LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
The crying wasn’t over, but many of the tears were for the wonderful times we’d had with Winston. Not tears of joy, certainly, but tears from joy at least. The toasts and the testimonials were good, plentiful, and heartfelt. And there was something I noticed as I listened and raised my glass. Winston led a hard-working life, with 23 books and a career as a reporter for the old Washington Star before that. But none of the stories being told were about Winston’s thousands of hours hunched over a typewriter sipping cold coffee and shrouded in stale cigarette smoke. The stories were all about fun that was had – rugby matches, sails on the Chesapeake, quail hunts, staying up late and telling tall tales. The stories were all about playing hooky. “F**k it all,” I said, “How about you?” Her reply was less Anglo-Saxon and more printable but in concurrence on the key points. And it was playing hooky with Winston that I missed most, too. I missed when we’d go AWOL up to my place in New England to shoot ducks, or fly the coop out to Winston’s beach shack in the Hamptons before the place was overrun by Bezosillionaires, or take French leave at Elaine’s literary watering trough in New York where, when 4 a.m. closing time came, Elaine would pull the window shades and serve the drinks herself. Winston and I would emerge into the bright
of day, a bit “over-refreshed” perhaps, but knowing – even back then... It’s fine to leave behind a body of good work, but it’s the good fun they’ll be talking about over your body. My wife and I drove down to Maryland. The weather was splendid. (The weather in New England this summer and fall has been another word that begins with “s.”) The day after the memorial service, my wife found an Airbnb on the water. She said, “Do you have anything you absolutely have to do for the next week or so?” “F**k it all,” I said, “How about you?” Her reply was less Anglo-Saxon and more printable but in concurrence on the key points. For the first time in almost a quarter century, the kids didn’t need to be driven anywhere... picked up anywhere else... or otherwise provided with immediate parenting. Our middle daughter was off on her college semester abroad. Our adult (technically) daughter was home between changing jobs and therefore (theoretically) capable of supervising our remaining household high schooler and (for sure) bullying him into feeding the dogs and the chickens and taking out the garbage. She also made sure to keep him from getting into the gin bottle and refilling it to its original level with tap water. (Not that he’d ever do anything of the sort... That was my trick when I was 17. My parents didn’t drink gin, but they kept a bottle of Beefeater for guests, many of whom must have gone home saying, “Worst martini I’ve ever had!”)
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October 2021
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