Friday, April 28, 2006

One in a Nation's Census

Hey, Alan, what’s it like to read all this? Your blog is a tribute to the remarkable friendships in your life, which must be several standard deviations from the norm in number and quality, anyway. I’m not surprised. I remember that you couldn’t even pop into Marcella’s for a sandwich without having an exchange with the owner, an exchange that probably meant as much as the ham and cheese.

My friendship with you is full of memories of food and wine, things you took such pleasure in and then that pleasure spilled over onto me. I would walk up the steps to your porch in Medford, knees turned to jelly I was so afraid I wouldn’t measure up to the honor of an invitation to dinner. It took a martini to put me at ease sufficiently so that I could talk to you. You were a fabulous cook—simple, terrific food. You not only cooked for me, but “recounted” food stories while you cooked. It was all good, the food as well as the narrative.

In your company I first heard Mabel Mercer, and watched Mr. Hulot’s Holiday, visited Marcella’s and much more. I took at least five classes with you during the couple of years I worked at Tufts as a secretary. In one class on Melville, you quoted the author writing that Ahab was “one in a nation’s census.” For me, that could as easily be applied to you as to the sea captain.

I can’t remember how many times I repeated the creative writing class with you back in the late seventies, early eighties. What I do remember is the way you approached our work, listening so carefully to each student writer, teaching us how to receive and critique writing without stomping on one another, and still managing to sort the dross from the gold. I recall clearly the way your face would light up when something really good came out. Those classes were magical.

At a dull time in my own life you were a light. You had a writer’s uncanny radar for all things I kept (or tried to keep) under the surface. I spun off from Tufts into marriage and family, career and all that, touching base with you less and less frequently. I regret that. You are a pivotal figure in my life, certainly the best teacher I ever had, but more than that.

Well, I gave it a shot but my tribute comes up short of all I wanted to say. It’s a poor starling at the window.

May the next years be as full of adventure and fun, food and wine, and good friends as all your other great years.

Barbara Keesey Simkowski

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