It was in the late summer of 1976 that I got my first full-time position as a newspaper reporter and my first assignment on that August Monday morning was to write an obituary.
My own.
I had arrived to my new job early, dressed nattily in a perfectly rumpled khaki suit not unlike the one Jack Lemmon had worn in the 1974 Billy Wilder film, The Front Page–button-down blue Oxford-cloth shirt, blue-and-orange-striped club tie, and brown wing tips. I took my place at the gun-metal gray desk to which I’d been assigned, inspecting the empty drawers, rolling the handful of pencils around the desk’s surface, and making sure the maroon Swingline stapler was loaded. I smiled at the sight of the smoky brown glue pot and then walked to the back of the newsroom for a paper cup of horrible coffee.
I returned to my desk, lit a cigarette and idly pushed a couple of the five–or was it six?–buttons on the black telephone posed on the left corner of the desk. I admired the heft of the manual typewriter that sat on the desk’s right-hand return.
The managing editor, a gruff old bald man in his sixties who carried two Berol draughting pencils tucked into a belt-loop of his suit pants and who had hired me just three days before, walked up behind me.
“Liska,” he barked over my shoulder, “I need your obituary in 45 minutes.”
He turned and walked back to his glass-walled office and shut the door. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 8:15. I lit another cigarette, loaded a sheet of newsprint into the typewriter and stared at the blank paper, waiting, perhaps, for blood to pour from my forehead.
I was twenty-five years old. I was too young to have died and because I really hadn’t done much I had little to contribute to a report of my own demise. To that point, none of my meager accomplishments seemed newsworthy.
Granted, I had played in some bands and shown some musical promise; I had worked in the theater world a bit; I had been a good student; my criminal record was minimal; I had yet to marry and had no children; I had had a newspaper career that wasn’t even an hour old.
I took off my suit coat. I got more coffee. I lit another cigarette. I looked at the clock. I wrote my obit.
A. James Liska, 25, recently passed away of undisclosed causes. He died alone in an unfurnished apartment in Van Nuys, California. Foul play is not suspected.
A native of Chicago, Illinois, he was a graduate of the Interlochen Arts Academy (Michigan) and the University of Illinois (Champaign-Urbana). Liska had moved to Los Angeles just last week to start a career in journalism at this newspaper.
Prior to his brief career as a reporter, he had worked as a musician.
He is survived by his parents, two grandmothers, a sister, and a little dog.
Memorials in his name should be made to the American Civil Liberties Union.
I circled the “-30-” at the end of the copy and walked the obit to the ME’s office. He took the copy and signaled for me to sit down as he read my life’s story.
“Very good,” he said in his inimitable grumbling bark (or was it a barking grumble?). He placed the page in a basket on his desk.
I asked him why he wanted me to write my own obit.
“Well,” he said, “when I need it, you won’t be around.”
And so I began my career at the Valley News and Green Sheet, soon to become the Los Angeles Daily News.
All reporters do their fair share of obituary writing, usually as it relates to their beat. As I inched away from consumer reporting and started writing about jazz for the paper, I started amassing files of biographical materials I could use when a jazz musician died. In the days before the Internet, that kind of research was more demanding and difficult. It was an important part of the job and, like most journalists I’ve known, I like researching any number of subjects.
Within a year or so, I had first drafts of obituaries for more than a hundred jazz musicians, few of whom died on my watch. I took the files with me when the paper and I parted ways eight years later.
Obituaries are tiny biographies and I have always enjoyed reading them. In fact, I’m fascinated by them. Every morning I read about dead people I didn’t know. I’m not sure why. (Contrary to the old joke, I am not looking for my own name.) I was raised to appreciate and respect accomplishment and when one reads an obituary one learns about that aspect of the deceased. I find that to be really interesting and am always curious about what might be considered to be an accomplishment.
A recent obit I read noted that the deceased was a great housekeeper. I laughed when I read that and then reconsidered after thinking that that was obviously important to the deceased, her family and whoever it was who wrote the obit.
The Los Angeles Daily News might have had paid obituaries back then. I don’t remember. It’s a significant revenue stream for newspapers. When my father died, there was a notice in the Chicago Tribune that was, if I remember correctly, fewer than 35 words. It was placed by the funeral home that had been charged with his “arrangements” and it detailed nothing beyond dates and surviving relations.
He had lead a decent life that included serving his country, raising a family, providing employment for countless people, and helping countless others through his charitable spirit and generosity. I don’t know why I didn’t write his obit and pay to have it published in one of the smaller papers near where he had lived.
My mother’s death was noted in a suburban Chicago newspaper that focused on her work with the AAUW (American Association of University Women). Judging by the content, it had been written by somebody who only knew that one aspect of her life.
A couple of months ago I was scheduled for a Monday morning surgery.
“Strictly routine,” the surgeon’s nurse told me a few days before. “Maybe for you,” I protested.
On Sunday night I was in my office and Geri called to ask if I was done writing my obituary.
“Almost.”
Foods for a Funeral
Where I grew up there were two foods one could count on having at every post-funeral, potluck reception. Here are the recipes.
Deviled Eggs
6 large eggs
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 to 2 dashes Tabasco sauce, to taste
Salt, to taste
¼ tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbs. snipped fresh chives
3 Tbs. mayonnaise
Paprika, for dusting
Place eggs in a small saucepan, cover with cold water, and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Turn off heat, cover and let sit for 10-12 minutes. Drain, rinse under cold water and peel. Cool in the refrigerator for at least 15 minutes.
Halve eggs lengthwise, and carefully scoop out yolks. Place yolks in a bowl, and mash with a fork. Add mustard, Tabasco, salt, pepper and snipped chives. Stir in mayonnaise.
Fill each egg white with about 1 1/2 teaspoons of the egg-yolk mixture and lightly dust the top with paprika.
Tuna Noodle Casserole
12 ounces farfalle (bow ties) pasta
4 Tbs. unsalted butter
1 medium onion, finely chopped
2 Tbs. all-purpose flour
3 cups whole milk or half-and-half
1 1/2 cups frozen baby peas
3/4 cup fresh piquillo or red-bell peppers, chopped
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
Two 5-ounce can solid white tuna in water, drained and flaked
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup panko (Japanese bread crumbs)
Heat the oven to 450°. Cook the farfalle pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until al dente. Drain.
In a large saucepan, melt 3 tablespoons of the butter. Add the onion and cook over high heat, stirring, until softened (about 3 minutes). Add the flour and cook, stirring, for a minute or so. Add the milk slowly and bring to a boil. Cook the sauce over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until thickened (3-5 minutes).
Add the farfalle pasta, frozen baby peas, peppers, Parmigiano cheese and tuna. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer the mixture to a large baking dish.
In a small skillet, melt the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter. Add the panko and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until golden, about 1 minute. Sprinkle the panko over the casserole and bake for 10 minutes.
Photography by Courtney A. Liska