After the Stroke (18 page)

So it was full of these memories and the joy of finding it still magic in spite of all the changes, when I met Agnes Sims again. Since she is a non-writer of letters we have not been in communication for years. And there she was, suffering after an operation for a painful back. I minded awfully for she had been such a splendor of purpose and skill in her art and of such intensity and authenticity in her whole being, always in her black Stetson hat, tall, striding along like a boyish angel. It was hard to see her crippled, but it was wonderful nonetheless to talk, and to feel like the brothers we have always been. Agi has three big dogs and would go home to curl up with them for an afternoon nap.

When I first came to Santa Fe—invited by Haniel Long—he arranged for me to be put up by Beryl and Ted Asplund in their small house on Canyon Road. It seemed, during the whole two days, wonderful to find them the same as ever, but now in a beautiful house with a huge living room full of flowers and books, and three delightful cats. I felt perfectly at ease as we evoked one mutual friend after another and remembered winter picnics and winter dances at the Pueblos.

Ted now has a small vineyard with a friend and makes fifteen to thirty gallons of wine every year. He has been a garage mechanic, a genius at it, but he is not the usual figure such an image might bring to mind, for he is a Francophile, a great reader, a man of passionate convictions, and of many skills. He himself built the guest wing where I was happily stowed during my stay. Beryl, now eighty, has been letting go of her many concerns: being on the board of the Women's League of Voters, the Nature Conservancy, and many organizations having to do with the preservation of old Santa Fe. So now there is more time to read, and to take to the road in their ancient comfortable Mercedes. We did so yesterday for a long morning in heaven, as we drove to Abiquiu and stared long at the great purple and red cliffs and wind-carved temples that look so much like Petra—the austere landscape that drew Georgia O'Keeffe here. She found “her” landscape, but it makes me wonder how many people there must be who never do—who have never found the place where work can be rooted and the soul come into its own.

Very surprising it was to come to the artificial lake beyond Abiquiu where we stopped to stretch our legs. Somehow water does not seem quite right—only the sky should be that brilliant dense blue, only the sky be reflected by shadows on the purple rocks, not on this gleaming surface, unnatural as it seems.

San Antonio, Wednesday, November 12

The days in Albuquerque and Santa Fe were so heavenly, I can't complain of really awful weather here—freezing rain last night and fog. Dallas, where I changed planes, kept us circling for nearly an hour. But at last at around three we landed here and I was met with warmth and kindness by my old friend John Igo, from Breadloaf Writers' Conference days; Kathy Armstrong, Bertha Ann Pacheco, and Mary Cronin from San Antonio College. They had to be patient as did I for I was alerted in Albuquerque that my travel agent had torn out the ticket for Dallas to Boston on Saturday, and what was left was only a
cancelled
leaf. Here the American Airlines agent could not have been kinder, but it meant telephoning Portsmouth to try to get it straightened out, and finally I simply paid the one hundred eighteen dollars with my American Express card. So at last I settled in to the Gunter Hotel—vast, old—and in this weather, cold.

San Antonio, Saturday, November 15

This has not been as glamorous a time as Albuquerque and Santa Fe were, partly because the weather has been really bad. Heavy freezing rain on Wednesday kept the audience away and only about two hundred brave souls showed up to sit in the vast chilly auditorium. John Igo gave a charming introduction but even after that I found it hard to connect—a little dismayed by the lack of laughter from what seemed like miles away, the blurred faces of the frozen people.

The extreme cold continued on Thursday so it was out of the question to discover and enjoy what I longed to see, the famous river and all the restaurants and shops along it.

[I did not see the river but I did meet Jean Anderson who had flown in from Seattle to hear me read. I felt we were old friends although we have only corresponded, and during my illness she sent me beautiful restorative cards, more than one a week, and was very present during that hard time. Jean is a musician and conducts and trains choirs and groups who want to make music together. We drank many cups of tea while it rained outside and I was grateful for that unhurried exchange.]

Coleen Grissom, dean of Freshmen and professor of English at Trinity University, did take me for a short walk yesterday, so I finally saw the river and mightily enjoyed it though there was no sun.

Meanwhile Kathy Armstrong and her assistant, Bertha Ann, took me on drives to “see the town”—and out for two splendid lunches. Kathy and her husband recently adopted a baby, now two, and I loved hearing about that.

On Thursday and Friday I talked informally, first about writing a novel, then about journal-keeping, and the word had got around so the low-ceilinged, attractive room was packed and the atmosphere a lot easier to function in. There were even flowers on the table—and what a difference that made!

San Antonio College is a two-year college open to all high school graduates, and they are doing difficult but rewarding work with men and women who need help in the skills they will have to have to get jobs. John Igo, who has been recognized as a great teacher, spoke glowingly about his methods. While I was talking about the novel, one of his classes had been left with corrected papers of theirs to go over. John marks mistakes but asks them to discover for themselves what the mark implies and in this they help each other. I would like to be a fly on that wall!

Coleen Grissom had spread the word and was partly responsible for the crowd, I gather. As far as I know, there was no flyer and very little, if any, newspaper publicity.

Last night, after our walk along the river, she took me out to Trinity and the contrast was illuminating. Trinity is a beautiful campus alive with fountains, groves of live oak, a magnificent chapel designed as the hull of a ship. There is a Hepworth sculpture outdoors and also a Henry Moore. Here there is money and privilege, and the difference is tangible between Trinity and San Antonio College.

What a joy it was then to see Coleen's home and meet her two merry, super-active black miniature poodles—one of which climbed into my lap and licked my face. Coleen's cat kept her distance.

I had a short rest there before guests for dinner arrived, and we had a drink with a wood fire burning in the fireplace and then were taken out to an elegant French restaurant. Good talk and marvelous food made a splendid finale to this not altogether easy chapter in my journeyings.

Tuesday, November 18

It took me from nine in the evening to one in the morning when I got back last Saturday simply to
read
the first class mail. It is like being at the center of a whirlpool after just ten days away! What makes it hard to handle is the diversity of what meets me here: requests to pay attention from dear women in nursing homes; from a friend going in today for major surgery; two birthdays requiring packages and notes to send off; a letter asking me to be on a Ph.D committee for Union College—hard to refuse; plus all the personal and business mail. Then, meeting all this, I must first look back with thanks for many kindnesses by my hosts and friends in Albuquerque, Santa Fe and San Antonio. So I spent most of Sunday packing up books to send and writing notes of thanks.

It is hard to feel so driven that I cannot even mourn Tamas although I got his ashes yesterday and held the surprisingly heavy box to my heart. I shall bury them close to Bramble's. Someone along the road handed me a newspaper clipping about the death of a dog. The writer quoted Lord Byron as follows:

Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all of the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery, if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to Botswain, a dog.

One of the letters I read when I got home was a letter from Amelie Starkey to Tamas. Here are portions of it:

We will miss you, gentle sentry. I see your picture by my bed and sadness takes its toll. Fifteen years of joy and faithfulness for you and May—dear welcomer, so unaware.

You came that Easter day with a limping run and joyful barks to greet me when I was halfway to the door. I stayed at least five minutes to relish the welcome and the joy
and
to calm my nerves.

I remember now, you, a loving brother to Bramble, aware of when she wanted to go in or out. I wondered as I watched May coax your limping body up the stairs. And I thought this—Tamas is putting himself through all that pain to comfort May—and comfort for those of us who came. You taught us well what welcome is. I bless you, gentle sentry, and I grieve, for you are gone.

Amelie is right that Tamas was a wonderful builder of bridges between a guest I had not met before and me. He eased the meeting.

Wednesday, November 19

Quite a big snow, maybe six inches, fell in the night and Pierrot is not amused! Bramble loved the snow, loved the delightful clean place to dig a hole in, tail up, rushed up trees. She and Tamas both played in it—Tamas half lying down and pushing his nose through it sideways.

Snow lights up somber November. Nancy and I talked about how somber it was here yesterday on our expedition to buy a copier—which we succeeded in doing. Spending so much money makes me feel drained but I think it's going to be marvelous to make quick copies of anything we want to keep.

Then we celebrated with lunch at Luka's, the friendly Greek restaurant in Portsmouth—even to strawberry shortcake!

At the A&P I found a perfectly ripe persimmon and ate it last night, thinking of my father who loved them. It reminded me of Proust's
madeleine
—the persimmon that brings the whole lost world of Channing Place to life.

I'm going to try to get out to have my permanent but nothing is plowed yet here on the estate so it's a risk—but fun.

Louisville, Saturday, November 22

I did get out through the lovely silent woods and the trees in ermine cloaks—and so am properly coiffed. But that was Wednesday and for the next two days I concentrated on correspondence, hoping to leave this time not quite as haunted as usual by the undone. And I wrote seventy-five letters last week so things are not as awesomely “not done” as they were.

Yesterday I looked out at five and saw Venus, very brilliant and huge, in the early dawn, in the center of the sky over a shot-silk, bluish-gray ocean. A beautiful sunny day for leaving for my next adventure on the road.

I was astonished to find long lines at the airport—the Thanksgiving people already flocking home, lots of babies and tots—what a curious word “tot” is—and young men and women as laden with baggage as camels—a rather uncomfortably crowded plane.

I had to change in Dayton and looked down gratefully on the descent at the squares and wood lots of small farms—such a welcome sight. The white silos, white barns and houses make me hope this area may be spared foreclosings and disaster.

At Dayton the plane to Louisville was half-empty. I sat beside, one seat away from, a distinguished gentleman I had observed while we waited to embark. He was reading a thick white book I seemed to recognize—but what was it? I found out that it was QPBC's paperback of four of Sylvia Townsend Warner's novels! I told him how delighted I was and we began to talk. It turned out that he has a brother crazy about reading who lives in Northeast Harbor. He guessed who I was and had read
At Seventy
—guessed when I said I was signing books that afternoon. So he introduced himself, Cyrus McKinnon, an editor of the
Courier-Journal.
Perfect weather as we landed in Louisville added to my sense of elation.

Louisville, Monday, November 24

A new happening for me was to have the audience for “The View From Here” moved to a larger auditorium after most had been settled and waiting—what a procession of people of all ages made their way down a flight to an auditorium seating five hundred, and it was jammed. Then the young man who carried a jug of water for me spilled it all over the podium and the floor, and the charming English professor who introduced me—a woman—called for more paper towels and went at wiping it up with such efficiency that the audience cheered—altogether a happy expectant atmosphere when I got to my feet.

I did do well. I felt launched on all the enthusiasm, extra strength, gas in the motor—and did not feel tired enough to sit down in the middle as I often do. But I cut the reading down to forty-five minutes. It was after four-thirty when I rose to my feet and there was more book signing to do then.

Saturday afternoon after just an hour to rest and unpack, the book signing in the huge Hawley-Cooke bookstore was a jam of people, many bringing six or seven books for me to sign. I didn't stop for an hour and a half! Then off to a dinner party arranged because Maggie Vaughan had come all the way from Hallowell, Maine, to hear me read, bringing two friends. Our hostess, Mrs. John Llewellyn, was just back from Paris. So it was a good example of Louisville hospitality to put on a dinner party that night.

I stayed with Mrs. James Smith with all the comforts possible in her charming town house, including an elevator, and on Sunday she invited a number of people for brunch, including some of the Hospice people who had initiated my coming to Louisville, although I was sponsored in the end by the university, the Council of the Arts and the Kentucky Foundation for Women.

But I wanted to go to Louisville chiefly to learn more about Hospice and to meet Vicki Runnion who had written more than a year ago to ask me if I would be available. She gave a potluck supper Sunday evening where all the guests were social workers or at Hospice, and I felt at home and happy to be with them—one of the best times I have had for quite a while.