When Giants Die...

While accolades accrue in tony obituaries, how's a family to find themselves in there?

This week, my father in law, James Fulton Hoge, passed away. As sad an occasion as the loss of a family member is, when someone has lived a full life, and left behind a large extended family, the aftermath is often a chance to tell stories and reminisce about the person who was your parent or grandparent. When someone has as outsized an impact as Jim did, however, the obituaries and tributes can end up focused on only one thing—their amazing accomplishments.

I’m writing this for my husband, Bob, and our four children, as well as for our entire family and for anyone who knew him with some memories of him apart from his impressive curriculum vitae, with, at the end, a small plea.

We aren’t short of stories from his life that would make a fine film—the Mirage Bar sting in Chicago, the work he did, the foundations and awards in his name. Read here or here or here. But when the paper of record leaves out a granddaughter, I'm sure they end up wondering which of them was missed? (Not to mention completely ignoring his youngest two grandkids.)

Jim Hoge was a real person—complicated to be sure, and with looks like that, and a background like his, people could be forgiven for underestimating him. He was handsome and well educated but he never ever treated someone as less than for appearing to be a mere mortal. All kids grow up in awe of their parents, for a while at least, but when your dad is featured in a 1979 Esquire article about the dangers of being too good looking, it’s gotta be tough. The good news is that Bob, Alicia, Patrick and Spencer are all lookers themselves, and if I do say so myself, the grandkids are all okay as well.

Which is a relief! I mention Jim’s looks because he managed to maintain them (somehow, Lord, if you could be as kind to me to hit 87 half as photogenic!) while appearing to be wholly unconcerned about them. When Bob and I took him out to dinner and a movie in ‘94, I chose “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” and our fave dim sum place in downtown LA to shake up what could have been a staid evening with a major power imbalance. After the movie, he had stories for us of being pursued by men in his youth, which at the time must have been scandalous.

He could poke fun at himself. Bob’s first film featured a father character who pontificated from behind a desk. We were worried that the portrayal of a blustery jerk would reflect on Jim, who basically said, “no worries. I didn’t get where I was without being an SOB sometimes.” He had a giant head. Giant. As in, no off-the-rack hats for him or his kids. :-) He was okay with that, too.

He wrung every bit of life out of every moment he was granted. Museums (he never met one he couldn’t hang in for hours), hikes (ditto for the number of hours, without water or maps), events. His wife, Kathy Lacey, the glue for our late-in-life Brady Bunch, didn't need a walker for her life in Manhattan. The man would gladly dress up and hit three events in a day, including this summer, when he did just that while having to use a cane. Know how wives often have to hit the dance floor sans male partners? Not if Jim was around. He’d happily cut a rug and I’m thrilled to say, so does my Bob. At our wedding, he called my Mum indefatigable, and managed to look crisp and dry in his tuxedo even though the Jamaican humidity was killer. But he also deserved that description.

For someone who kept his finger on the pulse of current events until the very end (my twins got an early-morning condensed history of Russia when we stayed with them in NY the morning of the Wagner group coup attempt that wasn’t) he also loved being around his family. From the day his eldest grandson, my firstborn, arrived, he would show up to meet and hold a baby (and even go on one of those grueling hikes, as he did in Griffith Park with my newborn niece and her willing mama—Hoge genes are strong!). When my daughter arrived on her due date, the last day of the 2000 Democrat convention in Los Angeles, he decamped to my Cedars hospital room and worked on whatever he was writing or editing there instead of dining with the folks who were seeking his opinion on important matters. But he had a new grandchild. Next to some fabulous art in the foyer of his and Kathy’s apartment is a crayon-and-paper work by one of the youngest, his stepdaughter Kienan’s son. He flew to LA to visit when he could and would see the ocassional game, and watch them dance or sing, and he would entertain questions from anyone willing to ask.

And he loved shows! Ballet, musicals, Broadway, dance, but most of all, opera. He loved treating kids to shows and even to talking about them afterwards.

He was, as he said, in the communication business. Like his kids are. And like his grandchildren are. He read my daughter’s Econ thesis and spoke in detail about it with her. He complimented another daughter on a short story she shared. We have heard this week a lot of stories of the encouragement he gave to his writers and to others. He was generous to me as well. The first time I dared to write something political for publication, I shared it with him nervously (it could be very scary to go toe to toe with Jim, and he and Kath are lined up firmly on team blue, with Bob and I suiting up for team red). He was very kind, and told me to keep writing. When I ran for office, they donated to my campaign. Sure, we had debates and political disagreements, but in the end, we all were reconciled and gathered in his favourite place, Martha’s Vineyard.

For our last dinner this summer, we were all together, his four kids, his two stepchildren, their partners, his many grandchildren, his oldest friends and his beloved Kathy. Jim and Kathy sat at the kids table, and regaled them with stories from his life. Afterwards, he stood to give a beautiful speech about the love they shared, and he presented her with a beautiful amethyst ring.

I need to ask for a gift as well—if Jim ever told you something about his family, please share it with them.

The children and grandchildren of giants need to hear those stories, too.