C'est Dommage

Love hurts”, the poets sing. Over and over they remind us that Cupid’s arrow pierces the heart. And we say, “Yes, how true”, yet something in us is not completely persuaded. Only the blood flowing from our very own wound will make us really understand. Me included.

My first instruction in this ancient wisdom came from a slender beauty named, Robin Adair. She was barely 16. I was almost 19.

We met in church.

One Sunday in the springtime her mother, with Robin in tow, came to sample the service at Parma Christian Church. She liked what she found and decided to join the congregation. Thereafter, they were regulars at Sunday service – and pretty soon Robin started showing up at the church youth activities, too.

I had been backsliding a little when it came to religion and I hadn’t attended any of these youth functions for quite a long time. I suddenly found them newly compelling. Mom was quick to note my conversion and, of course, the actual source of attraction, but she didn’t say much about it – probably because she was just glad to have me re-involved in church life, for any reason.

I was drawn to Robin very nearly at first sight, not only because of her beauty, but also because of her style. She carried herself like a princess. And she augmented her regal gracefulness with a softly measured way of speaking that seemed unnaturally mature for her mere 15 years – all of which added a touch of mystery to her more obvious charms.

We spent many hours together in study, prayer and good works, but not nearly enough time together. And it was getting crowded, too, what with all those other youth always around. I thought we needed more space to ourselves. So I started spending less time with her in the church groups and more time visiting at her house.

Robin and her mother, Edith, lived only a few miles from me in a tiny rented house on Montauk Avenue, in Parma. They seemed to be very poor, but they weren’t, quite. They had rich benefactors who supported them – some of whom I later met. Her mother never had much cash on hand, and no job, yet their bills were paid, and they had all they needed for food and clothing.

Robin had a brother in the navy. He was a little older than me. I saw him, once or twice, when he was home on leave. Other than that, I hardly knew him. She also had an older sister who lived in Chicago. I never met her sister, although I did come to know her very well. I don’t know a thing about her father. Nothing was ever said about him, and I never asked.

Anyway, I would walk over to her house, pick her up, and we would go for walks – long, long walks, all over the neighborhood and often through the woods that lay at the end of her street. As we walked, we talked – about art, history, music, life, and philosophy – addressing each topic in the earnest, certain, and muddled way of adolescents everywhere, throughout the ages. I was reading Jack Kerouac at the time, so I introduced Robin to the jazzed up, Americanized, crazy-lazy notions of Zen Buddhism that are sprinkled throughout Mr. Kerouac’s two main works: On the Road & The Dharma Bums. Dharma is a Hindu word that means: right behavior. Good Buddhists try to practice it as they seek enlightenment. But for Kerouac’s Beatnik buddies the search consisted mostly of driving frantically back and forth across the country “digging” whatever came up, and getting their “kicks” at whatever they could get away with doing. Still, I fell for it. (Such things seem much more plausible when you’re 18).

Robin in turn, tutored me in the formalities of polite society. Most of which she had picked up from her older sister – who traveled in very ritzy circles indeed, in Chicago. She also had learned a smattering of French from her sister. And so, I learned some French, too. One phrase she used often (or maybe I just remember it better) was “C’est dommage”. Literally translated it means “there is damage”. But the French use it in much the same way English speakers use expressions like “Oh, that’s too bad”, or “How unfortunate”. It’s the sort of term that is nearly irresistible to a teenage girl. It sounds so sophisticated, and there are so many occasions to us it.

The art of Amedeo Modigliani was another frequent topic of those days. I can’t imagine why Hollywood never made a movie about him. The barest facts of his brief and tragic life could be written straight into a screenplay with no need of further embellishment. I liked his work then, and I like it, now. He’s probably most famous for his paintings of elongated, sensuous nudes that recline across the width of his canvas’ like landscapes. And every one of these impossible ladies he painted possessed the same slender contours that were so evident in Robin. They looked like her, or perhaps it was the other way around. In any case, each reminded me of the other

Music was important, too. Every great romance should have a soundtrack. Ours was supplied by the English classical guitarist, Julian Bream. It was the single album out of my total collection of
3 albums that we played most often. I would take it over to Robins house and while we sipped cupful’s of Jasmine tea Mr. Bream would serenade our unfolding passion. The whole album was good, but the sad beauty of Ravel’s Pavane Pour Une Infante Défunte (Procession for a dead Princess) was the cut that we liked best. I’ve heard that piece performed many times since then, though never more movingly. Is that because of Julian Breams artistry, or is it only because that particular version is fused with my memories of those days. I think it’s both.

And so the months rolled on – all summer, through the fall, and into the winter. We spent every hour together that we could manage, and we were very skillful at managing such things. We disappeared for long stretches of time. Sometimes we were out all night. Robin’s mother, and my parents, too begin to worry. We were “too young to be so serious”, “who knows what might happen”? Well, that’s not strictly true. They had a real good idea of what might happen. They just didn’t know how soon, or how often – the answers to which were: already, and very.

Hormonal lust & True Love is a volatile mixture. It’s not easily contained even when you try hard to contain it – and we weren’t trying very hard About the only thing that held us back at all was lack of a suitably private space for our trysting. That problem was overcome when I got my first car.

I had a part-time job (after school & summers) as a stock boy at a small grocery store.

I had saved most of the money I had earned, and that was how I paid for the car. My savings amounted to only $500 – not a lot of money, but adequate. The car, a second-hand, red & white 1956 Ford Sunliner cost me $480. It was a modest investment that compounded much. Handy as that car was though, it wasn’t altogether satisfactory. It lacked comfort, and it wasn’t nearly romantic enough. So I came up with a different solution.

On Friday afternoons, after school & before work, I would drive down along W. 25th. Street and look for apartments to rent. The W. 25th district of Cleveland was then, and still is, a very poor part of town. There was choice in abundance. Rundown apartment buildings lined the street, each featuring tiny furnished rooms that could be rented by the week – no questions asked – for as little as $16. That was roughly comparable to one day in most motels, but motels insist that you to fill out forms, give them your license plate number, and so on. W. 25th. Street landlords didn’t require anything but the cash.

On Saturday evening, and sometimes on Sunday evenings, we would move in. Robin would bring along a nightgown, a large canvas travel bag filled with, candles, clean linen, incense, and a few other such small items. And with these she would transform those shabby little rooms into enchanted grottos.

We wouldn’t stay all night, just most of the night. Then we would abandon the place and I would look for a new one the following week. I suppose we could have kept the same apartment for weeks on end, but I didn’t want to arouse suspicion, and anyway, there was no shortage of other rooms to be had.

Does all that sound sordid, or silly? It may – but it wasn’t. Words, at least the words I can muster, aren’t up to the task of describing those times. We were living then on an elevated plane of existence, apart from ordinary reality, and lost in our involvement with each other.

It lasted for months.

And then it all came to an end.

Just a few weeks before Christmas Robin’s mother had a nervous breakdown. Robin had told me about her mom’s history of emotional fragility, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of it until then. I later learned that Christmas was the time of year in which she was particularly vulnerable – as it was and still is for many people. My mom was the first to tell me what happened. I don’t know for sure what actually took place because several versions of the event had been circulated around the church. Some said Edith had been found naked, babbling incoherently, and running up and down the sidewalk in front of her house. That’s probably exaggerated, but whatever transpired did result in Edith being removed to some facility, somewhere, for rest and treatment. And since Robin was underage, she was removed too. Where? No one seemed to know. I was helpless to do anything about it, but wait.

A few days later Robin called. She had been taken in by an elderly couple who were friends of her mom. She expected to be staying for some indefinite time at their home in Northfield. Northfield is about 20 miles southeast of Cleveland, and about 12 miles west of Parma. I was somewhat relieved; It wasn’t that far away; life would continue as usual.

Or so I thought.

I was wrong.

The folks who had taken her in were the owners of the Franklin Ice Cream Company, locally famous, but now defunct. (I don’t recall their surname; but I don’t think it was Franklin). They lived in a mansion just down the road a bit from the mansion of Cyrus Eaton, the Cleveland billionaire who founded the Eaton Corporation. Actually, they didn’t live in a mansion, it was only a much larger house than anyone I had ever met lived in. They invited me to Christmas dinner with them and Robin.

It was a pretty formal affair – which finally gave me an occasion to put to use the etiquette that Robin had tutored me in. The meal was outstanding. The conversation was stiff, sparse, and very correct. It wasn’t that we didn’t like each other; it was just that the cultural gulf separating them, Robin, and myself was so very large. As I left, I got a brief goodbye kiss from Robin, which was the total extent of our physical contact for the previous month and a half. I consoled myself with the thought that the holiday vacation would soon be over, and that we would have time together again when we returned to school.

Wrong.

The old folks, together with Robin’s sister, had decided that Robin needed a more structured environment. They had enrolled her in Andrew’s School for Girls – a combination high school/finishing school that catered to the proper young ladies of Cleveland upper crust. It was located some 50 to 60 miles northeast of Cleveland, and me. If the distance wasn’t bad enough the rules were: No visitors, except on Sunday – only for a few hours, and only when the “guest” had been cleared with the dormitory’s House Mother. The dormitories were grand old houses, and the House Mothers looked as though they came with the house when it was converted to dormitory. They were polite, and about as flexible
as your standard drill-sergeant. Of course we wrote letters to each other, and talked on the phone (2 calls per week), but I was beginning to despair. Nevertheless, I thought, summer vacation would eventually come. Surely Robin’s mom would be back
to normal by then, Robin would return to live with her over the summer, and our fractured romance would be back to normal, too.

Wrong again.

Robin’s mom did return, but Robin didn’t. Her sister had arranged that Robin would be spending the summer with her – in Chicago. The result was a lot more letters, and considerably fewer phone calls – due to the expense of long-distance dialing. Nevertheless, we didn’t give up. We weren’t about to let a few hundred miles and an over-protective sister thwart our passion.
We exchanged letters several times per week, long, hot letters that did as much as possible to compensate for the chastity we were forced to endure.

In retrospect I can recognize that toward the end of that summer Robin’s responses to my letters were focusing a lot less on us, and a lot more on all the fascinating things she was doing in Chicago. Her sister seemed to live in a world of endless grand parties, art festivals, and concerts. I wrote off her enthusiasm for these things as compensation for our forced separation. That seems remarkably short-sighted to me now, but in my overheated condition it was very easy to delude myself. Moreover, Robin wrote to tell me that she would be returning to stay for the last few weeks of summer with her Mom. She said that she would be home on such-and-such a day, and that she could hardly wait to see me.

Oddly enough, I had gotten to know Robin’s mom, Edith, pretty well over the course of that summer. Since I couldn’t see Robin, I visited with her mother. We had many fascinating talks. Edith had a lively mind, and many interests. She had a small record collection of mostly early jazz & blues music. (My first exposure to Jelly-Roll Morton was through Edith). And she subscribed to several magazines like the New Yorker that gave me an introduction to a sophistication of letters that I had not known of before. We were good company for each other. Actually I had better conversations with Edith than I did with Robin. I also made myself useful by doing small home repair jobs for her, generally being as helpful as
I could be. I should say, too, that in all the time I was with her, she never appeared to be the slightest bit crazy. All-in- all Edith and
I had a quite pleasant time together, although we both missed Robin very, very much. I think we were equally relieved to know that she would soon be home.

Finally the great day arrived.

Robin met me at the door with a kiss on the cheek. Then she turned to introduce me to a friend that she had brought with her from Chicago – a male friend.

At that point I had something like an out-of-body experience.

My audio-reception went completely out of whack. I could see that people were talking, me included, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I seemed to be looking down on the event from somewhere near the ceiling, and all I could feel was a suffocating swirl of pain, rage, and horror. It was over.

I muttered some kind of excuse to leave... I had forgotten something at home... I had some kind of errand... something, anything. I think I said that I would be right back. But I didn’t come back – not then, not ever.

Instead I went slowly home, trying to recover my senses. Once there, I went straight to my room and gathered up all the letters, photos, and every other scrap of anything that reminded me of Robin. I dumped the lot of them into a brown paper grocery bag. I put the bag in my car and drove down to the forest behind the John Muir School. I walked a few hundred feet into the trees, scooped out a shallow hole, loaded it with dead leaves & wood, capped it all off with the paper bag, and set the whole sorry pile ablaze.

I watched it burn until there was nothing left but a smoldering black hole – just like the hole in my chest, where my heart used to be.

The poets tell us that Cupid’s arrow pierces the heart. It felt more like a hand-grenade to me. I was sure I would never love anyone again.

Of course, time proved me wrong – but not soon.



—————




C ‘ E S T D O M A G E / T H E L E T T E R S

Epilogue:  32 years later, I got a letter from Robin. She wanted to know if I was the same Ken Shipley she remembered.

I answered her letter.

She answered my letter.

She had a lot to say about the various twists and turns her life had taken; she asked questions about how my life had gone since last we met; and she also told me about her recent divorce. I shared her letter with Joyce and Mandala. I thought they might be interested in the tale Robin had to tell. And, besides that, letters from old girlfriends should always be viewed in the sunshine of complete disclosure.

They both remarked upon the divorce portion of the story, agreeing that the most likely reason for this long-delayed resurgence of interest was that Robin was casting about for a new husband. That seemed a little cynical to me. I said, “Oh no, I don’t think that’s it at all – not after all this time. She’s probably just curious, or maybe she’s looking for a pen-pal. So I wrote to her once more.

I never got a reply. I guess Joyce and Mandala were right.

Women know about such things.

All correspondence follows.


C ’  E S T   D O M M A G E - 
T H E L A T E R L E T T E R
F R O M R O B I N

October 19, 1993

Well, it’s been 32 years since I’ve seen you, and wondered many times how your life unfolded for you. If you’re Kenneth LeRoy Shipley, the artist and iconoclast, you’ll probably remember the name Robin Adair.
Hope life has been good to you. Would love to hear from you.

Robin

  PS. If I’ve got the wrong Kenneth Shipley, please advise. Thanks.

 

 

My Response

October 30, 1993

Dear Robin,

You think I’ll “probably remember”? That’s much too modest.
In any case – I, also, have wondered about you. A lot can happen in 32 years.
I’ve enclosed some photocopies and my resume as a quick (and lazy) way of giving you a rough idea of how life has unfolded for me. Now it’s your turn.
Please write – more than I have – and send photocopies, if you can.

Ken

P.S. I assume you found my name in a mailing list for your business? or is it a charity since – “Proceeds to benefit animals”.

 

 

Robin’s reply

New Year’s Day

Dear Kenney,

If you think we have not been “cosmically connected”, dig this:
We both got married in 1962. Both marriages lasted for only two years. We each had only one child born from that union. Each of our kids has only three letters in their name... Ian and Eve. We both separated the same year, and lived with someone for seven years. We both married for the second time the same year. My daughter’s favorite horse has always been Arabians. You have a dog named Bob. I have a dog named Bud. We both ended up in the design field.
You not surprisingly - me – surprisingly.
It was such a comfort to me to learn that life has been good to you and that you still have all your fingers and toes and are alive and well and living in Cleveland! Of course your son would be a rock and roller, and of course you would be married to a beautiful poetess. It seems like Central Casting does real life as well as movies.
My life has been tumultuous, a roller coaster ride of extremes, but it has never been boring. Following is a fast-forward partial: Waitress, Civil Rights Activist, Anti-War Activist, Folk-Singer (opened for such notables as: Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, Sonny and Cher, Spanky and Our Gang, Friend and Lover, Steve Goodman, John Prine) Legal Secretary, Boutique Salesperson (which is how I ended up in Retail where I still am) Gas Light Girl, Playboy Bunny, Wife, Mommy, Student, Entrepreneur, Wildlife Advocate, Jewelry Designer, Gemologist, and restorer of many old homes along the way.
My second marriage regrettably ended four years ago, and since then, I seem to be on a never-ending soul search for the how’s what’s where’s who’s and why’s. It and the many tangled consequences of my life (my ex was my business partner as well as my husband and the entire sun in my solar system) have had me in a gripping downward tailspin the last few years that I can’t seem to pull out of. I seem to be making so little headway considering how hard I’ve been working at it, that too, is discouraging.
I moved from New Jersey about 18 months ago as I couldn’t bear being in the same 4 walls of business and farmhouse we had shared, not to mention the constant reminders when customers would come in and ask on a daily basis, “is your husband here?” Not having to replay that every day was worth the hell of re-location and my new surroundings have given me some new cause for optimism. Also, you get such a bigger bang for your real-estate buck in Tennessee compared to what it can buy in New England, that I’ve kept my standard of living (at least from an acreage standpoint) relatively intact. Now if I could only figure out which carton, I left my mind in.....
I live on a beautiful 110 acre farm in the rolling green hills of middle Tennessee. I can’t see any houses from my vantage point on the hill, in a charming new house that looks like it’s very old and settled as it’s nestled in amongst mature trees. I just love it, but it doesn’t afford me any opportunity to meet anyone as possibly 2 pickup trucks drive by a day. One with a 14 year old, the other with a married 80 year old! When I mentioned that to my brother, he said “go for the 14 year old!”
I have established a new business in Nashville in the Vanderbilt University area of town on a street with the “hot, happening” restaurants where all the groovies go to see and be seen. In this venture, I’ve incorporated antiques, art, gifts and jewelry. In the last venture (photos enclosed) it was just jewelry. I’m kind of stuck in jewelry as I have so much product knowledge, inventory and experience, but am hoping to branch out into the other areas, as they are more of a love for me. I don’t have any good photos of the store yet, but when I do, will pass them on. Just opened in August.
The recent upheaval of my life has caused all of this introspection and with that came thoughts of: “I wonder what my life would have been like if I had married Kenney”? I remember as though it were yesterday my sister insisting that I was much too young to be thinking about marriage to anybody at 17 and insisted that I come to Chicago. There we had a falling out over the man I married at 18 instead! I can’t help but wonder how different the path might have been had I said yes. It’s something that haunts me as I reflect that the biggest regret of my life has been not being able to have stayed with the father of my only child and had the benefit of sharing her growing up with the one who should have loved her the most. Then, the next dimension, Grandparenting – again without the most significant counterpart. It must be a truly wonderful phenomenon to have that kind of a double, original support system for your family.
I wonder how many these days will ever attain it. For instance, your parents fall into this category of good fortune (and hard work). The last time I saw your Mom, I believe she was expecting a child that more appropriately could have been your child instead of your sibling. What happened? You would have been 18 or 19 years apart? Are your parents living? And your little brother, Ricky?
My mother tragically, has been in and out of the California Mental Health System lo these many 32 years, and is currently in a board and care home for geriatric/ psychiatric patients. She was never able to conquer her manic/depression (nor does it seem receive any lasting help with it from the mental health professionals). Her life has been that of a piece of driftwood tossed about by the tide of her emotional sea. She was thrilled to hear that we’ve been in touch and recanted her fondness for you and the many nice things you did for her while I was at Andrews. There were many thank you’s for everything from helping with the storm windows to excellent company and memorable conversations while I was away in school. She sends her love and fondest memories to you.
Hope you are just as thrilled with your walk down memory lane as I was with mine. I never attended any school reunions or saw anyone ever from my past, so it was an especially un-charted emotion for me. Would love to see you and meet your lovely wife and Ian.

  …Julian Bream, Modigliani, Jasmine Tea, Jack Kerouac...

  Robin

  

 

         My reply to Robin

January 25, 1994

  Dear Robin,

  Thanks for your letter, and the photos. I enjoyed both. Your house is lovely, as is your daughter.
You say your life has been tumultuous. Mine, too. But I suppose that’s the norm, rather than the exception for many of our generation. All-in-all, those of us with, “fingers and toes”, intact must count ourselves blessed. And, in your case, the solace that 110 acres of Tennessee can provide is not nothing. We have only 3/4 of an acre, but it is heavily wooded. For most of the year, the surrounding homes are hidden by the foliage – for which I’m grateful.
How did you decide on Nashville for your re-location? Tennessee is
a beautiful state, but New Jersey to Nashville is hardly an obvious move.
When you send photos of your new store, please include some pictures
of your jewelry designs, as well.
You’ve attended no reunions and neither have I. Although, a lot of past acquaintances have been popping up lately. It must be something in the air.
I’m sorry your marriage ended badly. I understand your confusion and discouragement. That kind of void doesn’t close quickly, but, it will. Even bad times can’t last forever. Of course, that’s cold comfort to you now. Joyce and I have had our problems, also, (mostly my fault), but we’re still together. I have a firm conviction that God intended it so. It often seems to me that Joyce is an angel on earth-duty, specifically sent just to save my otherwise worthless soul.
Truly my better half, maybe my better two-thirds. I hope the future holds someone like her in store for you.
I’m sorry too, to hear of your mom’s problems. Please tell her I recall our conversations as fondly as she does – particularly, the one in which she explained the origin of Jelly-Roll Morton’s colorful nick-name. I hope that memory will bring her a smile.
My parents are gone. My father died, of cancer, April 1990. My mother died, of stroke, February 1992. It was very hard for me, and for my brother and sister as well. It still is. I was able to spend a lot of time with them during their last years. I’m grateful for that. I got to know them in a way that many children wait too long to attempt. It wasn’t wisdom on my part, I was just lucky.
My sister, Rhonda, is the unborn child you remember. Now grown, and married, to Neil Smith, and living in Atlanta. My niece, Chelsea (you saw her in the photo I sent) is her daughter. My brother, Rick, is also married. His wife, Minnitte, is a high-school art teacher. They live in Houston. Rick is a polymer scientist. Rhonda works in advertising. I’m a little vague about what Rhonda’s husband does – sales, or something like that, of Formica partitions.
Ian is also married, to Stephanie. Unlikely as it may seem, she is a security/detective cop, at Randall Mall. No grandchildren as yet, but I do encourage them.          
I neglected to mention in my first letter that Joyce has a daughter, Mandala, by her first marriage. Mandala is 20. She’s now in collage at Kent and has been working summers at Sea World. She’s loves water & whales and will probably make a career around them. Mandala has a gift for art and music that she’s not doing much with now, but someday it may lead her in another direction.
I was surprised to learn of your folk-singing. Apparently, I took up guitar and singing about the same time you did. First folk, then blues, then rock n’ roll, then country and now classical. More listening than playing for the latter.
Ian grew up amidst music and guitars, so his interest in being a rocker started early.
Send me a tape of you singing and playing and I’ll add a second guitar part, with maybe, an additional vocal as well. I have an old 4-track Port-a-Studio so if you have access to one, or comparable equipment you could record on it and leave a track, or two, open. If not, just send a regular cassette. I can convert it.
What a coda you ended your letter with. An incantation? Prose-Jazz? In any case, it was evocative. I added a few riffs to it.

Modigliani, Julian Bream, Jasmine Tea & Jack Kerouac

  Words to conjure time, memory – dreaming,
When the world was new and anything seemed possible,
The Modigliani girl, luminous nymph & gypsy ingenue,
Broke the heart of a dharma bum,
While Mr. Bream poured liquid sound –
Pavane pour une Infante Défunte,
Into the last of the jasmine tea.

As someone I know used to say, “c’est dommage”.

  Write to me again. Send photos and a tape. The world may no longer be new, but, I’m sure it’s still full of surprises.

  Until then,

  Ken

(There was no response until 20 years later)


 

Robin’s next letter – 20 years later

  Sept. 24, 2014

Dear Kenney,

Am coming to Willoughby for my 50th class reunion at the Andrews School. Would love to see you and meet your family. Don’t have a computer
or any gadgets, just a cell phone 615-873-3100 Get in Friday 9-26 and leave
on Sunday.
Have one daughter, Eve, who married Dick Clark’s son, yes, that Dick Clark. They have a 9 year old daughter, Sophia, my only grandchild.         
Eve is 50 and a TV director (famous) I have recently retired from this business I started in Nashville, and was here for 25 years. I am now 69. My sister from Chicago is doing great at 90 and my Mom, Edith, lived to be 94.
Hope you can meet me, I am staying at a Hotel Six in Willoughby with some of my classmates. I have not seen anyone since 1963 when I left or kept in touch with anyone. It will be a real shocker, I’m sure to meet them all again.

Much Love and fond memories,

Robin Adair

        (Robin came to my house for a visit of about four hours).  

 

        After Robin’s visit of 2014: I wrote a short note, saying It was good to see her again.

This was her reply to my note.

Dearest Kenney,

  Good to see me? After 51 years, your first love, good to see me. Not flabbergasted? I was thrilled to see you again. I felt like I had a chance to re-live my youth, especially when reading your exquisite reminiscence C’est Dommage. It is obvious that you and Hemingway share a birthday with your innate ability to express volumes using such economy of verse. I feel John Prine has that quality. Able to be profound with such simple language. I opened for him in Chicago when he was still a mailman – 100 years ago. He came to the gig in his postal uniform and changed there. Wow, did his star rise.
Your whole countenance is colored by your sadness over your loss of Joyce. I love the foto of the 2 of you with your hand resting on her hip. You seem to be breathing her in, and look like you are about to devour her with a dessert spoon. You say you are not depressed.
I think you are dying of a broken heart. How commendable you two were in love all those years. It speaks volumes about your mutual character, maturity and love. I wish I could say the same.
You seemed to revive the longer I was there. I think you are lonesome for company and companionship. Your eyes began to twinkle more as the afternoon wore on. Could have stayed and sung for hours, but alas, the plane. How interesting we both ended up playing guitar. I’m surprised You don’t recall my piano playing in the basement on Montauk Ave. Danny Boy and Tenderly were special favorites of my Mom’s.
Wish you would come and visit me in Nashville. I have a 4 BR 4-bath house walking distance to Vanderbilt, Belmont (Nashville’s Julliard) and Music Row. I have 6 cats and a black Lab, Beau, the love of my life. There is so much music in “Music City” it would amaze you. I’m enclosing some CD’s by my friends, all Nashville locals. Enjoy them and return them in person!!!
If you insist on being an agoraphobic, please organize that huge trunk of fotos for your family while you can still remember details. That is my project for this my first winter in my new 90 year old house. I have a lifetime of fotos in shoe boxes that I have never had time to organize as I was ALWAYS working. Now everyone is gone and there is no one to ask to help in identifying.
I still see you playing guitar and hear your foot keeping time. There are birds and chipmunks in the audience and the star of the show is the red squirrel. First time I ever saw one. How beautiful and truly RED.

Much love,

  Robin

PS. I would so appreciate your getting me a REAL GOOD COPY of you kneeling next to your MG and the one of you with the cigarette hanging out of your lip under a pile of wood on a roof. From a foto shop, not a Xerox.
I know I have some of you in ‘62-63 but it will take me a long time to get my hands on them. I’m a big gardener and have much to do before I lose the weather. When I do, however I will be slogging through years of memories.
Thanks for sending me the copies – much more promptly than I’m getting this to you.
Sorry for the typos, I’m quite rusty after all these years away from the typewriter, the guitar and the piano.

Fin;  No further correspondence.


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