took shape.

A trivial example, perhaps, but it shows how we fall into ruts in our daily living.

Healthy perspective

This morning it was raining, a cold winter rain to melt the snow on the ground. I looked out the glass door and felt sorry for myself, knowing I’d have to walk in this. It’s fifteen minutes from the church parking lot where I leave the van to my office, I thought, and I don’t have a damn umbrella. What will I wear on my feet? I also lack a proper raincoat, I thought. My long topcoat lacks two of four buttons and a belt loop. My rainjacket is short for me, and the rain pours off it soaking my pants front and back at the upper thigh. Why does it have to be so wretched out, I groused? And why don’t I have the things I need? Because I don’t plan ahead. Because I don’t make enough money.

So things snowballed until I had myself good and miserable. There seemed no getting around a dismal start to the day. As we left the house I braced for the cold drops from the hemlock tree above the driveway that would no doubt find their way down the back of my collar. We got in the car and drove to the end of the street.

There, struggling to get out of his car, was the old retired guy who serves as our school crossing guard. A month ago he had a knee replaced, and now I could see him wincing as he tried to stand. By the time we reached him, though, and Lori rolled down her window, he had tottered over to his post, where he stood half-hidden under a red and white golf umbrella.

“Nice day, huh?” Lori said, sympathetically. The rain was beating on his umbrella.

“It is a nice day,” he shot back. “We’re alive, aren’t we?” He was grinning.

Lori and I both stood corrected. “We sure are,” she said. “Stay warm.”

I stopped feeling sorry for myself immediately. By the time I got to the church, the rain had pretty much stopped.

Indoor track

Ran inside today, for the second time this week. There was no getting around it. We had snow last night, and this morning freezing rain. By noon it had warmed up enough to be just rain, and the roads and sidewalks were covered in slush. It was run inside or don’t run at all. Even the big boys, the Boston Marathon boys, ran inside, which made me feel less of a wimp. That left only the monotony to deal with.

I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.

It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.

I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.