Mike and I had taken our first Wayfarers walk back in 1990. We’d gathered a group of friends for a weeklong walk in the Cotswolds. Traveling in England before the walk, then being guided through beautiful countryside and quaint villages, walking along with friends and having the luxury of relaxed time for extended conversations, was a remarkable experience. We were hooked on The Wayfarers. A few years later many of the Cotswolds’ group got together for a Wayfarers walk in England’s Lake District. In 1996, after exploring/enjoying Paris, we walked through the Burgundy wine area of France. In 1998 we did another Wayfarers walk in the Ring of Kerry area of Ireland. Mike’s music colleagues, also good friends, Bill Schmidt and Nancy Obrien, joined us on that trip.
Now, in 2007, in an effort to lift Mike’s spirits and to try to pull us together, I’d signed us up for another English Wayfarers walk, in Dorset along the Jurassic Coast. I knew the trip was a financial stretch when I’d sent in the deposit. Then, with the loss of Mike’s UUSS income, the expenses of the trip became more of a plunge than a stretch. But I was desperate for positive experiences with Mike and barreled ahead with plans for the trip.
In August, we met Bill Schmidt in London and from there drove to Rye where we’d booked three nights at The Mermaid Inn. Paris, the Lake District, Ireland, Germany—wherever we’d been there were places we’d dreamed of returning to “some day.” I suspect that’s a common traveler’s dream. The Mermaid Inn was one of those rare dreams come true. The inn was established in the 12th century and rebuilt in 1420. The hotel and the town of Rye were full of history, and Mike, something of an Anglophile, was in his element.
The three of us had a delightful stay in Rye. Besides being rich with romantic, historical lore, Rye is also a place of natural beauty, just 2 miles inland from the English Channel, at the confluence of three rivers. We climbed the steep and narrow steps of St. Mary’s bell tower, then an old ladder leading to the roof, where we had a stunning view of Rye rooftops, the surrounding countryside, the rivers, the sea. From that vantage point it seemed that all must be well with the world.
Four days later, the welcoming Wayfarers dinner at the Fairwater Head Hotel in Hawkchurch defied the stereotype of tasteless English food. Freshly caught and nicely prepared local fish, fresh vegetables from the garden, and some kind of toffee pudding that I wolfed down, telling myself the next day’s 8-mile walk would take care of the extra thousands of calories. As had been the case with every other Wayfarers walk, the leader (Muff) and the manager (Yannick) were both charming and knowledgeable.
The morning started with a full English breakfast and an easy walk to a manor where the gardens had been restored to the original 1920s design. The gardener led us past the grass tennis court, fountains, the large kitchen garden and “reflection” areas. He told us the “lady” was pleased with the house because, unlike their previous manor, this one had “only” nine bedrooms and was quite manageable—with servants, of course. After lunch Mike returned to the hotel saying he wasn’t feeling well. Bill and I continued on with the group to visit a former monastery with 900 years of history to its credit.
The next morning we visited Lyme Regis where the scene of Meryl Streep, wrapped in a big cloak, standing at the end of the Cobb was filmed for “The French Lieutenant’s Woman.” The weather was dark and the atmosphere as moody as it had been in the film. We were quite taken with it. Again, after lunch, Mike went back to the hotel, and Bill and I walked on. When I got back to the room in the late afternoon, Mike was napping. I showered, then woke him for dinner. He complained of not feeling well and dragged around until we got downstairs, where he immediately brightened and turned on the charm. After dinner Mike, with Bill at the hotel piano, sang several of Yip Harburg’s songs. They ended with “When the Idle Poor Become the Idle Rich,” which asks how we’ll determine who’s poor and who’s rich when everyone has ermine, and plastic teeth. “And when all your neighbors/are upper class/You won’t know your Joneses from your Ass-tors.”
The clever lyrics, Mike’s delivery, and Bill’s piano acrobatics left the gathered audience laughing and clamoring for more.
I, too, enjoyed their performance. They were, as always, relaxed and interactive with the audience. Both consummate performers. But I was finding it more and more difficult to reconcile the Mike I experienced in private with the charming public Mike.
Not once on the Wayfarers part of our trip did Mike complete a full day’s walk. He might sleep in in the morning, then join us for lunch and the afternoon trip. Or go back after lunch with Yannick while the rest of us walked on. I brought him aspirin, felt his head, brought him tea. Asked what more I could do for him. What was wrong? He just didn’t feel well.
I don’t remember now what set it off. We were in our room at the hotel, getting ready for dinner. We, with the exception of Mike, had walked shady, wooded paths to beautiful gardens with panoramic views of the sea. I was telling Mike some of the high points. “I’m sorry you’re missing so much of this,” I said.
“I don’t feel well!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Mike pulled a clean shirt from his suitcase and turned to face me. I could tell by his scowl he was angry. I wasn’t sure why.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who likes me!” he shouted, seemingly out of the blue.
“I want that, too,” I told him.
“Much of the time I have the feeling that you don’t even like me!” he said.
“I often feel that with you, too,” I said. Then I added, “I do like you. I love you. I totally love the wonderful, caring, funny, good listener, good friend part of you that drew me to you in the first place. Honestly, though, it is hard for me to like the angry, martyr-ish side of you that I’m seeing more and more often.”
“Sorry!” he shouted.
We finished getting ready and walked in silence to the dining room, where Mike warmed up. He became more attentive than usual, how’s the fish, do you want to share a dessert, you look pretty tonight, etc., etc. But I was left feeling heavy and sad, wondering where we were headed.
The next afternoon, again without Mike, Bill and I sat looking out over the English Channel and talking about him. I told Bill of my frustrations and concerns, that it seemed Mike’s glass was more and more often half empty. We spoke of Mike’s reluctance to take care of himself—exercise, lose weight, the usual. We talked about Bill’s worries for one of his sisters, how she always looked at things in the worst possible light. Bill said he had noticed more of that in Mike recently.
“Maybe we can do ‘Accentuate the Positive,’ tonight,” Bill laughed.
“Please!”
After the walking tour, we spent a few days in London. I got sick. It gave more credibility to Mike’s earlier illness, and I was left feeling guilty for thinking he just wasn’t trying hard enough during the walk.
I skipped an afternoon of sightseeing. Mike brought tea up to the room on his return. For the time being at least, we were gentle with one another.
We’d been home from the England trip for three days when Mike came downstairs to tell me of an email he’d received from the pianist.
“She’s quitting Yip Harburg,” he said, his expression hovering somewhere between surprise and confusion.
“Quitting? Why?”
“She says it’s not fun anymore.”
“Really? What else did she say?”
“Just it’s not fun anymore. We can’t do it without her. I don’t know of another pianist here in Sacramento who could do it.”
“Strange,” I said. “Do you mind if I read the email?”
“No. Go ahead.”
I went upstairs to Mike’s computer and read a very lengthy email from the pianist. She said how frustrated she’d become. They would decide on the way a particular number would go, she’d spend a week practicing, and then with the next rehearsal Mike would change everything. He would say one thing and do another. She told him how much she had always enjoyed working with him—what a fine, sensitive musician he was. She said how she had struggled with the decision, lost sleep, worried, didn’t want to lose his friendship. She said she’d wanted to say all of this in person and had tried to call several times since our return, but we weren’t answering our phone, nor was our answering machine taking messages. She was sorry, but the project had become overly stressful for her. It simply wasn’t fun anymore.
“Not fun anymore,” Mike said, shrugging his shoulders, ignoring all of the other details of her email.
Whenever Mike told others that the pianist quit, he would simply say, “She said it wasn’t fun anymore.”
Maybe he just didn’t want to bother to explain the details of the pianist’s dissatisfaction. What seems more likely to my now, though, is that he was losing, had lost, the capacity to process such details.
The bit about not answering our phones or callers being unable to leave messages was puzzling. I called our home number from a neighbor’s phone. Our number rang and rang and rang. No answering machine picked up. I asked the neighbor to give me five minutes to get home, then to call me. She called, but the phone didn’t ring at our place. As I thought back over the days since our return, I realized that all of our phone conversations had been with outgoing calls. When I checked with AT&T, they found that there was some glitch in which we could call out but no one could call in. I didn’t know how long it had been that way, but it was certainly an added complication to uneasy communications.
The next day when we returned from running after-trip errands, the answering machine now working, there was a message from the director. She simply said she would no longer be working on the project. Mike called the others who were involved and said they would need to take a hiatus. He hoped to pick things back up again soon. Then he went upstairs to bed.
In November 2007, Mike went with me to New York for the annual Assembly on Literature for Adolescents conference. I was busy most of both days, presenting, participating in workshops, and catching up with other teachers and writers with whom I’d become acquainted over my years of attending these conferences. Mike was on his own during the day.
He had always loved New York City—the energy, the museums, the restaurants, Central Park, the big library, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the whole city. An added attraction this year was to be a meeting with Ernie Harburg, Yip’s son. They’d had quite a lot of contact, both email and telephone, during planning and rehearsals of the now ill-fated show. Ernie had been enthused about the project and had been very generous in filling in information that was not easily found in books. “If you’re ever in New York.…” So Mike called him a few weeks before we were to leave and set up a meeting time. He was thrilled with the prospect of talking face-to-face with Ernie.
Mike was watching TV when I returned to the room after the last workshop of the day.
“How was your time with Ernie?”
“He didn’t show up. We were supposed to meet in that coffee shop and he didn’t show up.”
He’d said the coffee shop was just across the street from his apartment, and I knew Mike had his address and phone number.
“Did you call?”
“No. He didn’t show up.”
“Did you go across the street and knock on his door?”
“No! He didn’t show up!”
“Well, maybe you could reschedule for tomorrow. Why don’t you give him a call?”
“I told you. He didn’t show up!”
On the flight home as I reviewed our time in New York, I was aware of how different this trip had been from previous trips. Mike’s usual pattern was to get out early for breakfast. He’d walk the streets, visit a museum, lunch in Central Park, maybe walk through Macy’s, enjoy the city while I was doing conference things. Later we’d go to dinner at a place Mike had chosen, someplace quintessentially New York, respected but not totally out of our price range. Typically we’d see a show that he had arranged for. This time, though, unless I was with him, he spent most of his time in the hotel room. I’d been the one to arrange a meeting with a longtime music friend of Mike’s. A workshop friend had invited us to see the Radio City Rockettes with her and her son, and we did that. But Mike had not taken the initiative for any of this.
When we returned home and people asked about our trip, Mike’s response would be “Wonderful! I love that city!” He might mention the Rockettes, or meeting with his friend, but mostly it was just wonderful.
July 2013
Dear Mike,
Matt, Leesa and 8-year-old Mika flew down from Washington for a week with the California family. The evening of their arrival, Dale and Marg joined us at my place for dinner. We sat outside with martinis and some version of appetizers, talking and laughing while we waited for the River Wok delivery. Once the food arrived, we served ourselves buffet style from the kitchen and regrouped on the patio. It was a balmy Sacramento night, a light Delta breeze, and an overhead crescent moon. One of those evenings when everything seems right.
It’s sometimes a challenge for me not to compare my little patio with the uneven bricks with the Gold River patios you and I had together—artfully planted, the large, sturdy glass table with plenty of comfortable places for eight people to sit. That evening we had to pull out a couple of folding chairs for our River Wok dinner. But really, my present patio served us well. The folding chairs, the smaller basic table, the funky walk down not-to-code steps and through the crowded garage to get to the patio—none of that kept us from enjoying our time together. We could still laugh and eat and drink and talk about what mattered. It turns out I don’t need nearly as much as we once thought we needed together.
Dale and Marg are now party central for our larger family get-togethers. They hosted a delightful evening that, in addition to those who had been assembled on my patio, included the Stockton cousins. Later in the week Sharon and Lena and Corry joined us and, still later, Beth and Cindi. It was truly a reunion. How lucky I am to be a part of this bright, funny, varied family!
It is a delight to see Matt with Mika. He is patient and playful and, at the same time, doesn’t let her get away with murder. She is full of energy and pushes a variety of boundaries, and Matt is firm without being punitive. You should be proud—you, Matt’s main role model for fatherhood.
Mika has not gone to see you with Matt and Leesa these past few visits. I know you would brighten for a moment, only a moment, if you were to see her. You would not be able to interact with her. She would be left confused, watching you walk your loop. I want you to have as many bright moments as you can, no matter how brief. On the other hand, it’s sad to think that her strongest image of you would be that of a demented old man. So I tend to agree with Matt and Leesa’s decision to leave her with me, for ice cream and DVDs, while they make the trip to Orangevale.
When I try to think of what you might want, the old you, I think you, too, might agree with that choice. I know I would. If and when—God help us all, probably when—I become an unpleasant shell of my former self, I’d prefer that the grandkids not see me, that the memories they’re left with are of the alive me, not the half-dead me. And Mika does have memories of you playing the piano and singing “Lydia the Tattooed Lady.” And there’s that wonderful picture of you dressed up in a long royal blue satinish robe with a very tall pointed hat, a wizard with a wand. Facing you is 3-year-old Mika in her sparkly shoes and pink princess outfit. You were both so engrossed in play that you were oblivious to the camera. Such a better memory for her than memories of a visit to you at Sister Sarah’s would be.
You, the real you, are alive in that little Mika soul. When I emailed to ask what DVDs she would like me to have on hand for her visit, I listed every Disney story available, along with a variety of musicals. She chose “Singin’ in the Rain.” I know she watched that with you on at least one visit to Gold River. Later, on that last ill-fated visit, the one when you went missing in the Seattle airport, and again in Walla Walla, you and she sat together on the couch watching “Singin’ in the Rain.” You’d already lost the capacity to know your audience, and you were endlessly repeating stories of Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor, things way beyond her 4-year-old understanding. But she watched with you for a long time, seemingly mesmerized by the singing and dancing.
That was our last visit together to Walla Walla. I can see you now, sitting at the table in the breakfast nook of that spacious Craftsman-style house they’d rented from the college. I was sitting across from you, finishing my eggs and toast. Finished with her breakfast, Mika stood at the end of the table, looking at you as if trying to figure things out. Finally she said to you, “I heard you have trouble remembering.” You, who had never admitted to any such trouble to the rest of us, said, “I forget things sometimes. But I’ll always remember you.”
On this trip, after watching “Singing’ in the Rain” for the second time, Mika asked me, “Do you have ‘American in Paris?’” Somewhere within her, probably within her DNA, I believe she will also always remember you.
We will have been married for 46 years this coming Monday. The day will be like any other. Nothing to distinguish it except that memories of that long ago wedding day may push their way forward. I’ll let them linger, but not for long. The contrast between early happy memories and now is heartbreaking. It breaks my heart that we’re not celebrating together. That we’re not traveling, or exploring new restaurants, or having people in for dinner, or going to concerts, or sharing books or, together, watching this amazing time for Subei as she makes her way to college, or any of the other things we might reasonably have expected for our retirement years.
On this coming anniversary, I will take a moment to honor you. To honor what we had together. And I thank you for somewhere around 38 good years. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Still yours,
Marilyn