The deaths of certain people tear holes in the fabric of my existence. One of them was the magnificent writer, Pat Conroy, who deserved the Nobel Prize for literature more than some who have received it. Another was the darling, bright-natured and talented musician Gerry Gray.
Salty-tongued old Granny opined, “Writers like that Hemingway fellow don’t know me or give a hoot in Hell about me as a person, but they’d better care about me as a reader, or I won’t like their books.” I mourn when great authors die because there will be no more books by them. As Granny once put it, they make our worlds match up. I feel that knew Pat Conroy’s mind more intimately than I do those of some of my acquaintances; and I cared about him.
The words of fine writers make music in my mind. Conroy wrote about Venice, a place that Bill and I also love. Here’s a lovely quote from Beach Music, one of my very favorite books:
“The city is a peacock tail unfurled in the Adriatic and the sheer infinity of its water-dazzled charms makes you long for a new secret language brimming with untried words that can be used only when describing Venice to strangers . . . “ Oh how I wish I could write as well as he! I think that he was the best American novelist of my lifetime.
The inscription above the great library at Alexandria, Egypt, said, “The place of the cure of the soul.” Beach Music and Conroy’s other novels such as The Great Santini depict his father who abused him, his siblings and their mother. C. J. Woods, a fine writer whose column appears in The Weekly View, also wrote a poignant column about Conroy in which he described his own childhood with an abusive father.
Conroy’s family moved constantly because of his father’s military service. The library was his refuge. I understand that. I had kind parents, but I was often bullied by schoolmates and found solace in books. My library card number was 1369. One day the Knightstown librarian said, “Rose Mary, I think that you’re mature enough to check out books from the adult side of the library.” Oh promised land!
Conroy read prodigiously — more than anyone of whom I’ve ever heard — and wrote a fascinating book called My Reading Life. He made me realize that in addition to my everyday life, I have a separate life through my reading. Indeed, I have experienced many lives, including Conroy’s existence when he writes about South Carolina, the loggerhead turtles that lay their eggs on its beaches and the ocean.
I wish I’d known Gerry Gray all of my life. She grew up in rural Indiana, became a member of the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir, and appeared many times at the Indiana State Fair. Gerry was a consummate performer and had a coterie of admirers who followed her wherever she performed. Finally her physician said that she could no longer perform in a building that had no air conditioning.
Gerry performed at the Benton House in Irvington for over thirty years. For several years, she appeared with other musicians for a Christmas concert. Eventually she had to give up performing except that one time. Fine musicians, Gerry and the men who performed with her provided the musical equivalent of comfort food composed of beloved Christmas carols during that evening when the beautiful Benton House was splendidly dressed up for Christmas.
I was in the hospital for ten days before last Christmas and had to miss the musicale at the Benton House. Gerry was heartbroken she wasn’t able to join the fellows. I called her up and said, “Could we have our own little concert?” She sang one of our favorites “The Lord of the Dance.” I treasure that poignant memory which is the last time I heard her beloved voice. wclarke@comcast.net
