yet wondered how Elma was coping with Lynn’s death in Winnipeg.
The children and grandchildren were home. Santa Claus would come. Life had to go on. Her son James had just got engaged. They would all have dinner, but no cassava pie. They might even sing. But Christmas for her would never happen again. She must have known that. “Falls the shadow. For thine is the kingdom … This is the way the world ends … This is the way the world ends …” T. S. Eliot now in her head, and the Magi:
A cold coming we had of it
,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp
,
The very dead of winter
.
Everyman had said it already: “I am to go a journey, a long way, hard and dangerous.” She knew that.
Make the most of it.
Be happy.
And she was.
Shortly before Christmas, her radiologist had said, “Get back to me when you develop a problem. You’re too good for me now.” So instead of singing “Fails my heart I know not how / I can go no longer,” she had done the opposite: she had gone boldly on with her family. “Thanks in part to having no chemo to deal with, I have had a fair bit of energy and the whole visit has gone
very
well,” she wrote, after the children had left.
It was all “poignantly beautiful,” Martin told me later, and everyone had a great time. But even with all this personal happiness, Elma had vowed that“barring unforeseen disasters,” she would go to Lynn’s funeral two days after Christmas. She described it to Carol early in the New Year.
Dear Carol,
There were a great number of people at Lynn McLean’s funeral on the 27th. The Anglican service is always rather cold and formal, to my Anglican-raised way of thinking, and I have come to prefer a memorial service where people speak more informally. But it was moving all the same.
For me, it was also kind of eerie. For one thing, I was wearing the same pants I wore at Beth’s wedding, and had once more to walk (wobble?) up a very long aisle (in order to take communion), divided by a casket instead of a font this time. Also, all the McLean clan were in plaids and kilts, as the Scots and our own family had been for the wedding.
The other strange thing was that it gave me almost a “dress-rehearsal” feeling. Virtually everyone there was connected with the philosophy department or St. John’sCollege, so they all were aware of my situation.
The closing hymn was “Morning Has Broken,” with which I was not very familiar, but as hymns go, it’s rather lovely. The melody is an old Gaelic air, and adds a great deal. It’s definitely Lynn.
Carol, I send you love as always, and wish you peace, and rest for tired eyes, tired mind, tired body—whatever needs it most. And I wish you sunlit grass, and the vision of each day as a new creation. Elma
Dear Elma,
Thank you so much for letting us know what Lynn’s service was like: I do love “Morning Has Broken,” and it does sound like Lynn. Yes, we too have found the St. George’s services somewhat cold, without the voice of the one who has gone. And yes, I do know what you mean by the strange sense of “dress rehearsal.”
All “this” has made my usual rejoicing inthe new year, new resolutions, new projects, quite different, and so I did, as you suspected, finish the holiday with a sense of exhaustion and not much clarity. (I asked Don, one morning when I was overwhelmed, whether I had to pay attention to the situation in Argentina, and he said No.)
Random House is sending you (probably already have) a galley of
Unless
, as you requested. Please don’t ever hesitate to write. It is important to feel I have a partner in “this.” Going along and sharing insights.
I am about to go off with my daughter Sara for her birthday lunch. She is thirty-four today. I will write more later.
Much love, dear friend,
carol
In Carol’s short bracketed question about Argentina and the answer Don gave her lies one of life’s
The children and grandchildren were home. Santa Claus would come. Life had to go on. Her son James had just got engaged. They would all have dinner, but no cassava pie. They might even sing. But Christmas for her would never happen again. She must have known that. “Falls the shadow. For thine is the kingdom … This is the way the world ends … This is the way the world ends …” T. S. Eliot now in her head, and the Magi:
A cold coming we had of it
,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp
,
The very dead of winter
.
Everyman had said it already: “I am to go a journey, a long way, hard and dangerous.” She knew that.
Make the most of it.
Be happy.
And she was.
Shortly before Christmas, her radiologist had said, “Get back to me when you develop a problem. You’re too good for me now.” So instead of singing “Fails my heart I know not how / I can go no longer,” she had done the opposite: she had gone boldly on with her family. “Thanks in part to having no chemo to deal with, I have had a fair bit of energy and the whole visit has gone
very
well,” she wrote, after the children had left.
It was all “poignantly beautiful,” Martin told me later, and everyone had a great time. But even with all this personal happiness, Elma had vowed that“barring unforeseen disasters,” she would go to Lynn’s funeral two days after Christmas. She described it to Carol early in the New Year.
Dear Carol,
There were a great number of people at Lynn McLean’s funeral on the 27th. The Anglican service is always rather cold and formal, to my Anglican-raised way of thinking, and I have come to prefer a memorial service where people speak more informally. But it was moving all the same.
For me, it was also kind of eerie. For one thing, I was wearing the same pants I wore at Beth’s wedding, and had once more to walk (wobble?) up a very long aisle (in order to take communion), divided by a casket instead of a font this time. Also, all the McLean clan were in plaids and kilts, as the Scots and our own family had been for the wedding.
The other strange thing was that it gave me almost a “dress-rehearsal” feeling. Virtually everyone there was connected with the philosophy department or St. John’sCollege, so they all were aware of my situation.
The closing hymn was “Morning Has Broken,” with which I was not very familiar, but as hymns go, it’s rather lovely. The melody is an old Gaelic air, and adds a great deal. It’s definitely Lynn.
Carol, I send you love as always, and wish you peace, and rest for tired eyes, tired mind, tired body—whatever needs it most. And I wish you sunlit grass, and the vision of each day as a new creation. Elma
Dear Elma,
Thank you so much for letting us know what Lynn’s service was like: I do love “Morning Has Broken,” and it does sound like Lynn. Yes, we too have found the St. George’s services somewhat cold, without the voice of the one who has gone. And yes, I do know what you mean by the strange sense of “dress rehearsal.”
All “this” has made my usual rejoicing inthe new year, new resolutions, new projects, quite different, and so I did, as you suspected, finish the holiday with a sense of exhaustion and not much clarity. (I asked Don, one morning when I was overwhelmed, whether I had to pay attention to the situation in Argentina, and he said No.)
Random House is sending you (probably already have) a galley of
Unless
, as you requested. Please don’t ever hesitate to write. It is important to feel I have a partner in “this.” Going along and sharing insights.
I am about to go off with my daughter Sara for her birthday lunch. She is thirty-four today. I will write more later.
Much love, dear friend,
carol
In Carol’s short bracketed question about Argentina and the answer Don gave her lies one of life’s
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