Three years ago, sifting through boxes, I discovered a note that Walter Cronkite had sent me in 2002, thanking me for what had been a couple of very enjoyable lunches at his favorite Italian place and his club. He’d start each with a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, and me a Stoli martini with a twist, followed by pasta at the former, and Dover sole at the latter.
I had been researching a story about how to age gracefully for GQ magazine, and I figured he was the obvious person to interview. He was 86, and other than a bum knee that kept him from playing tennis, he’d seemed pretty much on top of the world.
“Dear Peter,” the note began. “An incredibly late acknowledgment of your exceedingly kind remarks in the excellent GQ piece. . . . Betsy and I are off to the Baltic and Russia next week with the return promised for mid-July. I hope to see you for another of our lunches shortly after that. Meanwhile, a pleasant summer to you, and please cling to the faith. Walter.”
“The faith,” if you’re wondering, was in nothing particularly noble. We were both passionate fans of the New York Giants. We’d quickly bonded upon discovering that neither of us ever watched a game with anyone else because, as he intoned in his Walter voice, “It’s way too personal an experience.”
Why hadn’t I framed his letter back then? Had I been so jaded that I somehow lumped it into a box with all the various remnants I’d gathered from the many, many stories I’d written over the years about celebrities? For the better part of a quarter of a century, that’s mostly how I made my living: writing about people who were way more famous than you and me. The legion of bold-faced names I hung with had way more money than I would ever have; they had personal assistants always at the ready; and they had (of course) their fame. But looking back, despite my excitement at getting the assignments, with the exception of Walter, a truly great man, I never wanted to be any of them.
