Letter from the Editor #35
This is 250: On America's big birthday, nostalgia for the bicentennial and "Open Sail '76"...On pre-written obituaries...
Readers,
Greetings from Oldster HQ (aka our dining room), where Brian and I are busy getting started on The Oldster Radio Hour podcast stuff.
As I’ve mentioned before, we’d love to find a good platform to host it. If you’re someone who can help with that, drop me a line …
Check out the rest of this series here. P.S. Click here to get more out of this post by reading it online instead of in your email…
“I watched your Good Life Project interview and was so inspired. Excited to find your publication!" - Laura Jane Pittman, paid subscriber.
This is 250: On America’s big birthday, nostalgia for the bicentennial and “Open Sail ‘76”...
You probably already knew this, but the United States has a big birthday coming up on Saturday. Given the state of, well, the state, and the ongoing reversal of so much crucial progress, I’m not much in the mood to celebrate.
Somehow, though, this American birthday is making me nostalgic for an earlier one—the Bicentennial in 1976, which occurred three months before my 11th birthday. As a ’tween I was so taken with all the pomp and circumstance of it all, and the majesty of the tall ships on display in New York Harbor on that day. It was one of the first big cultural events in life that I got to feel a part of, in my favorite city.
A few years ago, inspired by a related social media post by Kathleen McKitty Harris, I invited readers to recall what they were doing on our nation’s 200th birthday, and share it in the comments. It got some nice responses, so I thought I might try that again.
How old are you? Where were you on July 4th, 1976? What do you remember about that occasion? And where will you be on July 4th, 2026? Will you celebrate, and if so, how? (*Let’s steer clear, though, of political debate and argument in the comments. That’s not what this post is for.*)
Me? I’m 60. And here’s what I shared about my experience of the Bicentennial in that earlier post:
“I felt grown up accompanying my dad to his friends’ Manhattan apartment overlooking the Hudson River, where we watched the Grand Parade of Sailing Ships. I really got into the spirit of the occasion, dressing in the blue jumpsuit with red and white patches from Chwatzky’s Department Store that my best friend also had.”
P.S. Everything you need to know about the Sail4th 250 tall ships event in NYC: how to watch, key dates. - Gerrish Lopez at Time Out NY.
On pre-written obituaries...
Here’s how I learned that earlier this week Mel Brooks turned 100 —from this Substack Notes post by Mary Elizabeth Williams:
Did you know that the obituaries of famous people—particularly those of a certain age—are pre-written by journalists well ahead of their passing? I’ve known this for some time because I used to have to pre-write them when I worked at newspapers.
Having “in the can” what are essentially fully-researched biographies of well known figures makes it so that the minute one of them dies, the story of their life is ready to go, no matter how busy a news day it is. All that’s left to do before publishing is to report certain vital details, like when, where, and how they passed; who survived them; and where and when the memorial will be held.
It was funny timing for me seeing Mary Elizabeth’s post, because a week or so earlier I’d read the obituary of my former Women’s Wear Daily/W boss, beloved and esteemed editor Etta Froio, that bore the byline of a former co-worker, Lorna Koski—who, it so happens, pre-deceased Etta by four years.
Let me spell this out more clearly: Lorna, who died in 2022, was credited with writing the obituary for Etta, who died in 2026. A person who died four years ago had a byline this year.
Journalistically it makes perfect sense, especially considering what I explained above about obituaries being pre-written. Given that Etta endured a “long battle with Alzheimer’s,” Lorna was surely very much alive when she was tasked with pre-eulogizing Etta, likely a long time ago. Still, it felt strange to encounter Lorna’s byline four years after mourning her passing.
It reminded me of an obituary that had been assigned to me in the spring of 1988, when I’d just started at WWD/W. It was for an older socialite named Frank Ricciardi who’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and whose name and image often graced our society pages. After I reported and wrote the piece, I was told that from then on, whenever I took time off from work, I needed to alert certain editors as to which “basket” in our clunky computer system the obituary was stored in.
Every time I took a vacation day or sick day, I did my due diligence and let the editors know exactly where to find it. This went on for six months, until I was about to take time off to have all four wisdom teeth pulled.
“The Frank Ricciardi obituary is in the ‘city desk’ basket if it’s needed,” I told the managing editor.
“Frank Ricciardi died last month,” he informed me, flatly, “and Mr. Fairchild wrote his obituary.”
Mr. Fairchild being John Fairchild, our publisher and top editor. How had I missed that, I wondered? I looked back at the article in the archive, and saw that Mr. Fairchild had used my piece as the basis for his—I guess my editors knew where to find it—but added his personal reflections on the man, someone he apparently knew well.
Despite being alive and well, I was not given the courtesy of a (shared) byline.
Anyway, RIP Etta Froio. And happy 100th, Mel Brooks.
P.S. Vaguely related—here’s an Oldster Questionnaire from last year featuring obituary writer James Robert Hagerty, author of Yours Truly: An Obituary Writer's Guide to Telling Your Story.
That’s all for today. Thanks as always for reading, and for all your support. 🙏💝 Hope you have a nice holiday weekend, however you’ll spend it.
-Sari
I was 26 and a student at the New England Conservatory of Muaic. Our vocal quartet had been hired by the National Park Service to sing early American music at Boston's Prudential Center Plaza. I'd never seen so many people in one place before. It was magical.
In 1976, I had just turned 5 years old. Where I grew up in California, every year there was a big fireworks show at the beach. 1976 was the biggest one yet! My father, being a military veteran and super patriotic, was so excited to take all of us kids, but my mom was NOT going to let me and my little sister (aged 3) go. We whined and cried, but she said it was way too cold (foggy Northern California). So me and sissy sadly went to bed while our dad and brothers got ready to go. Suddenly there was a knock at the bedroom window and our Daddy beckoning us to open up. He whispered, "grab your coats!!". We did, and he lifted us out of the window, then hid us under blankets in the back of the station wagon. The fireworks were magical!! Me and my little sister, in our nightgowns and coats, all snuggled in the back of the car under blankets. Afterwards, he sneakily deposited back in our room with a dire warning, "DON'T tell your mom about this!!!". (We knew better ). I'm not sure if she ever found out, but I kept that secret from my mom forever! I have to ask my sister if she remembers that day.