by May Sarton
Day after tomorrow the drive to Orono.
Saturday, November 1
The trip to Orono turned out to be a wonderful time, the two four-hour drives there on Thursday and back on Friday were a great rest. I rejoiced and drank in fields and woods, happy to be away from the over-inhabited shore and into rural country where I even saw a herd of goats, as well as cows and many black-and-white steers. After two hours I was in “the country of the pointed firs” with all kinds of firs as well as the white pines that dominate the scene in York. The tall elegant firs pointing so high always move me. It was a clear, gold day—no wind—and the farther north I drove the fewer leaves remained. Most of us never realize anything about this huge inner Maine, the sense of space, and wilderness—of course interrupted by the huge mall at Bangor where I stopped and bought some Christmas wrappings. It all felt like a holiday.
Then it was lovely to step into Rob and Connie’s house I know so well, its kitchen so inviting that guests gather there and look at the wood fire. Connie was not home yet so I tore myself away and had a nap upstairs. This time no speech ahead so I could relax and had a snooze.
The occasion at five in the magnificent new Arts Building, just opened, was the first Maryann Hartman Awards. It will be a yearly celebration of distinguished Maine women, I gather. I was so happy to meet Berenice Abbott at last—also Catherine Cutler, a great worker in the vineyard of Family Services and many other community services. Berenice is at once visibly a great person—from her enchanting purple soft clothing, to the sturdy black moccasins to be seen below it—such a keen, merry, intelligent awareness of everything in those blue eyes under a thin cap of white hair. There we sat on the platform, unable to talk, for what seemed a long hour. There was a good audience, but the problem was the endless speeches about first Maryann Hartman herself, then each of the award receivers, with a rather long trio for cello, flute and piano, by a nineteenth century woman composer, Louise Farrenc.
The three award women had to sit on hard straight chairs being stared at all through it, and I found that trying to “act” as a concentrated listener is quite wearing. But it was a good idea to interrupt all the talking “about” people and have something really happen.
The pleasant surprise was that instead of the usual scroll, we were each given a stunning gold pin in a little blue velvet jewel box. Delicious.
Karen Saum was there, so we had a small talk and a hug and she told me she has the old farmhouse she dreamed of and has moved in.
Later
But the real celebration for me was supper “at home” with Rob and Connie Hunting, a leisurely Scotch though we only got in around seven. Then wonderful salmon, Rob’s homemade wine—and very good it is.
Rob has retired and seems happy and relaxed, starting his day by walking over to the church next door accompanied by his cat, Shah, a gray Persian with golden eyes, to wind the church clock. On the way back they play a game of hide-and-seek. He and Connie together cut wood for the two wood-burning stoves—the kitchen one was lighted in my honor for the first time this year—so the garage not only houses two cars but a wall of firewood neatly stacked to the ceiling. The other day Rob was able to install a light for Connie to read by when she stretches out on the bench by the window, leaning against pillows embroidered with brilliant flowers. They reminded me of Colette’s when she was crippled and managed to create such designs. But, no, someone she knew was going to throw them out and Connie rescued them.
Rob has also painted most of the inside of the house since I was last there.
All this New England talent for domestic invention delights me. Happy the man who at seventy-two—retired head of the Department of English at the university—can be at home with so many skills and, far from taking it easy, is as busy as a bee all day long like an eighteenth century “householder.”
What will stay with me from this memorable trip north is Connie’s face which I glimpsed in repose as the concert at the award ceremony was being played. Suddenly I saw the beauty of it, the clarity and something noble that her usual responsiveness and quickness does not reveal—a treasure.
I drove back in three and a half hours as I did not stop, took Edythe out for lunch to Piper’s—which has replaced Spice of Life, now closed, as our refuge—had a nap and did manage to plant bulbs for an hour till four when the light fades these days. An hour of work is all I can manage, anyway, so it is just as well.
Tuesday, November 4
Since I got back from Orono it has been on the wild side here. I did manage to get bulbs in, almost all the little ones, on Saturday afternoon after a three hour interview for Down East. David Phillips was leisurely and perceptive—and we shall see what comes out. It took three hours which I really didn’t have, but I did work outdoors for an hour after my nap. It gets so dark by four I have to call Pierrot in—for after dark he disappears, becomes a tiger and won’t come in for hours.
Janice, whom I have not seen for ages, came to have brunch—in her new silver Omni—a beaut of a car. As we turned out into the drive—it was raining hard—a young doe leaped over the orchard and away, a breathtaking moment. It is hunting season, so at dusk I hear the heavy ominous thud of guns—once, five shots in one burst. It makes me feel sick and afraid to the marrow of my bones. These days we are the killing fields again.
I can’t understand why the gun lobby fights even for the Saturday night special—a gun designed to kill people not animals. It appears to be pure blood lust.
It is one of those times when gremlins are at work—mice in the stock of toilet paper on a high shelf tore it to shreds. Two light bulbs, one over my bed and one over my desk, burned out yesterday. This morning I fell with my breakfast tray—almost everything broken and an awful mess to clean up because I was having cream of wheat. The antique blue bowl that Edythe gave me is in smithereens.
But the worst is that Tamas is ill and won’t eat. I took him to the vet yesterday. He may have liver trouble. But since he threw up last night after a single mouthful of cheese no larger than a fingernail, I now think there is an obstruction in his throat and am taking him back at ten-fifteen.
So another morning spent—I am terribly driven.
But it is Nancy’s birthday as well as election day and we are having pizza here. What a comfort she is. I could never explain all that she manages to do for me from filling the bird feeders to extraordinary feats of finding things in the files. At least in her region all is in order, while here in my region all is chaos!
Albuquerque, Friday, November 7
Here I am, after forty years, back in New Mexico to give a reading tonight, and staying with Lou duFault and Rene Morgan—Rene spends her winters here. But there are shadows in spite of a brilliant blue sky.
Dr. Beekman called me yesterday morning at eight to say that Tamas had died during the night. Edythe was coming at nine-thirty to drive me to the airport. Luckily I was packed as I was in a state of shock. The plan had been to take him to the Angell Memorial in Boston for an operation to remove the bone stuck deep in the esophagus. Dr. Beekman had tried everything, even a scope he used with the help of an M.D.
I still cannot believe that Tamas has gone forever, woke up crying this morning, but I have to try to keep grief down or I shall be overwhelmed. I think it is best for Tamas—he had seemed terribly lame these last weeks, did not want to walk, and we all knew the time was coming when he would not enjoy what had been a wonderful dog life any more.
Something went out of the intimacy of our companionship when I was ill and no longer had the strength to cajole him upstairs at night. He was often incontinent as well, so he could no longer sleep on my bed, groaning little groans of pleasure when I turned over, and perfectly still all night.
At night I could be sure he did not have a tick and be in close touch with his physical being. I felt cut off in a queer way when he slept at the foot of the stairs, as he has done for months now.
But there was no doubt that his growing disability, his so evident
suffering from old age, affected my own aging self. I thought of us as two very old people—but now that I am well again I am not any longer the very old woman with a very old dog I was all spring and summer. In one way therefore his absence is a release from sorrow and anxiety.
But oh how desolate the house felt in that hour after I heard the news! No Tamas lying under the table, his nose on his white paws, and those attentive dark eyes watching me.
I think of all his gentle ways—how once when a six-month-old baby was brought to the house he sat looking at it with pure adoration—I really felt I should give him a baby!—how when Jamie had a seizure and was lying on the floor near the flower window, held in her friend’s arm, Tamas was terribly concerned and finally pushed his head under the arm to lick Jamie’s face, and how she woke then.
Our walks through the woods when I first came to York, Tamas in the lead, his nose telling him a pheasant had passed by—wild excitement and barking!—and Bramble following us at a discreet distance. We were a family of three, that is what is so hard. It is good that Pierrot is young and still with me.
Tamas was ultra-sensitive even as a puppy. He learned not to bark at Bramble, who had left the house when he came, and the day came when I saw him swallow a bark at the sight of her, and then we sat for a minute, Bramble on one side and Tamas on the other, and they became friends.
He was not a watchdog as he loved people—but let any dog enter his terrain and his tail shot up in an angry plume, his ruff seemed to swell and he growled and barked so fiercely that any marauding dog got the message and left.
His gentle spirit is no more—his death has torn a huge hole in the fabric of my life—my only dog. Some losses can’t ever be wholly absorbed as I learned with the death of Bramble almost a year ago.
Last week I heard that Peggy Pond Church, the poet, had died. I wanted to see her once more, but she had written me in great depression for she was going blind, and for her it is best.
A few weeks ago she had sent me a last poignant poem:
Now I, old willow tree from which the birds
have fled,
through whose branches the sap no longer rises,
leave my own vacancy on the waiting air.
Albuquerque, Saturday, November 8
The reception by a big audience at the KiMo Theatre here last night was incredible. At first I had feared no one would come, in spite of the supportive group of women who had asked me and who were enthusiastic and sure there would be a good audience—and indeed there was! I felt like a sport star for when Carol Boss, my introducer, parted the curtain and I followed her on stage, there was such a roar, such prolonged applause, laughter, rejoicing, and finally all standing, that poor Carol had to wait quite a while to do her very fine introduction. I felt lifted up on a great merry wave of welcome and read as well as I ever have, I think—although when I took a short break halfway through, my knees barely supported me to the wing chair I had asked for. I can manage though. Two months ago last evening would have been quite impossible.
Earlier in the day Lou and Rene drove me around the neighborhood, with the huge, tough, rocky Sandia Mountain always in sight, half covered with snow, purplish savage rocks showing through. Merciless god; it is a cruel mountain.
Then we had lunch at the Marriott hotel with a glass of champagne and that was pure fun.
It is so fine for me to be part of this household for a little while, see Lou and Rene working together to make this house what must be one of the most hospitable in the world. One of Lou’s sisters is the head of the Franciscan order and lives in Rome—one more of those liberal nuns who are changing the Catholic world. Because of her sister, Lou’s house has been a haven for Sisters of many different orders, pouring through. How warmly my friend Amelie Starkey, a religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary, was welcomed for supper before my reading. She had flown in from Denver, working ten straight days to be able to leave.
Amelie is between jobs but hopes to get the funds to go on with her work with underprivileged children in Denver. As it is she can do it only once a week, but she is so full of fervor and conviction it is wonderful to see her again—wearing a tiny cross carved out of a soup bone by a prisoner in El Salvador—where she has been several times.
I forgot to say earlier that a young professor, Joel Jones, in the English department at the university, brought a copy of Faithful Are the Wounds for me to sign. He is happy because it is at last in paperback so he can teach it—feels it is a very important book. I was so delighted, delighted that he finds it relevant now, after thirty years.
Earlier this morning I called Carol Heilbrun to tell her about Tamas—and she reminded me that she had seen him when he was a small puppy and I took her up to the Frenches to see him with his adorable mother, a very small Sheltie like a fairy in her delicacy—and there she was with Tamas and three siblings. Then Carol remembered him at three months when I brought him home and set up a playpen by my desk so I could keep an eye on him. He was such a good puppy—he never made a mistake—and from the first night slept beside me, deliciously soft in his puppy fur.
I called Eleanor Blair, too, and was comforted to hear her voice.
Albuquerque, Tuesday, November 11
On Sunday Lou and Rene drove me through the familiar moonlike landscape to Santa Fe. I never believed I would see it again after more than forty years in which it has always been the land of poetry for me, “the leopard land” as I have called it because the brown skin of the land is spotted by juniper and piñon—and there they were, the gentle, magnificent Sangre de Cristos, capped in snow, under a brilliant blue sky. The air, the “crystal” air was the same.
Last night as I looked down on the sparkling city from the Asplund’s adobe house, they shone as brilliant as Mars and Jupiter on each side of the moon, my friends of Santa Fe, almost all “gone into the world of light”—and I said their names like a litany before I went to sleep: Alice and Haniel Long—it was because he loved The Single Hound and wrote me about it that I went first to Santa Fe in 1940 and there he was always like a godfather to me; Marie Armengaud, the Baumanns, Dorothy Stewart—who taught me about this land and took me with Agnes Sims to my first Indian dance; Margareta Dietrich, Witter Bynner, Dorothy McKibbin, John Meem, Erna Ferguson and, of course, Peggy Pond Church, another star now in that heaven.
On the first afternoon the Asplunds drove me in the evening light to the Santuario, and there I wanted to light a candle especially for Judy—for Judy and I met in Santa Fe on my third visit there in 1945. We often visited the tiny church in the valley with its two towering cottonwoods.
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 wi
ng 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.
