The Lighthouse Keeper
BY DANIEL W. DRAKE
This is the third birthday of The Lighthouse Keeper, give or take a week. The column began one gray Sunday afternoon in January 2004 when it was too cold to go outside and apparently no football game was on television. I spent four or five hours on that first effort, the topic of which has been long forgotten. It seemed like much too much time for too little output.

My fumbling gave birth to the idea that the column would be an occasional thing, with others filling the gaps as guest columnists. Surely people would want to step up and share their opinions with The Independent's readers on a regular basis. Wrong! Despite my imprecations, no one arose from the dugout. No one warmed up in the bullpen. Not a single person even went so far as to say they would take a year of practice in the minor leagues before coming to the show.

And then, there was the silence. It was as if that page of the newspaper was blank. There were no audible reactions. Were the columns off base; superficial; egotistical; all of the above? There is no doubt of that. But if they were so bad, surely someone would say so? Wouldn't they?

Despite the lack of pinch hitters and the lack of applause - or booing - I persevered. Or maybe it was the lack of discernible support - except, perhaps, from my tolerant wife and bemused editor - that made it an obsession.

Since that dark January day, there have been 145 columns, give or take. The topics have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. The time required to do a column has generally been reduced but some of that time saving has been replaced by an hour or so of fitful thought in the middle of the night which has been added to my schedule each week.

I do get some comments from readers these days, along with a few from people who clearly haven't read the column, but have an opinion anyway. Generally, there seem to be many more observations on the "soft" columns - ones like this - than on the ones that I consider perceptive and au courant. Whether this is a reflection on me or on the readers isn't clear, and I have no intention of trying to find out.

Occasionally, the topical columns will hit a nerve. Some subjects have screamed a bit. Others take it in stride, either responding even-temperedly or shrugging it off. Still others have chosen pointedly to ignore the opinion - and the source.

Seemingly, the most disquiet has been created by my conversations with other species. Simone, the scallop, was viewed with amusement by many, but as alarmingly un-American by some, particularly the "right wing". Her successor, Hawkeye, hasn't really made his mark yet, but already the suspicion seems to be building. He and I certainly still have a lot of ground to cover.

I hadn't really thought about all of this until this week, but when I was a teenager living in Europe with my parents, I faithfully read a column in the International Herald Tribune by a fellow named Art Buchwald. I hadn't seen his columns in recent years because they weren't in the newspapers I read. However, after Buchwald died a few days ago, at the end of a six-year fight with kidney failure and other health problems, I read much of what there was to be read about him and came to the conclusion that those columns I read religiously many years ago had a seminal, if subliminal, influence on me that has remained with me all these years, and might help explain why I ventured forth on this path.

It would be beyond presumptuous to claim that Buchwald influenced my writing. His satire and his humor, not to mention his basic writing ability, are far beyond my limited capabilities. Furthermore, to my knowledge, he never talked to animals. What I believe he unwittingly did was help give me a grounding in the practice of commentary: of cutting to the heart of the matter; of using - or trying to use - humor as means of delivery; and, of sticking to what you believe is right. And he made it seem like fun.

Buchwald eschewed dialysis and was given no chance to survive. Last summer, after his body seemed to overcome the effect of his bad kidneys, he was quoted as saying that he was choosing his place in Martha's Vineyard over heaven for his respite from hospice care. Under the circumstances, he cannot be taken to task for his choice of location for his R&R. More importantly, the remark epitomizes his shrewd and wry observations on the scenes - Paris and Washington - which were his domain for commentary over the years.

The remarkable thing is that Buchwald wrote his columns for more than fifty years and never went stale. That is an amazing accomplishment for anyone, and truly daunting for someone who has already racked up at least 150 hours of sleeplessness wrestling with the topic of the week.

Mr. Buchwald, thank you for your seemingly effortless ability to pop balloons and hoist people on their own petards. Thank you for your good will and good cheer. And thank you, particularly, for the dose of inspiration which you gave, and was unwittingly taken by a boy, five decades ago. Without it, I would sleep a lot better these days - and so, perhaps might some other people.

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The "Lighthouse Keeper" reflects the views of the author and does not necessarily represent the editorial position of The Nantucket Independent. Please send any comments to drake@nantucketindependent. com.