Getting In The Last Word

February 3, 2025 Michael Olesker

(Image by freepik.com)

For nearly half a century as obituary writer for The Sun, Fred Rasmussen has issued the last word on human lives. Now, he’s issued the final two words on his own life at the daily newspaper: “I quit.”

He arrived at The Sun 51 years ago, spent 19 years working in the paper’s library, and started writing obits nearly 40 years ago. Now, at 77, he says he’s had enough. Partly, it’s because of the increasingly rightward political shift of a once-great American newspaper, and partly it’s the passage of time.

But it’s a blow to all those readers who have long counted on Fred (and Jacques Kelly, the other half of the paper’s necrology team, who remains at The Sun) to write final grace notes on the deceased.

He’s done it with the insight that comes from decades on the job, and with dignity, style, sensitivity, a raconteur’s knowledge of politics and pop culture and history and, when appropriate, humor.

Around the newsroom, he always referred to the day’s lead obit as the “mort du jour.”

“There are no boring lives,” he’s said more than once. “Only dull obits.”

Scores of friends learned about his retirement when Fred sent out an email on Jan. 27. He wrote:

“Hello Dear Friends: Just so everyone is aware, after 51 years and two months, I resigned from The Sun yesterday. It wasn’t an easy decision or one entered into without serious introspection and reflection, but as my late mother was fond of saying, ‘Every dog has his day,’ and I’ve had mine.”

Later in the day, he told friends, many of whom gather for regular libations at the Zen West Roadside Cantina, York Road and Belvedere Avenue, “Communion wafers will be served (along with healing waters) at Zen West at 3 p.m.”

Friends reacted with sadness and with humor.

“Can I pre-pay my obit?” asked Tara Coates.

“If someone dies and Fred doesn’t report it,” said Mark Shapiro, “did they still die? (If a tree falls in the forest…)”

“No one dies in Baltimore without Fred having the final word,” said former Sun colleague Peter Hermann.

It’s felt that way for a long time.

Writing obituaries can be a precarious business: approaching the grieving survivors for information, offering kindness while reaching for hard facts – and, with repetition and the passage of time, trying not to get numb to the essence of the job.

There was a veteran Sun obit writer, nameless here, who preceded Fred. He was hard of hearing and sat in the center of the newsroom. Many could hear his routine questioning.

“What was the cause of death?” he inquired one day, loudly, of a grieving widow.

To her response, he said in his shrill voice, “Yup. Yup. Good ol’ heart attack.”

Fred never lost his sensitivity, his style, his enthusiasm for the job. He always called it “an honor” to help send the living into the hereafter.

He helped give The Sun a sense of hometown intimacy. He brought the human touch to a paper that was esteemed for its worldwide coverage and its hard news coverage but never was known for its warmth. Fred helped give it a sense of humanity.

But he’s 77 years old and lost his beloved wife, Judy Nall, a few years back. He’s ready for fresh pursuits – maybe in some new form of journalism.

And, when the time eventually comes for someone to write Fred’s obit, what shall it say? Fred’s got it ready:

“He came. He saw. He went.”

He exits the newsroom with a smile.

A former Baltimore Sun columnist and WJZ-TV commentator, Michael Olesker is the author of six books, including “Journeys to the Heart of Baltimore” (Johns Hopkins University Press) and “Michael Olesker’s Baltimore: If You Live Here, You’re Home” (Johns Hopkins University).