This article is from the source 'washpo' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.

You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/family-friends-and-colleagues-gather-to-pay-final-tribute-to-benjamin-c-bradlee/2014/10/29/74e8b770-5ea9-11e4-9f3a-7e28799e0549_story.html?wprss=rss_homepage

The article has changed 2 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 0 Version 1
Family, friends and colleagues gather to pay final tribute to Benjamin C. Bradlee Family, friends and colleagues gather to pay final tribute to Benjamin C. Bradlee
(about 3 hours later)
Following a small choir’s soft alto affirmation of America’s beauty, the organ swelled, and the people joined in, and the national hymn that Benjamin Crowninshield Bradlee chose for his own funeral filled the cathedral, its pews lined with the powerful and the ordinary.Following a small choir’s soft alto affirmation of America’s beauty, the organ swelled, and the people joined in, and the national hymn that Benjamin Crowninshield Bradlee chose for his own funeral filled the cathedral, its pews lined with the powerful and the ordinary.
Then a prayer, and two sailors delivering a taut flag to the editor’s widow, and a bugler sounding taps from high in the Gothic rafters, and then, because this was Mr. Bradlee who was being celebrated, a sharp break from the stately and solemn: The band struck up Sousa’s jaunty “The Washington Post” march and Ben Bradlee left the building as he had departed his newspaper on so many nights through the 26 years he led it: electrifying the room just by sweeping through it.Then a prayer, and two sailors delivering a taut flag to the editor’s widow, and a bugler sounding taps from high in the Gothic rafters, and then, because this was Mr. Bradlee who was being celebrated, a sharp break from the stately and solemn: The band struck up Sousa’s jaunty “The Washington Post” march and Ben Bradlee left the building as he had departed his newspaper on so many nights through the 26 years he led it: electrifying the room just by sweeping through it.
Mr. Bradlee’s funeral Wednesday at Washington National Cathedral was an exercise in high Episcopal ritual, but also a statement of the man’s irreverence and verve, a joyful cataloguing of the ingredients he used to transform his paper into one of the best: a zest for the great story, a certain swagger and above all, a belief that if ain’t fun, it ain’t worth doing.Mr. Bradlee’s funeral Wednesday at Washington National Cathedral was an exercise in high Episcopal ritual, but also a statement of the man’s irreverence and verve, a joyful cataloguing of the ingredients he used to transform his paper into one of the best: a zest for the great story, a certain swagger and above all, a belief that if ain’t fun, it ain’t worth doing.
Since Mr. Bradlee died last week at 93, he has been recalled as the architect of an aggressive reporting force with a literary bent, as a man who admired spunk, relished smarts and loathed phonies. At his farewell, colleagues, friends and family remembered him as a symbol of what journalism might achieve, a character with an almost mystically motivating role in the lives of those who worked with him, and a man with the courage to support those who make mistakes and unbridled love for those around him.Since Mr. Bradlee died last week at 93, he has been recalled as the architect of an aggressive reporting force with a literary bent, as a man who admired spunk, relished smarts and loathed phonies. At his farewell, colleagues, friends and family remembered him as a symbol of what journalism might achieve, a character with an almost mystically motivating role in the lives of those who worked with him, and a man with the courage to support those who make mistakes and unbridled love for those around him.
“Ben Bradlee was a blizzard of one,” said the Very Rev. Gary Hall, dean of the cathedral, “who went through life generating the energy of a snowstorm.”“Ben Bradlee was a blizzard of one,” said the Very Rev. Gary Hall, dean of the cathedral, “who went through life generating the energy of a snowstorm.”
Thirteen years ago, in the same cathedral on Wisconsin Avenue NW, Mr. Bradlee stood where his eulogists now recited his virtues (and a few vices, too), recalling with devilish delight the grand times he’d had with Katharine Graham, The Post’s matriarch. Bradlee savored a letter Mrs. Graham had written that cut through the usual sanctimony about the high purpose of newspapering: “The all-important thing is to continue to have fun,” she wrote. Mr. Bradlee’s eyes sparkled as he quoted his boss and pal: “My God, the fun!”Thirteen years ago, in the same cathedral on Wisconsin Avenue NW, Mr. Bradlee stood where his eulogists now recited his virtues (and a few vices, too), recalling with devilish delight the grand times he’d had with Katharine Graham, The Post’s matriarch. Bradlee savored a letter Mrs. Graham had written that cut through the usual sanctimony about the high purpose of newspapering: “The all-important thing is to continue to have fun,” she wrote. Mr. Bradlee’s eyes sparkled as he quoted his boss and pal: “My God, the fun!”
Gently tolling bells sounded the arrival of Mr. Bradlee’s casket — when he and his wife, Sally Quinn, had gone to Gawler’s funeral home to pick out their coffins a couple of years ago, he had insisted on getting the cheapest one in the place. Mrs. Graham’s son Donald, the longtime publisher and chief executive of The Post, looked out on hundreds of people who had worked in Mr. Bradlee’s newsroom and described them as “hard-bitten. They were a group of men and woman who proudly had no heroes. But he was our hero — Benjamin C. Bradlee — and he will be always.”Gently tolling bells sounded the arrival of Mr. Bradlee’s casket — when he and his wife, Sally Quinn, had gone to Gawler’s funeral home to pick out their coffins a couple of years ago, he had insisted on getting the cheapest one in the place. Mrs. Graham’s son Donald, the longtime publisher and chief executive of The Post, looked out on hundreds of people who had worked in Mr. Bradlee’s newsroom and described them as “hard-bitten. They were a group of men and woman who proudly had no heroes. But he was our hero — Benjamin C. Bradlee — and he will be always.”
In addition to Post journalists whose tenures stretched over six decades, the cathedral was full of the paper’s subscribers, competing journalists, politicians and business leaders. Vice President Biden and his wife, Jill, Supreme Court Justice Stephen G. Breyer, Secretary of State John F. Kerry, former defense secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld, House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) and a slew of other people whose names had regularly appeared in Mr. Bradlee’s newspaper listened as his longtime friend, Post reporter Walter Pincus, recalled once approaching his boss for a raise.In addition to Post journalists whose tenures stretched over six decades, the cathedral was full of the paper’s subscribers, competing journalists, politicians and business leaders. Vice President Biden and his wife, Jill, Supreme Court Justice Stephen G. Breyer, Secretary of State John F. Kerry, former defense secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld, House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) and a slew of other people whose names had regularly appeared in Mr. Bradlee’s newspaper listened as his longtime friend, Post reporter Walter Pincus, recalled once approaching his boss for a raise.
Mr. Bradlee looked up from his omnipresent crossword puzzle, “and in his gruffest voice,” Pincus recalled, “he said, ‘You ought to be paying me for all the fun you’re having.’ ”Mr. Bradlee looked up from his omnipresent crossword puzzle, “and in his gruffest voice,” Pincus recalled, “he said, ‘You ought to be paying me for all the fun you’re having.’ ”
Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, the reporters whose work on the Watergate scandal helped turn Mr. Bradlee into a national celebrity and a symbol of journalism’s role as a check on abuse of public power, portrayed their editor in terms similar to those his own sons used to describe his blend of tough love and unbending support.Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, the reporters whose work on the Watergate scandal helped turn Mr. Bradlee into a national celebrity and a symbol of journalism’s role as a check on abuse of public power, portrayed their editor in terms similar to those his own sons used to describe his blend of tough love and unbending support.
“He pulled off being Ben,” Bernstein said, “because he wasn’t afraid of presidents, of polio, of political correctness, of publishing the Pentagon Papers, of possible retribution . . ., of going off to war in the Pacific, of making mistakes.”“He pulled off being Ben,” Bernstein said, “because he wasn’t afraid of presidents, of polio, of political correctness, of publishing the Pentagon Papers, of possible retribution . . ., of going off to war in the Pacific, of making mistakes.”
Bernstein also said: “We live now in an era when too many of us run afraid. . . . The dominant political and media cultures [are] too often geared to the lowest common denominator: Make noise, get eyeballs . . . manufacture as much controversy as can be ginned up. Ben lived and worked in an ungerrymandered world. He lived off the main road. There was no safe line except the truth.”Bernstein also said: “We live now in an era when too many of us run afraid. . . . The dominant political and media cultures [are] too often geared to the lowest common denominator: Make noise, get eyeballs . . . manufacture as much controversy as can be ginned up. Ben lived and worked in an ungerrymandered world. He lived off the main road. There was no safe line except the truth.”
“I loved this man,” Woodward said, recalling his friend’s study of the classics in college (“It was a mild effort, by all accounts”) and listing the attributes of the Greek heroes: “Strong, leaderly, reckless at times, full of doubt at others, successful, yet men who wept tears as most men no longer do. But Ben cried easily, at the slightest hint of sorrow in a movie or in life. He was in search of the large truth, not just the facts, which he was devoted to, but he was looking for the deep emotional struggles he knew were in the great events that moved history.”“I loved this man,” Woodward said, recalling his friend’s study of the classics in college (“It was a mild effort, by all accounts”) and listing the attributes of the Greek heroes: “Strong, leaderly, reckless at times, full of doubt at others, successful, yet men who wept tears as most men no longer do. But Ben cried easily, at the slightest hint of sorrow in a movie or in life. He was in search of the large truth, not just the facts, which he was devoted to, but he was looking for the deep emotional struggles he knew were in the great events that moved history.”
Along with the day’s many stories of Mr. Bradlee’s rock-hard determination to print stories that revealed wrongs, Woodward cited his editor’s deeply held patriotism — he was an officer on Navy destroyers in World War II — and recalled moments when Mr. Bradlee­, “in the interest of the country’s safety,” chose not to publish government secrets that could damage the nation’s security.Along with the day’s many stories of Mr. Bradlee’s rock-hard determination to print stories that revealed wrongs, Woodward cited his editor’s deeply held patriotism — he was an officer on Navy destroyers in World War II — and recalled moments when Mr. Bradlee­, “in the interest of the country’s safety,” chose not to publish government secrets that could damage the nation’s security.
From Woodward and Bernstein to copy aides and clerks, those who worked for Mr. Bradlee said they felt an enduring bond because he had pushed them hard and backed them up when they least expected it. They remembered him as magnificently courtly and deliciously coarse, sometimes in the same conversation. They recalled his simple, piercing gestures — the way he won over a young reporter with an obscene, silent put-down of a self-important­ corporate leader who was droning on across the table, or how he’d rap his knuckles on a writer’s desk to signify that the latest story was a humdinger.From Woodward and Bernstein to copy aides and clerks, those who worked for Mr. Bradlee said they felt an enduring bond because he had pushed them hard and backed them up when they least expected it. They remembered him as magnificently courtly and deliciously coarse, sometimes in the same conversation. They recalled his simple, piercing gestures — the way he won over a young reporter with an obscene, silent put-down of a self-important­ corporate leader who was droning on across the table, or how he’d rap his knuckles on a writer’s desk to signify that the latest story was a humdinger.
Dana Thomas, who worked in the Style section as a copy aide before becoming a reporter and book author, was first in the queue outside the cathedral at 8 a.m., three hours before the service, having flown in from Paris. “I wrote one of my first stories when I was a copy aide,” she said, “and he came over to my desk and said, ‘Kid, you knocked that one out of the park.’ I almost fainted.”Dana Thomas, who worked in the Style section as a copy aide before becoming a reporter and book author, was first in the queue outside the cathedral at 8 a.m., three hours before the service, having flown in from Paris. “I wrote one of my first stories when I was a copy aide,” she said, “and he came over to my desk and said, ‘Kid, you knocked that one out of the park.’ I almost fainted.”
Howard Kurtz, the longtime media reporter for The Post, recalled Mr. Bradlee ribbing him after he’d worked through his wedding weekend and honeymoon on a breaking story, saying, “Ah, wonder how long that marriage will last.”Howard Kurtz, the longtime media reporter for The Post, recalled Mr. Bradlee ribbing him after he’d worked through his wedding weekend and honeymoon on a breaking story, saying, “Ah, wonder how long that marriage will last.”
“But a few days later, Ben sent my wife a charming note of apology,” Kurtz said.“But a few days later, Ben sent my wife a charming note of apology,” Kurtz said.
USA Today’s president and publisher, Larry Kramer, a former Metro editor of The Post, said he learned from Mr. Bradlee how to manage people, with “his incredible sense of fairness, that belief that almost everyone had that he cared about them.”USA Today’s president and publisher, Larry Kramer, a former Metro editor of The Post, said he learned from Mr. Bradlee how to manage people, with “his incredible sense of fairness, that belief that almost everyone had that he cared about them.”
In the hour before the service began, the nave of the cathedral resembled a clubhouse of the city’s media and political top shelf: Donald E. Graham greeted Rep. Steny H. Hoyer (D-Md.) in front of the lectern; The Post’s owner, Jeffrey P. Bezos, chatted with Woodward and Bernstein in the aisle, a few feet from former network TV anchors Tom Brokaw and Ted Koppel, not far from NBC anchor Brian Williams.In the hour before the service began, the nave of the cathedral resembled a clubhouse of the city’s media and political top shelf: Donald E. Graham greeted Rep. Steny H. Hoyer (D-Md.) in front of the lectern; The Post’s owner, Jeffrey P. Bezos, chatted with Woodward and Bernstein in the aisle, a few feet from former network TV anchors Tom Brokaw and Ted Koppel, not far from NBC anchor Brian Williams.
Although Bezos, who bought The Post a year ago, “sadly did not know” Mr. Bradlee, he said, “it’s clear that his soul is deeply embedded in The Washington Post. He lives on in that Washington Post culture.”Although Bezos, who bought The Post a year ago, “sadly did not know” Mr. Bradlee, he said, “it’s clear that his soul is deeply embedded in The Washington Post. He lives on in that Washington Post culture.”
Those who knew Mr. Bradlee only as the editor of a newspaper that sometimes strutted and punched in its garrulous leader’s style gained a more personal view in a service that mixed the regal and spiritual with the intensely intimate.Those who knew Mr. Bradlee only as the editor of a newspaper that sometimes strutted and punched in its garrulous leader’s style gained a more personal view in a service that mixed the regal and spiritual with the intensely intimate.
An Irish tenor sang Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen,” which was Mr. Bradlee and Sally Quinn’s own love song. Mr. Bradlee had chosen the hymn “Sun of My Soul” (“It is not night if thou be near”), and Quinn selected the readings and liturgy, which included a recitation of the Hebrew Kaddish by Mr. Bradlee’s friend and physician, Michael Newman. (Although raised Episcopalian, Mr. Bradlee kept a ready arsenal of Yiddish insults and endearments. A good story from a Jewish reporter could win the writer the name “Bubbeleh” for at least a few days.) Newman praised Quinn for providing her husband “a good ending, a soft landing.”An Irish tenor sang Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen,” which was Mr. Bradlee and Sally Quinn’s own love song. Mr. Bradlee had chosen the hymn “Sun of My Soul” (“It is not night if thou be near”), and Quinn selected the readings and liturgy, which included a recitation of the Hebrew Kaddish by Mr. Bradlee’s friend and physician, Michael Newman. (Although raised Episcopalian, Mr. Bradlee kept a ready arsenal of Yiddish insults and endearments. A good story from a Jewish reporter could win the writer the name “Bubbeleh” for at least a few days.) Newman praised Quinn for providing her husband “a good ending, a soft landing.”
Rosamond Casey, one of Mr. Bradlee’s stepchildren from the second of his three marriages, read the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley, which ends with “I am the captain of my soul,” a line she believes he first heard when he was 14, paralyzed with polio. It was a line he often wielded, she said, “as an exhortation or an acclamation of someone he admired, like the plumber in the next room fixing the sink.”Rosamond Casey, one of Mr. Bradlee’s stepchildren from the second of his three marriages, read the poem “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley, which ends with “I am the captain of my soul,” a line she believes he first heard when he was 14, paralyzed with polio. It was a line he often wielded, she said, “as an exhortation or an acclamation of someone he admired, like the plumber in the next room fixing the sink.”
Mr. Bradlee’s oldest son, Ben Bradlee Jr., a writer and longtime editor at the Boston Globe, wore one of his father’s signature Turnbull & Asser shirts and recalled a sometimes distant parent whom he came to cherish, a man who liked style and people who had it, was not introspective and lived in the moment. Bradlee Jr., whose gravelly voice echoed his father’s, quoted former Post reporter and current New Yorker magazine editor David Remnick, “who once wrote that Dad gave the lie to Socrates’ idea that the unexamined life is not worth living.”Mr. Bradlee’s oldest son, Ben Bradlee Jr., a writer and longtime editor at the Boston Globe, wore one of his father’s signature Turnbull & Asser shirts and recalled a sometimes distant parent whom he came to cherish, a man who liked style and people who had it, was not introspective and lived in the moment. Bradlee Jr., whose gravelly voice echoed his father’s, quoted former Post reporter and current New Yorker magazine editor David Remnick, “who once wrote that Dad gave the lie to Socrates’ idea that the unexamined life is not worth living.”
But it was Mr. Bradlee’s youngest son, Quinn, who delivered the most intimate portrait of the man. “He was a huge, huge man,” said Quinn Bradlee, who is 32. “He was the simplest man I ever knew. He taught me if you do the little things well and treat everyone with respect, it can take you so much further than you anticipated.But it was Mr. Bradlee’s youngest son, Quinn, who delivered the most intimate portrait of the man. “He was a huge, huge man,” said Quinn Bradlee, who is 32. “He was the simplest man I ever knew. He taught me if you do the little things well and treat everyone with respect, it can take you so much further than you anticipated.
“My father had the deepest voice, the broadest chest and the loudest heart of any man I ever met. I used to put my head on his chest as a kid, and his heart would beat so loud, I would have to move my head over to the right side of his chest.”“My father had the deepest voice, the broadest chest and the loudest heart of any man I ever met. I used to put my head on his chest as a kid, and his heart would beat so loud, I would have to move my head over to the right side of his chest.”
The son, who is the author of a book about growing up learning-disabled, said: “I used to be someone others might need to take care of. Now I feel ready to take care of others.” And he promised to care for his mother in his father’s absence.The son, who is the author of a book about growing up learning-disabled, said: “I used to be someone others might need to take care of. Now I feel ready to take care of others.” And he promised to care for his mother in his father’s absence.
“I can’t see him anymore,” Quinn Bradlee said. “I can’t hear him. But I get the message: ‘Hey buddy, it’s your turn. Get it right, kid.’ ”“I can’t see him anymore,” Quinn Bradlee said. “I can’t hear him. But I get the message: ‘Hey buddy, it’s your turn. Get it right, kid.’ ”
People who live into their 90s often don’t get to have their best friends at their funerals. Two months ago, at Mr. Bradlee’s 93rd birthday party, Bernstein sat next to his old friend, who reminisced about his pals who died before him — Edward “Fast Eddie” Bennett Williams, the lawyer and former owner of the Washington Redskins; the columnist Art Buchwald­; the Georgetown pharmacist Harry “Doc” Dalinsky, who provided the venue for the trio’s Sunday breakfasts. (They once let Mrs. Graham join their little club, in honor of her 65th birthday, only to inform her that the club had an age limit: No one 65 or older could be a member.)People who live into their 90s often don’t get to have their best friends at their funerals. Two months ago, at Mr. Bradlee’s 93rd birthday party, Bernstein sat next to his old friend, who reminisced about his pals who died before him — Edward “Fast Eddie” Bennett Williams, the lawyer and former owner of the Washington Redskins; the columnist Art Buchwald­; the Georgetown pharmacist Harry “Doc” Dalinsky, who provided the venue for the trio’s Sunday breakfasts. (They once let Mrs. Graham join their little club, in honor of her 65th birthday, only to inform her that the club had an age limit: No one 65 or older could be a member.)
Bernstein said that at that party, Mr. Bradlee reveled in the memory of his friends, “and then he blew the candles out.”Bernstein said that at that party, Mr. Bradlee reveled in the memory of his friends, “and then he blew the candles out.”
After the funeral, Mr. Bradlee’s family gathered at Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown, where he was laid to rest in a crypt in the chapel, awaiting burial in a family mausoleum being built nearby, not far from where Katharine and Philip Graham, The Post’s owners through much of Mr. Bradlee’s career, are buried.After the funeral, Mr. Bradlee’s family gathered at Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown, where he was laid to rest in a crypt in the chapel, awaiting burial in a family mausoleum being built nearby, not far from where Katharine and Philip Graham, The Post’s owners through much of Mr. Bradlee’s career, are buried.
At Mrs. Graham’s funeral, after completing his eulogy, Mr. Bradlee­ had stepped out of the prescribed pathway to lay a gentle hand on the casket — a classic Bradlee touch. On Wednesday, as his casket moved back down the aisle on the way home, the people he’d worked with reached over and gave him a last pat.At Mrs. Graham’s funeral, after completing his eulogy, Mr. Bradlee­ had stepped out of the prescribed pathway to lay a gentle hand on the casket — a classic Bradlee touch. On Wednesday, as his casket moved back down the aisle on the way home, the people he’d worked with reached over and gave him a last pat.
Amy Argetsinger and Paul Farhi contributed to this report.Amy Argetsinger and Paul Farhi contributed to this report.
MORE:
One last A-list party
Friends, colleagues reminisce
Quinn Bradlee's eulogy
Photo gallery
Robert McCartney: Bradlee's legacy