Hold the eulogies, he's not ready to sign off yet

VINEYARD HAVEN -- He sat in his screened-in porch overlooking Vineyard Sound, Martha's Vineyard emblazoned on his T-shirt and shorts. His 20-month-old granddaughter splashed in the inflatable pool in the yard. Art Buchwald took another spoonful of vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate sauce. A foghorn sounded in the distance.

It was a sunny, humid Tuesday in Vineyard Haven, and Buchwald savored every slow minute of it. And why shouldn't he? Last winter, Buchwald's right leg was amputated, his kidneys were failing, and doctors told him he would die unless he consented to dialysis.

Buchwald, the famously contrarian political columnist, refused. He checked into a Washington hospice and prepared for the grave. Friends wrote eulogies. He wrote to the Edgartown charity auction he has hosted for 26 years, saying he was sorry he would not live to make it this year. ``C'est la vie," he signed it.

Two weeks, a month, then five months passed, and Buchwald did not die. His health improved, baffling his doctors. And on July 1, he walked out the door. Only about 1 in 10 American hospice patients ever leaves alive. Now, Buchwald is back in the place he loves most, struck anew by the gift of life.

``The whole point is I didn't expect to be here," he said in an interview at his three-story, gray-shingled house on Main Street, his prosthesis propped on his wheelchair. ``My plan was to leave the earth. And then I thought, to hell with it, I'll go to the Vineyard."

Buchwald, 80, is writing a book about his five months in hospice, titled ``Too Soon to Say Goodbye." The eulogies that Walter Cronkite , William Styron , Mike Wallace , and Tom Brokaw planned to read at Buchwald's funeral will now become the book's final chapter. Each is delighted by Buchwald's return to the Vineyard, where they have spent many a summer evening with him.

``We didn't expect him to survive, but that was months ago and he seems to be getting stronger all the time," said Cronkite, 89. ``He's defied medical science and he's doing it with his usual humor."

Others are getting a bit sick of all the plaudits.

``I'm going to call him a fraud," said Wallace, 88, chuckling. ``I told him he just wanted a little more free publicity before he departed, so he conned us into believing he's really sick when in fact he's quite well."

In April, the National Hospice Foundation gave Buchwald its Hospice Champion Award, pleased with the way he wrote about his hospice, The Washington Home, in his nationally syndicated column. Buchwald in turn said he was thankful for the care he had been given.

``People are afraid to talk about death," he said. ``The hospice made it possible to talk about dying with dignity."

While at ease talking about death, Buchwald clearly relishes the chance to share memories of his rich life, which has taken him from the poorest neighborhoods of Manhattan to the White House and the wealthiest enclaves of Europe.

Born in New York to a struggling curtain salesman and a mother who battled severe mental illness, Buchwald was sent as a boy to the Hebrew Orphan Asylum in Harlem. He joined the Marines, fought in World War II, went to the University of Southern California on the GI Bill, and quit before graduating. Holding a one-way ticket, he flew to Paris and got a gig covering the nightclub scene for the European edition of the New York Herald Tribune. He hobnobbed with Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong , and Elvis. In 1962, he returned to the States and started writing from Washington. He skewered just about anyone in public life. ``There are no bad guys in Washington," Buchwald once wrote. ``There are only good guys doing bad things." He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1982. In his heyday, he was read by millions and published in 550 newspapers.

It hasn't always been easy. He battled depression in the 1960s, and was hospitalized. In 1994, he lost his wife of 42 years, Ann , to lung cancer. He went to the Vineyard for the first time about 30 years ago, on a trip with Richard N. Goodwin , a former speechwriter for President John F. Kennedy.

A few summers later, he bought his house in Vineyard Haven, and has been coming every summer since.

``Once you come here, you get very attached," Buchwald said. ``You've got everything you want: tennis, fishing, boating."

Buchwald's friends brim with stories of their salad days on ``Writers' Row," Buchwald's term for his end of Main Street, where Styron also owns a house. The stretch includes sun-bleached, shingled homes nestled behind trees, many with spectacular ocean views, just blocks from the coffee shops and clothiers of Vineyard Haven's center.

Those were the days when Robert and Edward Kennedy sailed in from Hyannis Port for cocktail parties on the lawn, when Lillian Hellman stopped by for lunch, and Wallace was always up for tennis. It was Buchwald who rounded everyone up for parties.

``He was always a ringleader," said Rose Styron , William's wife.

``You had cocktail parties galore," Buchwald said. ``In fact, one of my jokes is, I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes to be spread over all the cocktail parties on the island."

Buchwald's appeal on the increasingly exclusive island is easy to grasp: Despite his fame, and his connections, he is constantly making fun of himself, casting himself as the unlikeliest person to be mingling with the Kennedys or writing for The Washington Post.

Every summer, Buchwald hosts Possible Dreams, a benefit auction for Martha's Vineyard Community Services. He playfully eggs on buyers, urging them to bid higher for a sailboat ride with Cronkite, tennis with Wallace, or a song from Carly Simon .

``One of our committee members called him the heart, soul, and funny bone of the auction," said Jan Hatchard , director of development for the community services agency. ``He's like family to us. He is summer to us."

Six years ago, Buchwald suffered a stroke. And last year, his health declined seriously. Lack of blood circulation forced doctors to amputate his leg. His kidneys began failing, and his doctors gave him a warning. ``If I didn't take treatment for the kidneys, I would die," Buchwald said.

Faced with the prospect of dialysis three days a week, for five hours, he decided to go to The Washington Home to die. At the hospice, he sent out for McDonald's milkshakes and hamburgers, fed the goldfish, celebrated patients' birthdays, and nibbled on the cheesecakes, shrimp, candy, and cookies that came as gifts from friends.

``He said, `I'm 80, I've had a wonderful life,' " Wallace said. `` `I've gotten to do a lot on this earth so I'm prepared to die,' which stunned us all."

Hundreds from Washington -- Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld , former Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee -- came to say goodbye to Buchwald. Three thousand more sent letters bidding him farewell, including Marines with whom he served, and cohorts who had also lived at the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. One actress thanked Buchwald for giving her a positive review as an understudy decades ago; the praise, she wrote, launched her career.

``It's very rare that someone can be told how much they're loved," Buchwald said, his raspy voice softening a bit.

But as winter turned to spring, Buchwald kept on living. He started writing his column again. When summer arrived, Buchwald's thoughts turned to the Vineyard, and he left the hospice, feeling well enough to get around with the help of his son, Joel , and his assistant of 24 years, Cathy Crary . Doctors could not explain Buchwald's resurgence.

``They have no idea," Crary said. ``Nobody knows."

``It's absolutely remarkable," Rose Styron said. ``It's wonderful. He's as good or better than he was."

Buchwald laughs about his ability to leave the hospice for the island. ``The joke is, of course, that you gotta be somewhere," he said. ``And Washington in the summer is not a fun place."

This summer, instead of cocktail parties and cigars, Buchwald orders pizza from Louis' Tisbury Cafe & Takeout and watches episodes of ``The Sopranos" or ``Six Feet Under" with the Styrons. He dictates his book, which is nearly done, to Crary. He naps. And he watches his grandchildren, Tate , 20 months, and Corbin , 3, play in the grass and push toy cars across the dining room floor. He hopes his book will get others thinking about life and death.

``We're so spoiled in this country," Buchwald said. ``And we're in a lot of denial when it comes to death."

Eventually, he told Hatchard at the Possible Dreams auction to book him for an appearance after all. ``I have to go; I have no choice," he said, feigning annoyance. ``I did it one year and I couldn't get out of it. I dug my own grave."

Crary said ``no one is taking any bets" on Buchwald's prognosis. And he said he has no special plans for the summer. He is thrilled just with the time he has.

``I'm as happy as can be, enjoying the whole thing," he said. ``You have a chance to say goodbye. It's a marvelous thing."

Michael Levenson can be reached at mlevenson@globe.com.