When a Writer Dies

In life, we have memories of household names. As I age, I feel the loss of those people more profound.

In the last few weeks, many have left this earth.

Vin Scully, the voice of the Dodgers (both Brooklyn and Los Angeles), defined what it was like to listen to baseball.
Bill Russell was the best basketball player I have ever watched (including any present players).
As I watched Leave It To Beaver, Tony Dow was the perfect big brother.

One that caught my attention most, perhaps one not known to many, was the author David McCullough.

McCullough was a historian whose books brought history to life. I traveled through the expanse of the Brooklyn Bridge and trudged with Washington through Trenton in 1776. His description of bodies lost in the Johnston flood stopped my heart. I learned of great artists and pioneers and flew with the Wright brothers.

(If you have not read his works, you have missed the true magic history brings.)

When he died this week at 89, the world lost something special. It lost perspective.

In one lecture, he encouraged people to tell stories around the dinner table. He said, “maybe we ought to bring back family dinners.”

When a writer dies, he does not melt away.

Instead, he lives through the words and impressions left for the ages. As time moves on, it remains the tracks are left behind. The thoughts continue to shape the minds of the readers.

History provides identity because it tells us our cultural DNA. We are the result of the acts of countless people gone before us. We can find the direction forward by following the tracks.

He pecked out manuscripts on a second-hand typewriter. The impression of his work remains deeper than the print on the page.

I am grateful for his work, words, and the tracks left in American society.