More than a troubadour: When he died on the LIE, Harry Chapin left a rich legacy of generosity and commitment

This originally appeared in the book "Long Island: Our Story," on Nov. 15, 1998.

Once upon the 1970s, Harry Chapin did a concert at a high school in Patchogue. It was like many other Chapin appearances - equal parts hoedown, pep rally, political seminar, kaffeeklatsch and sensitivity session.

Alone on the stage, Chapin sang and sang and sang. "Cat's in the Cradle," "W*O*L*D," "Taxi," "Circle" and assorted others. When not crooning his "story" songs, Chapin was jawboning. Hunger, peace, brotherhood - Chapin's sermon was vintage stuff for a decade defined by images of emaciated African children, Vietnam casualties and racial discord. An onlooker could not help but marvel at the man's energy. Chapin might never deplete his supply of music, subject matter or stamina. In doubt only was the strength of his audience. As Allan Pepper, co-owner of the Bottom Line nightclub in Greenwich Village, observed recently: "Harry could be a steamroller."

From the time he moved to Huntington Bay in 1972 until he perished July 16, 1981, in a traffic accident on the Long Island Expressway at the age of 38, Chapin was a one-man civic improvement campaign - a fellow who used celebrity as a potent force for the common good. His stunning death - on Long Island's quintessential thoroughfare and only hours before a free performance at Eisenhower Park - robbed the community of an unyielding advocate and irreplacable friend.

"You looked to Harry for inspiration," said Barbara Hoffman, a folksinger from Brookhaven hamlet who sang with a local group that once appeared on the same bill with Chapin. "He wasn't afraid to do what needed to be done or sing the songs that needed to be sung."

Since Chapin's death, other stars have rallied to Long Island causes - Billy Joel works on behalf of East End baymen; Paul Simon staged summer concerts at Deep Hollow Ranch to save open space in Montauk; Alec Baldwin established a breast cancer research center at the State University at Stony Brook in the name of his mother, Carol, who was treated for the disease. But, in or out of show business, no one compares to the minstrel who evidently took seriously the lyrics to his own song, "Could you put your light on please?"

Born into a family of New Yorkers who extolled art, music, philosophy, academic achievement and the glories of city life, Harry Forster Chapin nevertheless was resolved to leave his imprint on Long Island - the balkanized mega-burb he had come to embrace as home.

"He thought Long Island represented a remarkable opportunity," said Chapin's widow, Sandy, who still lives in the big house with the water view where the couple reared five children. "Harry was not an elitist, at all."

Chapin envisioned an Island where the arts flourished and universities expanded and humane discourse was the norm. Whether or not his idea had a prayer, Chapin proceeded as though divinely inspired. "Every time he got something under way, he started something else," his wife said.

Manic, maybe, but Chapin was unstoppable. He served on the boards of the Eglevsky Ballet, the Long Island Philharmonic, Hofstra University. He energized the now-defunct Performing Arts Foundation (PAF) of Huntington. Connecting as easily with high-powered corporate leaders as with teenagers in tie-dyes, Chapin persuaded Long Island executives to donate money and manpower to his cultural campaign. Blitzed by a whirlwind, who could say no?

Larry Austin, chief executive officer of Austin Travel in Melville and president of the Long Island Philharmonic, recalled the night an outdoor PAF gala on the North Shore was threatened by a downpour.

"The parking lot turned to mud," Austin said. "There was a long line of cars coming through the rain and there was Harry, his hair all over his face. As each car came by, he would knock on the windshield and say, 'Hi, I'm Harry Chapin. It's gonna stop. You're gonna have a wonderful time.' "

Chapin found time for politics, too. A Democrat, he wrote campaign literature for Allard Lowenstein, the passionate opponent of the Vietnam War who represented south Nassau for one term in Congress. He backed - and befriended - the Island's political wunderkind, Rep. Tom Downey. Sandy Chapin says her husband even was considering a run himself - against Alfonse D'Amato for U.S. Senate.

Chapin learned how government worked from close range. He lobbied on behalf of food programs - if turned away from a congressman's office, Chapin often would await the official in the men's room - and served on Jimmy Carter's Presidential Commission on World Hunger. Once he was jabbering so enthusiastically at a White House meeting that the president implored Chapin to pipe down.

Back home, Chapin worked for the hungry, too. He helped start the food bank called Long Island Cares and co-founded World Hunger Year, an organization that continues to aid grassroots groups across the nation. He did numerous benefits for hunger and other causes - half of his more than 200 annual performances. Now the Harry Chapin Foundation in Huntington, chaired by his wife, supports arts, environmental and agricultural efforts intended to aid poor Americans. "Harry always said he wasn't afraid to fail," said Bill Ayres of Huntington, the other co-founder of World Hunger Year who still serves as executive director of the Manhattan-based organization. "He said the greatest successes were built on failure."

Chapin's ambitious agenda was undercut not by a shortage of spirit, commitment or talent but, if anything, common sense. The singer was a notoriously bad driver and may have made a fateful mistake near Exit 40 of the LIE when, heading west, he maneuvered his blue Volkswagen Rabbit into the path of a truck. Chapin - whose license had been revoked after several suspensions - was pulled from the flaming wreckage but died of massive internal bleeding. Distraught fans in Eisenhower Park that night passed candles, hugged one another and, soothed themselves with lyrics from Chapin's philosophical sign-off number. "All my life's a circle," the crowd sang. Said one admirer: "My God, how he touched me."

Though all his dreams did not come true, Chapin accomplished more than any mere troubadour might have dared expect. On Long Island and elsewhere, he put in place institutions that endure. His name is synonymous with generosity and commitment, and his music endures. Sandy Chapin says she often gets letters from people who tell her that when life gets rough, they put on a record by Harry.

Chapin's goal to transform Long Island was audacious and most likely impossible. Some may argue that while the Island has made much progress in the areas of art and education, it lacks the identity Chapin believed necessary. Peter Coan, author of the 1987 biography, "Taxi: the Harry Chapin Story," wonders if anyone will emerge to assume Chapin's role. "When he died, there was no one to carry that torch," Coan said.

But Chapin may have seen things differently. At a 1977 Nassau-Suffolk volunteer conference, he said, "We all have the potential to move the world - and the world is ready to move." As Chapin demonstrated, all it takes is a push.