A fond farewell to a man of consequence who profoundly loved this sweet land of liberty and cared about this little fortnightly journal.
A fond farewell to a man of consequence who profoundly loved this sweet land of liberty and cared about this little fortnightly journal.
A tremendous patriot and a great friend of this magazine, James Paul Buchwald concluded his 94 fully lived years this week. This Depression-era kid from Cleveland — whose small frame held big passions and talents and ideas, and whose long tenure on this planet proved of great consequence — tried mightily to defy death’s sting. Alas, the inveterate cyclist — of both pedal and motor — has throttled off, bound for eternity, and with it, we pray, relief, salvation, and reunion with loved ones gone before him. He does so having left this world a better place.
About this friend, personal and institutional: A tinkerer at heart, a man of insight, vision, mechanical skill, and tenacity — and precision — Jim proved that a better mousetrap could be built. His was a natural-gas compressor (“separable reciprocating natural gas compressor,” to be accurate). Not too long into his career as a design engineer, and of the mind that there just had to be a more efficient way to move natural gas from oil-drilling sites to pipelines, Jim and two fellow engineers scraped together $10,000 and took on the task of building a smaller, cost-effective, and high-quality device. “Smaller” being a relative term: Good luck to any who would create a compressor prototype in the garage. But Jim did, albeit in the basement of his family’s central-Ohio home with additional manufacturing accomplished in a former turkey-processing plant, said to have retained the odors of its prior purposes. From such humble origins . . .
Constructed, tested, and proven, his vision — to “make beautiful machinery,” in the words of his wife, Maureen; and to make a superior-quality device that is key to getting natural gas from wellhead to your stovetop — became reality, and the new manufacturing company, Ariel Corporation (named after a favored 1948 Ariel Square Four motorcycle) delivered its first device in 1968.
The inventor also proved to be a businessman and innovator — of the kind that MBAs should study.
Ariel Corporation’s products proved popular (extraordinarily well-built — a half century later, the second machine to come off the line still operates in south Texas), and remain so 56 years later. Of no small importance, these devices, and the company itself, played an indispensable role in America’s emerging energy boom. Its reliable compressors made hydraulic fracturing (don’t say “fracking”) a reality, while they also pushed natural gas through our country’s vast web of pipelines. There is more to admire in this than just engineering efficiency and groovy gizmos. Virtually everyone has enjoyed the economic benefits made possible by this device and technology.
On top of inventing equipment of untold ramifications, there is also Buchwald’s building a successful company from scratch. Buchwald’s vision and leadership and talents proved vast. The products Ariel made are considered the world’s standard. So are its Mount Vernon, Ohio–based manufacturing facilities. He became a customer-service legend with promise of absolute commitment and immediate response to in-the-field problems. Then there was Buchwald’s development of new distribution systems, and the creation of an unrivaled corporate culture: Mindful of the energy industry’s cyclical nature, Ariel stockpiled some of its accumulating wealth in order to assure its workers (their allegiance is profound) of employment in market downturns. He was also an ardent believer in sharing profits with the workforce for a simple reason: Ariel’s employees were the very ones making vital, world-class machinery.
To say that Jim Buchwald — and Maureen, and daughter Karen, who took over Ariel’s reins in 1998 — were National Review friends would be a profound understatement. Their camaraderie and fellowship transcended their generous, amazing, persistent support. And beyond institutional friendship, Jim and I proved mutual confidantes, as he was never at a loss to expound upon another important vision. It was about that thing he loved even more than gas-compressor technology — America’s Founding.
One NR-related anecdote before this remembrance of a great man and pal returns to 1776.
Grown brilliantly by Karen, Ariel Corporation celebrated its 50th anniversary in 2016. The gala was a blowout! Held at the grounds that the company salvaged (the site of the massive, abandoned Pittsburgh Plate Glass plant, eventually converted into a glorious public park courtesy of Karen’s philanthropy), under a tent big enough to awe Barnum and Bailey, which covered a hundred-plus tables and a stage (upon which performed the Charlie Daniels Band), tuxedos and gowns and flashing jewelry everywhere . . . Mrs. F. and I, humbled to have been invited, took in the palpable enjoyment of Ariel’s employees and friends. Cocktail time over, we headed to our assigned table — it was No. 88. Watching the crowds drift toward their seats, Jim and Maureen approached us and started to sit down. “Jim, I think you’re at the wrong table,” I said, “This is 88.” Really now: When ever was a gala’s “Table 88” not in the nosebleed section?
On this night, that’s when. “Nope,” he said. “We’re at the right table.” Well, why were we there, then, on this, the night to pay rightful homage to this mechanical engineer and inventor and CEO of amazing accomplishment (sharing the spotlight with his right hand and wife of 72 years), celebrating Jim and this company that he launched and his family sustained, a growing concern that brought a livelihood to thousands in Mount Vernon, and rendered charity to countless people and organizations there and across the fruited plains? Oh yeah, and was central to bringing energy independence to America! Surely Mrs. F. and I were at the wrong table?
No. “Tonight, I wanted to be with National Review.”
What could I be but flabbergasted? And here let’s segue, because also among the Table 88ers was the late Roger Beckett, president of the Ashbrook Center. Now this nonprofit was the place of Jim’s great passion, the focus of what he knew would be his last act, as he tasked Ashbrook’s leaders with a Herculean mission — in a society whose ideological elites had come to denigrate the nation’s roots — to educate students, teachers, and citizens “in the history and Founding principles of our country and the habits of reflection and choice necessary to perpetuate our republic.”
Was there enough time left to save America? The jury remains out. Jim was determined, with what time he had left, and with what means (he gave generously) and inspiration he had to offer, to see Ashbrook punch above its weight, to reinvigorate — via face-to-face programs — love and respect, heartfelt and scholarly, for the Founding in every American high school. Jim’s was no hands-off philanthropy. The project was an abiding cause, predating and maybe even anticipating the 1619 craze that still haunts us.
Maybe he could have spent his last years tinkering or fishing or riding his bike (a habit that continued into his ninth decade) or hiking, another favorite pastime. Instead, Jim Buchwald spent it at the barricades.
A final thing — this may be a bit too personal, because Jim was a measured guy, of some dignity, and a little tough, too, but I will share anyway: He carried a pain with him that many can relate to. Years ago, Jim’s young son passed away, taken by an unknown allergic reaction to medication. Try telling the blameless parent that he was just that, blameless. “If only I had . . .” — the thought never went away, and even the passing of decades did not heal the wound or dispel some sense of culpability. Twice this came up, suddenly, tearfully, briefly, as we chatted over meals about other matters. It was heartbreaking, not only to see my old pal in grief, but to think this sorrow was a thing ever present, ever lurking, indelible.
But maybe now, surely now, this wound, and all other wounds, are healed, as this patriot, inventor, father, husband, boss, philanthropist, Boy Scout troop leader, inveterate reader, business maven, and motorcyclist — this man of consequence who profoundly loved this sweet land of liberty and cared about this little fortnightly journal — is reunited and in the warm embrace of both his little boy and also the Father of Us All. To his widow Maureen, of whom I am most fond, and his daughter Karen, a most wondrous friend, and to Alex and all of Jim’s grandchildren, I think I am entitled to say, both for myself and on behalf of this magazine — which was so fortunate to be the recipient of Jim Buchwald’s good will and never-ending kindness, of fascinating long phone calls and the breaking of bread and shared confidences — that our sympathies and condolences are deep. Believing — as a man Jim truly admired, Bill Buckley, never failed to remind us — that despair is a sin, we will refrain from such, and instead opt for confidence, that in God’s good time, we will be with Jim again. And maybe then he will have better luck getting through my thick skull the explanation of how a separable reciprocating natural-gas compressor works. Until then, Jim, rest in the peace you have richly coming to you, and thanks for all the good you have done for so many, in so many ways.