Walter Shapiro

A Gentleman Gone

My friend Walter Shapiro left us this morning. He was a grand, kindly soul--a political writer extraordinaire, and much more. The first time I met Walter, it was at LaGuardia airport. We were checking in for a flight to Iowa. Always Iowa. He was with his beloved wife Meryl Gordon. Always Meryl. He was reading Trollope. We spent many days over the years in Iowa--years, in total, and it was almost always winter--assessing the heroes who wanted to be President, having tribal dinner with other journos (Looking at you, Jeff Greenfield), sharing our lives. And, oh, the wordplay and the jokes. Walter was a standup comic, among many other things. He actually performed on stage. Always wry, always dry--I'd compare him to a dry martini but his drink was scotch.
He was too much of a romantic to be much of a cynic; he loved the game, but dreamed of a better country--and spent his life searching for a better class of leaders. And it is so ironic that he passed away in the midst of perhaps the most significant political drama of our lifetimes. He would have loved, been horrified, been frustrated by it. His acute and daring intellect would have feasted on it. He and Greenfield and I were planning to have our own private zoom sessions during the GOP convention, but Walter went quickly, precipitously. I hope he didn't suffer. I hope in his last quiet hours he was telling himself jokes, engaging in private wordplay, loving Meryl. She was there, holding his hand, when he left us. Oh Meryl, we are bereft--literally, left with less of a life, less joy, fewer memorable raucous dinners without Walter. In this dreadful summer, we've also lost Howard Fineman--another member of our tribe--and we've been made conscious of our age and the probability of diminution by Joe Biden. Walter never diminished. He was always Walter. The last email I received from him was a joke. Oh, Walter, talk about diminution. We wane without you.