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Authors: Christopher Buckley
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went to live in Mexico City, buying
and decorating a lovely house at San Angel Inn. Pat was radiant and hyperactive in maintaining the house and its little garden.
She resolutely failed to learn the language, even though, until the end, the staff was Spanish-speaking, but intercommunication
was electrically effective.
Her solicitude was such that she opposed any venture by me which she thought might adversely affect me. She opposed the founding
of
National Review
, my signing up with a lecture agency, my non-fiction books and then my fiction books, my contract to write a weekly column,
the projected winter in Switzerland, my decision to run for mayor of New York. Yet once these enterprises were undertaken,
she participated enthusiastically. It was she who located the exquisite house, every inch of which she decorated, that we
shared for 55 years. We had only one child, Christopher, of whom she was understandably proud. And it was she—all but uniquely
she—who brought here the legion of guests, of all ages, professions, and interests, whose company made up her lively life.
Her infirmities dated back to a skiing accident in 1965. She went through four hip replacements over the years. She went into
the hospital a fortnight ago, but there was no thought of any terminal problem. Yet following an infection, on the seventh
day, she died, in the arms of her son.
Friends from everywhere were quick to record their grief. One of them * was especially expressive. “Allow a mere acquaintance of your wife to sense the magnitude of your loss. As surely as she
physically towered over her surroundings, she must have mentally, spiritually, and luminously surpassed ordinary mortals.
She certainly was in every sense of the term une grande dame, a distinction she wore as lightly as a T-shirt—not that one
can imagine her in anything so plebeian. The only consolation one may offer is that the greatness of a loss is the measure
of its antecedent gain. And perhaps also that Pat’s memory will be second only to her presence. For as long as you live, people
will share with you happy reminiscences that, in their profusion, you may have forgotten or not even known.
“I am a confirmed nonbeliever, but for once I would like to be mistaken, and hope that, for you, this is not good-bye, but
hasta luego.”
No alternative thought would make continuing in life, for me, tolerable.
—WFB
CHAPTER 7
You Need to Get Here as Quickly as You Can
B y the end of May, I was in ragged shape. Mum’s death had come after long months of her final illness, which takes a toll on
those attending the sick-bed. She died as I was two weeks into a busy book launch tour that itself had come on the heels of
a busy lecture tour. I had my day job as editor of
ForbesLife
magazine in New York and had begun work on a new novel. Meanwhile Pup, his health increasingly fragile, required more of
my attention. At such times, the only child begins to yearn for an older sister to whom he can say,
I’m outta here.
You
deal with it.
Whatever. I was tired, terribly out of shape physically and emotionally, so I went off by myself to Zermatt, Switzerland,
for a week of hiking, sensible eating, book work, and general resetting of the old circuit breakers. I took along a promising
new book by Alexander Waugh, grandson of Evelyn and son of Auberon, called
Fathers and Sons.
In the mornings I worked on my novel in bed while looking out the window at the Matterhorn, quite the most amazing vista
in the world; afternoons I hauled my adipose carcass up and down various mountainsides, then swam in the hotel pool, took
a steam, had a cocktail in my room as I did e-mail, ate an early scrumptious Swiss dinner, got into bed with Mr. Waugh’s superb
book about being the grandson and son of famous writers, and was asleep by nine to the sound of the river rushing past outside.
Just what the doctor ordered.
Upon arriving at the little hotel the
and decorating a lovely house at San Angel Inn. Pat was radiant and hyperactive in maintaining the house and its little garden.
She resolutely failed to learn the language, even though, until the end, the staff was Spanish-speaking, but intercommunication
was electrically effective.
Her solicitude was such that she opposed any venture by me which she thought might adversely affect me. She opposed the founding
of
National Review
, my signing up with a lecture agency, my non-fiction books and then my fiction books, my contract to write a weekly column,
the projected winter in Switzerland, my decision to run for mayor of New York. Yet once these enterprises were undertaken,
she participated enthusiastically. It was she who located the exquisite house, every inch of which she decorated, that we
shared for 55 years. We had only one child, Christopher, of whom she was understandably proud. And it was she—all but uniquely
she—who brought here the legion of guests, of all ages, professions, and interests, whose company made up her lively life.
Her infirmities dated back to a skiing accident in 1965. She went through four hip replacements over the years. She went into
the hospital a fortnight ago, but there was no thought of any terminal problem. Yet following an infection, on the seventh
day, she died, in the arms of her son.
Friends from everywhere were quick to record their grief. One of them * was especially expressive. “Allow a mere acquaintance of your wife to sense the magnitude of your loss. As surely as she
physically towered over her surroundings, she must have mentally, spiritually, and luminously surpassed ordinary mortals.
She certainly was in every sense of the term une grande dame, a distinction she wore as lightly as a T-shirt—not that one
can imagine her in anything so plebeian. The only consolation one may offer is that the greatness of a loss is the measure
of its antecedent gain. And perhaps also that Pat’s memory will be second only to her presence. For as long as you live, people
will share with you happy reminiscences that, in their profusion, you may have forgotten or not even known.
“I am a confirmed nonbeliever, but for once I would like to be mistaken, and hope that, for you, this is not good-bye, but
hasta luego.”
No alternative thought would make continuing in life, for me, tolerable.
—WFB
CHAPTER 7
You Need to Get Here as Quickly as You Can
B y the end of May, I was in ragged shape. Mum’s death had come after long months of her final illness, which takes a toll on
those attending the sick-bed. She died as I was two weeks into a busy book launch tour that itself had come on the heels of
a busy lecture tour. I had my day job as editor of
ForbesLife
magazine in New York and had begun work on a new novel. Meanwhile Pup, his health increasingly fragile, required more of
my attention. At such times, the only child begins to yearn for an older sister to whom he can say,
I’m outta here.
You
deal with it.
Whatever. I was tired, terribly out of shape physically and emotionally, so I went off by myself to Zermatt, Switzerland,
for a week of hiking, sensible eating, book work, and general resetting of the old circuit breakers. I took along a promising
new book by Alexander Waugh, grandson of Evelyn and son of Auberon, called
Fathers and Sons.
In the mornings I worked on my novel in bed while looking out the window at the Matterhorn, quite the most amazing vista
in the world; afternoons I hauled my adipose carcass up and down various mountainsides, then swam in the hotel pool, took
a steam, had a cocktail in my room as I did e-mail, ate an early scrumptious Swiss dinner, got into bed with Mr. Waugh’s superb
book about being the grandson and son of famous writers, and was asleep by nine to the sound of the river rushing past outside.
Just what the doctor ordered.
Upon arriving at the little hotel the
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