Sadly, Tim Russert died of a heart attack today at age 58. Many are rightly honoring Russert for his role in American politics and media, but fathers have a different reason to honor Russert–the respect he paid us in his books.
In 2004, Russert published Big Russ and Me about his father, and says he received an “avalanche” of letters from men and women who wanted to tell him about their own dads. His 2006 book Wisdom of Our Fathers: Lessons and Letters from Daughters and Sons is largely a sampling of those 60,000 letters, and the book was a surprise runaway hit.
When Wisdom came out in 2006, we co-authored a column about it–America’s Father Hunger (World Net Daily, 10/13/06). It is reprinted below.
America’s Father Hunger
By Mike McCormick and Glenn Sacks
(World Net Daily, 10/13/06).
Are fathers irrelevant? Are they really the useless buffoons we see on TV? The irresponsible deadbeats the local DA says they are? The controlling abusers we see in domestic violence PSAs?
That’s not the way Tim Russert’s readers see them.
Russert’s new book Wisdom of Our Fathers: Lessons and Letters from Daughters and Sons is a surprise runaway hit, reaching #1 on both the New York Times bestseller list and on Book Standard’s Overall Bestsellers Chart. In 2004, Russert published Big Russ and Me about his father, and says he received an “avalanche” of letters from men and women who wanted to tell him about their own dads. Wisdom is largely a sampling of those 60,000 letters.
In heartwarming and heart-wrenching stories, Russert’s readers remember their fathers as strong, devoted and honorable. In the chapter “Daddy’s Girl,” one woman tells Russert that she was her “father’s princess,” and explains “growing up in a rural area of the Deep South could have been a harsh experience for a little black girl, but I was insulated by his love and tenderness.”
Another “Daddy’s Girl” writes:
“When I was a little girl and my father put me to bed…I had a litany of things I went through every night. ‘Can I call you if I need anything?…Can I call you if I get scared?’…He would listen and say yes after each one, and I would fall asleep, secure that I was completely loved and cared for.”
Another remembers:
“When I was four, my father took me on my first official date…I got all dressed up in my prettiest pink dress and shiny black-leather shoes…I was so excited and proud to be his date, and he made me feel so special to be ‘his little girl.’ To this day I am still proud to be his little girl, even if I’m not so little anymore. My dad was the strongest and handsomest man I have ever known, and he will have that title in my heart forever.”
Another remembers:
“I was an only child. Mom said I was plenty; Dad said I was perfect. He worked hard to support us: twelve-hour shifts with thirteen days on and only one day off, because overtime paid the bills. He left early in the morning, long before Mom and I were awake; He came home exhausted and slept until it was time to do it all over again. It was hard on him because he had so little time with us. It was hard on us too.
”We all found little ways to compensate…I would put my favorite toy in his lunchbox so he would have something to play with at work.
“Dad’s special time for me was morning coffee. He would get up at 4 A.M., start the coffee brewing, and get ready for work. When the pot was ready, he would come into my room and wake me up. I would sit at the kitchen table as he poured two cups of coffee. His was always black. Mine was barely brown, full of milk and sugar, sweet to the taste. Dad would tell me about his day and ask about mine. When the cups were empty, he would tuck me back into bed and kiss me good night before heading out to work. It was our special time together, and we never missed.”
Perhaps the book’s most striking feature is the overwhelming outpouring of love from women towards their fathers.
The Russert dads also knew when to take a stand. One letter writer remembers:
“By 1963, white flight was beginning to transform our neighborhood, and before long the first African American child took a seat in my Catholic school classroom. Birthday parties were about the biggest social events a third-grader had to look forward to, and I was delighted to receive an invitation to her party. Then I learned that none of my friends were going. I remember being confused by that, because we all went to one another’s parties. But if my friends weren’t going to this one, I wasn’t going to go either, especially when they seemed convinced that there was something wrong with the very idea.
“…Dad put his foot down and told me that, like it or not, I was going to that party. He took me to the five-and-dime and we bought a card and a gift. The day of the party, he took me by the hand and we walked the three or four blocks to the girl’s apartment. My whining and complaining were useless, and it wasn’t until many years later that I understood why he made me go. He knew why none of my friends was there, and he wanted no part of it. No child of his was going to contribute to the hurt that would surely be felt by a little girl sitting at an empty birthday table.”
Another says: (more…)
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