The unexpected passing of a man I'd never met has left behind a sense of loss. This past Friday author Jeffrey Zaslow left our world suddenly, on an icy road in Northern Michigan, likely headed home to his treasured family after a day of book selling and signing. In a state where best-selling authors are infrequent but cherished, the loss is tangible; to his family, I am certain, it is unbearable.
We are the same age, parents of daughters, products of the late fifties, wild sixties, maybe better forgotten seventies. His The Girls From Ames put an era into perceptive for women who came of age between the turmoil of Vietnam, yet a bit too soon for Title IX. That generation whose folks were just relieved we weren't burning undergarments, sneaking off to Haight-Ashbury, or losing the draft lottery -- our older siblings had worn them out, so they generally left us alone.
Everybody fancies that somebody will develop their story; understand who they are throughout, and accurately describe why the occasions of life have unfolded in a certain direction. There are no shortcuts. The only effective technique is to spend considerable time with the subject, learning every detail, without offering a contrary perspective or allowing inner ego to infiltrate their saga. Jeff Zaslow accomplished this equally amongst national heroes or ordinary working gals.
In family law, the history of a relationship and most particularly the events which led to its demise are critical, thus not simply explained by "she had an affair" or "he was controlling." This doesn't originate from a series of interview questions, but develops after many conversations between an interested author and subject whose need to share translates into a story to tell. When a client spends hard-earned cash on legal representation, the most effective and valuable service a lawyer can provide is to listen, shift through, filter, then effectively and truthfully tell the story -- sometimes in a crowded courtroom while the clock ticks loudly and an overworked judge ponders whether her docket will end before dinnertime. All of that fades away when the grueling groundwork of a compelling story comes to fruition. No matter the result, the litigant is always grateful to be accurately heard. Every lawyer has suffered a tongue-lashing for misstating a minor but sensitive detail or failing to refute an irrelevant but poignant point. But, there's nothing more rewarding than the gratitude of a soul who finally feels heard.
I guess a guy who won a contest and became Ann Landers was destined to be the narrator for a generation of women, maturing parents and everyday folks who inspire. He must have spent considerable time at kitchen tables across the country.
In the introduction to Zaslow's last book, The Magic Room: A Story about the Love We Wish For Our Daughters, he cites the responsibility of fatherhood as the reason for choosing a family bridal shop in tiny Fowler, Michigan as his subject: "But on the very first day I visited Becker's, I truly sensed that this was a place that could illuminate the most poignant aspects of a woman's journey to the altar. I just knew this was the story I wanted to tell about all of our daughters was here -- in the wall, in the mirrors, on the racks, and especially, in that small, simple room at the top of the stairs." Last night I perched on the side of my nearly grown daughter's bed and read the passage about the judge who always said "Remember I love you" to his teenaged daughter when she left the house: "She died hours later in a car accident and the judge told me how grateful he was that his last words to her were a reminder of his love."
Jeffery Zaslow always seemed to recognize that the story he wanted to tell was the story we needed to hear at that moment in time. This last book is dedicated to his three girls, "For my daughters, Jordan, Alex, and Eden, and for your daughters too." What a tragedy, yet such a legacy. Zaslow may not be physically present to escort those precious daughters down the aisle, but his love will be there always, chronicled in his words, and preserved in the minds of those were privileged to read his thoughts: "Again and again, people have explained to me the ways in which 'I love you' can be said to daughters without saying it." So you did Mr. Zaslow. Well done.