Life with Bill, Part VIII

Revisiting William F. Buckley Jr.

Photo by Marcel Eberle on Unsplash

Dear readers: William F. Buckley Jr. was born on November 24, 1925. Therefore, a number of us have been marking his centennial. Two Sundays ago, I began a series, composed mainly of correspondence with WFB. Part I, here, opens with an introductory note. Succeeding parts are at the following links: II, III, IV, V, VI, VII. The series concludes today.

In 2007, I published a collection—a collection of essays and the like—titled “Here, There & Everywhere.” I dedicated the book to WFB (with his permission). On August 30, I sent him the foreword I had written. It ends,

Bill Buckley has been the dedicatee of innumerable books, and he is the natural and right dedicatee of this one. I said to him, “As the dedicatee, at least you won’t have to write the foreword!” (WFB has probably written more forewords than anyone else in history.) What can I say about him? That he is my favorite writer? That he has had incalculable influences on me? That he is perpetually kind, and interesting, and lovable, and thrilling?

I could say those things, and a million more. But I’ll zip it, for now. Bill Buckley is not responsible for the contents of these pages, heaven knows. But I can’t imagine doing what I do without him—without his example.

He replied,

Great heavens, Jay. What should I now do—commit suicide?????????? Bless you, my dear friend.

***

On September 13, I wrote him, after a visit to Wallacks Point. I was apparently continuing a conversation we had started in person. I addressed a worry of his:

As for your fluency at the typewriter, or computer: I don’t think that will ever go away. It’s a gift from God, and you have used it brilliantly well, and I think you will continue to do so. I regard it as an oil well that will never run dry. (Would your Texas forebears approve of that metaphor?)

Bill said,

They would certainly approve of the man who devised the metaphor!!!! ... Can we make a date for immediately after my return? [Not sure where he was going.] There is a GREAT supply of “Sopranos” awaiting us. [Remember, we were watching that series.] Can’t WAIT to read your review. [Of what, I don’t know.] If convenient, e-mail it to me.

***

In response to a note of mine (November 19), Bill wrote,

Gee whiz!! Nordlinger, u are a bloody poet.

(I don’t recall his saying or writing “bloody” much. Must have been a holdover from some early schooling in England.)

***

December 2 (from Bill):

One special blessing of friendship with you is that not a week goes by that doesn’t bring me something special relating to JN—most commonly his own work. But also so frequently just that word or two I treasure so much.

***

On December 7—that must have been Pearl Harbor Day in Bill’s mind, given his generation (not that this has anything to do with my note that day)—I wrote,

Dear Bill: Thought of you at the store yesterday when buying peanut butter—I had a jones for it. Bought some new brand of crunchy. Wasn’t crazy about it—taught me to stick with Jif.

Hope you are Florida-ing happily,

Jay

He was down there working on a book—his book about his friendship with Ronald Reagan—assisted by the aforementioned Danilo Petranovich.

Bill answered,

But do you not like MY peanut butter? Can’t wait to reintroduce you to it. I miss you.

I said,

I can’t remember what your brand is! Because I always think of it as the Buckley brand.

I proceeded to say,

By the way, my new collection came back from the printer, and is being shipped out. (That is, is being shipped from NR to buyers.) I must say, the dedication page looks very good.

Answered Bill,

Can’t wait to see book. Please have one shipped to me here. My peanut butter is RED WING. Will tell you that story earliest on reunion. Am listening to [a recording of a well-established pianist playing a Beethoven work], not for me.

This reminds me: Bill once sent to me a CD of compositions by an acquaintance of his. His Post-it note on the CD said, “Me no like. You like?”

***

On December 24, I wrote,

Dear Bill: It gives me great joy to wish you Merry Christmas. To know you is one of the supreme privileges of my life. God bless you, today and always.

He replied,

Dear Jay, I have not yet formulated a satisfactory acknowledgement of the extraordinary honor you paid me in inscribing your lively book to me.

I must have inscribed the copy of Here, There & Everywhere I sent him. Frankly, I’m not sure whether he meant to say “lively” or “lovely.” I see the word “lively” but it could be a typo (among others).

Bill continued,

We’ll have to leave it for a while that my esteem and affection for you are pretty plainspoken and we must not lose one another.

Hold that thought (for later).

I answered,

I was going to write a long inscription, and in fact started one—but I threw that copy out. And just wrote a shorter one in another copy.

In this e-mail, however, I wrote the equivalent of a long inscription. I poured out what Bill had meant to me. (We were in an autumnal, elegiac, valedictory period.)

My e-mail ended,

I’ve spoken to Danilo, and had a very positive report on your Florida doings. I look forward to toasting you on your return (with my lemonade, in a dirty glass). And I look forward to reading the Reagan book, which I will inhale as soon as it reaches my hands.

Merry Christmas!

Jay

Let me explain the “dirty glass” thing. As I have mentioned, Bill often commented on my not drinking—not drinking alcohol, that is. If I ordered a Diet Pepsi, for example, Bill might say, “In a dirty glass!”

In 1946, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour released one of their “Road” movies. This was The Road to Utopia. Crosby and Hope enter a saloon and belly up to the bar. They are trying to act tough.

Crosby says he’ll take “a couple of fingers of rotgut.” (That’s a funny line right there.) Hope says, “I’ll take a lemonade”—whereupon Crosby elbows him (because a lemonade is not tough), prompting Hope to say—to snarl—“In a dirty glass!”

(Watch the scene here.)

On Christmas Day, Bill answered me, concluding, “My love and gratitude are there, always.”

***

In January and February—’08—we e-mailed back and forth. Most of these notes have to do with arranging visits. (Therefore, the “real exchanges” were in person.) I had a variety of trips in that period—the last of which was a sojourn to India.

I saw Bill shortly before that trip, and we talked of a number of things. He had just acquired a new puppy. As the little dog jumped around, Bill remarked, “He’s all puppy.”

Also, he was reading Arthur Schlesinger’s Journals: 1952–2000 and was enthralled by them. There were just two references to him in the journals, he said—both negative. In any case, he was engrossed by them and expressed the desire to review them at length: like, 10,000, 20,000 words in The New Yorker or Vanity Fair or what have you.

He also, on that day, reminisced about the South and the racism he witnessed there in days gone by. He winced, in pain, at the memory. I can see the expression on his face right now. (I have written about this elsewhere: here, for example.)

William F. Buckley Jr. died on February 27, 2008. I can’t remember whether I was still in India or had just returned. In any event, he will never die to me. What did he say in a note of December 24? “We must not lose one another.”

We have not—manifestly! That was a Bill word: “manifestly.” And he ought to have the last one—word, that is.

I will nevertheless say: Bless you all, and thank you.