The 'Spooky' Good Works of Sargent Shriver

One of the more surreal moments during the seven years I worked on my biography of Sargent Shriver occurred fairly late in the process, when I was invited out to his house in Potomac, Maryland, for dinner one night. By this point, in the summer of 2003, Mr. Shriver had begun his descent into Alzheimer's, which was affecting his short-term memory and sometimes gave him trouble precisely identifying people at first. But his long-term memory was still good, and his analytical faculties remained for the most part intact, and he was always excellent company. So I was looking forward to meeting him that night and hearing his thoughts (which generally remained astute) on some chapters I had recently sent him.

He greeted me in the living room with his usual warmth and enthusiasm, eyes alight with pleasure. "Well, it's good to see you, you look ter-rific," he said, giving me a hearty handshake. I asked him how he was doing. "Fantastic," he said, escorting me to the liquor cabinet at the far end of the room. "Let me tell you about something great." And as he poured our drinks, he told me about what was on his mind.