“Why there you are, Stephen,' cried Jack. 'You are come home, I find.'
That is true,' said Stephen with an affectionate look: he prized statements of this kind in Jack.”
― Patrick O'Brian, H.M.S. Surprise
My dad died Thursday evening right around suppertime. He died near home in his small-town New Hampshire hospital surrounded by caring nurses, after visits with wife, and with my sister’s voice in his ear over the phone. As Covid deaths go, it was as good as it gets. Which is not to say that it was good, or easy. Which is not to say that right now, as I struggle to write this week’s newsletter, I am not weeping.
So this one will be short. I am sorry. I have a notebook with many notes and ideas about the ideas and links I plan to share in upcoming issues of Spark. I looked through the notes and then closed the book. The scribblings in there will wait for the right time. Next week, I will start again in more ways than one.
Along with many others, I will observe a second New Year on January 20th. That day, I will hit the restart button on 2021. That won’t erase any of the sadness or events that have marked the turbulent start of this year in our family or in the wider world but it feels like an optimistic and hopeful thing to do in the face of all the challenges confronting us right now. There will be the possibility of change and recovery.
To observe the occasion, I will make black-eyed peas the slow way for the first time. I will serve them with greens and maybe some pancetta - an approximation of the dish many serve on New Year’s day, a tradition that “tastes like hope” to award-winning chef Adrian Miller who explains how it all came about HERE. I will lift a glass of something to toast all that is hopeful and possible even in the face of uncertainty and destruction.
In the meantime, I will toast Peter Guest, my father. I will go out later today and throw a flower over Sunset Cliffs, a place he loved to walk when he visited and very close to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot where he spent some quality time as a Marine in the 1950s. I will then go to the shelf in my newly-organized bedroom library that is devoted to the Patrick O’Brian books he loved and invited me to read with him. I will take one, read, and hear his voice mingling with those of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin as I always do when I read them. I expect I’ll laugh or weep some more. Maybe both. That seems to be how things go these days.
Here is a little of what I wrote about my father in June of 2020 as I remembered the biggest gift he ever gave me: reading. To read the whole thing, click HERE.
“He sat close to me and I breathed in the familiar scent of cigarettes, Mennen deodorant, and Dentyne gum mixed with sawdust from his trips around the shop floor of the family woodworking business. I remember his delighted laugh when I first sounded out a three-letter word by myself: “CAN.” I remember the feeling of specialness that swelled in me every time I could offer him a newly-mastered, harder word. I remember the near-panic I had on the nights I waited until bedtime for him to get home only to go to bed crushed because he was too late, or too tired, or had just plain forgotten. I suspect there were times when, after a long hard day at work, he just wanted to be left alone. But he’d created a monster. I couldn’t stop.” - Reading and Remembering - A Gift From My Father.
Mary K. of Florida won last week’s giveaway book from my shelves, The Family Fang. More giveaways are coming. In the meantime, let me know how you are, and what you are reading. I love hearing from you.
Meanwhile, don’t forget - all books mentioned here are available through the Spark Community Recommendations page at bookshop.org where every sale benefits local bookstores and helps us raise money for literacy programs.
Thank you for reading. Stay safe. Stay healthy. See you next week.
Betsy
P.S. And now your moment of Zen…a Summer Night 2017, Dad and Rina
Dearest Betsy, in this time of so much loss, your words this week are a powerful reminder that every single number in this terrible death toll is a person, one who is precious and needed and loved. As this horrific catastrophe continues to gather steam, it's all too easy to distance ourselves from the sad truth that our country is awash not only in the virus but in grief, each death sending its ripples outward until we are all touched, all grieving, all losing. Your toast to your dad touched my heart. Blessings to you and yours.
This is so beautiful.