THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK
“D was an exceptionally proud Brooklyn native and a sentimentalist who treasured the many souvenirs of his 88 years.”
On one of the pages of my father’s autograph book, a teacher wrote, “Remember you’re from 97,” meaning New York City’s P.S. 97, where my dad—we called him D—attended sixth grade. Inside the front cover, D inscribed a poem from those days, when books like this were more common than quaint: Go little album, far and near / To all my friends I hold so dear / And ask them each to write a page / That I might read in my old age. As sure as I am that my father always did remember P.S. 97, I’m just as sure he returned to this book in his ninth decade. It’s a perfect time capsule and illustration of who he was.
D was an exceptionally proud Brooklyn native and a sentimentalist who treasured the many souvenirs of his 88 years. He was so tethered to his roots, he named his home in western Massachusetts “Bensonhurst”—never mind that its lawns of wild thyme and canopies of beech and apple trees bear little resemblance to the streets where he played stickball against boys named Lefty and Bubba. Like me, he was a collector—of stuff, experiences and especially friends, as evidenced by the number of messages in the autograph book.
He must have been delighted by all the puns people shared: “I’ll remember you till Bear Mountain gets dressed,” “Your friend till Niagara Falls.” He loved one-liners, though the jokes he told as an adult grew exponentially longer with each telling. He was a man of many words.
The youngest of five—one girl, four boys—he was born in 1936 to Sol, a Ukrainian immigrant, and Brooklyn-born Nellie, a teacher and the family’s steady breadwinner. There were few dull moments in that household, and everyone gave as good as they got. D’s sister, Greta, signed the autograph book: “Here’s hoping you live up to the fine reputation I’ve made for the name of ‘Buchwald.’” In a letter from Korea when he was in the army—a letter that made its own way into the album—D kept up the teasing. The Dodgers had beaten the Yankees in the World Series; he hoped Greta— team Yankees—“didn’t do anything drastic.”
The rhyme D inscribed on the album’s inside cover is an apt bookend to the last years of his life, when he began writing poetry himself. He loved the art form and could recite some favorites—“Invictus,” “My Last Duchess,” the satirical “Strictly Germ-Proof,” a commentary on early twentieth-century sanitization mania. Most of his own poems—in the span of a few years, he wrote nearly 75—were humorous. He shared them proudly with family and friends.
Then there are the doodles. D was a lifelong doodler, and on some of the album’s pages you can still spot his handiwork—a precursor to the countless drawings he made as an adult in the margins of the yellow legal pads on which he took copious notes during meetings. (His longtime assistant fondly remembers the time she was going to a restaurant he’d recommended and he helpfully sketched his favorite waiter: a stick figure with a full head of hair and a nice smile.)
My father was a successful talent agent with his own bicoastal agency, a businessman whose hard work paid off, a philanthropist whose name adorns a building at his alma mater (Brooklyn College, of course). But I think his true goal in life was the one he listed in his high-school yearbook: “To have a million friends.” While he might not have hit quite that number, his was a vast circle, drawn from every stage of his journey on earth. What I’d give to go through this album with him and let him tell me all about the P.S. 97 folks. D had a deep appreciation for his life and the people in it, whom he held as dear as we do him.
—Laura Buchwald
Laura Buchwald is a writer and editor based in New York City. Her 2024 debut novel, The Coat Check Girl, is part of a trilogy and reflects her strong belief in the afterlife. She lives in the Chelsea neighborhood with her husband and dog.
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What a treasure that little book is and as small as it is, it speaks volumes about a life well-lived. My father passed at 88 as well and his parting words were “I’ve had a good run.” I think your father did too.
Beautiful. I remember those autograph books!