Silence for a couple of weeks—from both of us. A
silence I finally broke on September 21.
I wrote a newsy letter about my recent reading
(Shelley-related and book-reviewing-related), wondered if she could tell me
more about the smallpox vaccination that Mary and Bysshe had arranged for their
little boy, William (less than a year old), in that Frankenstein summer in Geneva. And I wrote excitedly about an
imminent trip to Oregon. I’m hoping,
I wrote, for a day or two out on the
coast, too, near the place where my parents lived their happiest years, at
Cannon Beach.
Those years, at least at first, were happy for my parents. Both had recently retired; they had—as I
think I’ve written earlier here—one of the most glorious views in the world,
overlooking Haystack Rock out in the Pacific surf; they were both still fairly
healthy. Dad was still making his way to the beach every day a couple of times
to take walks. Mom was very active with community groups and had found some
friends to hike local mountain and beach trails with. They were far, far away from their three sons (I was in
Ohio; my brothers were in Massachusetts), but maybe—just maybe—after decades of
dealing with us, it was kind of refreshing to be out in the Oregon air, the two
of them.
Of course, their idyll could not last … whose does? Soon, Dad’s health would fail, his
mental acuity soften (some minor strokes), and they would have to leave their
Cannon Beach paradise for a “senior-friendly” place they built in nearby
Seaside (no view of the Pacific). And not long after that, they would return to the East, to a retirement community in
Pittsfield, Massachusetts, not far from my brothers’ summer place (an old
farmhouse in Becket). And then … more decline.
Mary’s relations with her father that Frankenstein summer of 1816 were
nonexistent. William Godwin had not forgiven her for running away with a
married man in 1814, for bearing two children by him (the first had died after
only a couple of weeks). Even when Mary—with great hope—had named her son
William, her father did not soften. He refused all forms of communication with
her, and it was not until the suicide of Harriet Shelley (Bysshe’s first wife,
late in 1816) and the subsequent marriage of Mary and Bysshe (December 30) that
Godwin relented and once again embraced the daughter whom he loved so
profoundly.
Betty wrote back a day later with a letter that
surpassed in newsiness even my own. Her computer troubles, her reading, her
planned journeys and family gatherings, her teaching and administrative duties
and the political situations at American University—all filled an entire
single-spaced page and a half.
Silence for a week.
Betty sent a little inquisitive note—just, she said,
to check to see if all is well with you
and yours.
It was. But was I starting to show signs of the
inattention that would eventually end our correspondence?
I wrote back the next day (September 29) with word
about my writing progress (I was into 1817—the year Mary turned twenty). Shared
some news—including an announcement of our son’s performance (in the chorus) of
Pirates of Penzance with an Akron
(Ohio) opera company. It was great to see him onstage again (he was now
twenty-eight), and he always had a fine singing voice—from his boyhood soprano
to his adult baritone/bass. I’d directed him seven times in middle school
productions, and he had continued performing in high school. But as far as I
know, he did not audition for any shows at Tufts University (he’d graduated in
1994). At the time I wrote this note to Betty, he had completed his master’s in
journalism (Kent State) and was a reporter for the Akron Beacon-Journal. He would earn a co-nomination for a Pulitzer
Prize before leaving journalism for law school.
After a couple of exchanges dealing with merely quotidian
matters, there was a two-week silence while I was out on the West Coast.
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