September 13, 1987
Thirty-six years ago today
Nyel and I were married
At Croquet.
Gordon was my Bridesmaid,
Roy was Best Man.
Joel Penoyar did the honors
Much to Willard’s chagrin!
Wedding Picture by Kati Downer
It was a surprise to everyone
Except to my son Charlie
My mother had the vapors
Dad had another drink.
I gave Michelle my bouquet
And she took it to class for sharing,
Proceeds? To Water Music that year.
It was the best wedding ever!
Wedding Pillow from The Franks
Willard Espy, circa 1940
I ran across a fat folder of typewritten pages — some apparently in order, some definitely missing, and all with crossed out sentences and margin notes in my Uncle Willard’s handwriting. I believe that they are part of one (or more) drafts about his growing up years in Oysterville during the teens and twenties of the last century. His working title: “Past Perfect.”
I’ve read other versions and probably this one, too, and am always saddened that he never finished the book. More than that, I miss listening to him and my mother and their brother Ed, reminiscing around our library fire. I wish I could take my own readers back to the 1940s and ’50s with me so we could listen together. But for now, I’ll quote a few paragraphs from these old, delightful pages and hope you’ll catch some of the magic, too.
Mona at 7 or 8 — 1911
Because my sister Suzita is dead, it is significant to me that at eight she spat into pop’s boot, and was condignly spanked. Because my sister Mona is dead, it is part of me that at the age of three she slept with her hands over her ears “to keep the dreams out.” I like Suzita for wearying of her chores: “Please, God,” she prayed, “send me four legs and a wing.” I like her for empathizing with the Almighty, whose white robes she considered impractical; “Dear Santa,” she wrote, “please send God a pair of coveralls for Christmas.”
But how am I to find significance in the anecdotes shared by my brother Ed, my sister Dale, and myself, all still very much alive Ed, before he could walk, crawled daily to the pigpen, where he would press is face against the chicken wire and grunt. What communication am I to infer from that?
Edwin Espy, 1915
When the Espys took a steamer from Astoria to San Francisco in 1915 to attend the World’s Fair, Ed, then six, watched the exciting bustle on the lower deck, and asked wistfully, “Can’t we pay extra and go steerage?”…
There must be a moral, too, in the absoluteness of Ed’s childhood honesty. Sent to count the cows, he returned with a total of twenty-four and a half. “Why not twenty-five?” asked pop. “Daisy was behind a huckleberry bush,” replied Ed.
Dale, two years eleven months
Dale was a curly-haired, great-eyed, towhead whose hair grew darker as she approached adolescence. As the youngest, and a girl at that, she was subject to sore trials. Her curls were ordinarily covered by a woolen cap and since all three of us wore overalls or coveralls except on dress-up occasions, there were times when her femininity did not instantly appear. When a visitor exclaimed, “Three fine little boys!” Dale objected: “I am not a little boy,” she said; “I am a little girl.”
In fact she was the only little girl in town, and none of the thirteen little boys would demean himself by playing with her in public. One of our principle diversions was to try to hide where Dale could not find us; in our effort to escape her we even created a private club room in the dead heart of an enormous gorse bush. But she always managed to hunt us down.
I wonder if present day five and six-year-olds will have as wonderful memories of these days fifty years hence.
Willard, Edwin, Dale in 1916
Willard and Louise c. 1980
Now why I ask you
Do won and won make too
And why I ask some more
Do too and too make for
And why I further state
Do for and for make ate?
Won too for ate they go
But why I do not know.
–Willard Espy
Downsizing in this household is endlessly fun! Today it was an envelope of “ditties” sent by Willard’s wife Louise when she, in her turn, was downsizing!
Omak Me Yours Tonight – 2nd Edition, 1993
As I read yet another interesting bit of misinformation about my family — this time on a FB posting — I wished I had a nickel for every incorrect piece of news, history, rumor or piece of hearsay that I’ve run across in print. It used to be that “in print” mostly meant in newspapers, magazines and other periodicals, or books by authors who were not fully informed. (The latter has included me as well as some of my writer-relatives and we usually categorize such errors under “shit happens'”)
Nevertheless… I have not yet learned to be totally philosophical about it. The latest piece of “new information” came to me this morning and concerned my redoubtable uncle Willard R. Espy and his 1973/1993 book Omak Me Yours Tonight or Ilwaco Million Miles for one of Your Smiles. The posting was full of praise for the epoch poem subtitled, A Ballard of Washington State, crediting it as the official Washington State poem. How I wish that were true and, even more, how I wish that had happened in Willard’s lifetime. He’d have loved it! .
Willard did approach a few of the movers and shakers he knew, among them Slade Gorton, as we were gearing up for Washington’s centennial celebration in 1989, pitching the idea of using Omak in some capacity at that time. There were no takers and I remember lamenting with him on th9e shortsightedness of the planners in leaving out that aspect of the arts. In my own opinion, the simple fact that a Native Son had written a poem about our state’s place names AND. that said, a poem about our indigenous people, should have made it a shoe-in. Besides which, the 24 whimsical illustrations by Roy McKie, are collectors’ items in their own right! (We have the originals, if you are interested.)
Omak Illustration #22 of #24 by Roy McKie
But, I don’t know that our state has ever been very heavily into the arts — or not the literate arts, at least. Even the position of Poet Laureate of Washington (unrelated to the possibility of a state poem) was not created by the Washington State Legislature until 2007, eight years after Willard’s death and is accompanied (some years) with a yearly honorarium (now) of $20,000. On the other hand, the position of Poet Laureate for the United States was first created in 1937 and the current yearly stipend is $35,000.
Well… there you have it! I wonder if I should collect some of these bits of misinformation and write a book about them. Maybe it’s not too late to correct the record. Though, once the errors are out there, can they ever be retracted? And does anyone really care?
Willard 1914
My Uncle Willard was thoughtful, kind, and unfailingly understanding. But he did not suffer fools gladly, no matter what Paul had to say in his letters to the Church at Corinth (The Holy Bible, King James Version: 2nd Corinthians 11:1-21). When a reporter at Newsweek erroneously located the Long Beach Peninsula (placing it on the Olympic Peninsula) in late November 1982, Willard wrote a “straightening out” letter. He received this response dated March 8, 1983:
Dear Mr. Espy:
Thank you for your response to “Glorious Food” (Nov. 29). We’re sorry that you found our “Olympic Peninsula, Wash.” subtitle for the section in this piece that mentioned the Ark and Shelburne restaurants misleading. While we were not unaware that the southernmost end of the Olympic Peninsula is called the Long Beach Peninsula, we decided to go with the broader geographical designation that can be applied to this area. We do appreciate the concern with accuracy, and the interest in Newsweek, however, that prompted you to write. We hope you will continue to follow our coverage.
Sincerely, Jannica Hurwitt for the Editors
Willard 1940
Willard’s response, written March 1983:
I have your kind response of March 8 to a letter I wrote last year about a factual error in your otherwise excellent November article “Glorious Food.” But I did not find the title in question “misleading.” It was simply wrong.
Even more appalling is your extraordinary statement that “we were not unaware that the southernmost end of the Olympic Peninsula is called the Long Beach peninsula.” If there is any authority in existence that says the entire west coast of the state of Washington is known as the Olympic peninsula, do cite it to me. The Long Beach peninsula is no more part of the Olympic peninsula than it is part of Baja California.
Willard 1981
To make a bad matter worse, you say you deliberately “decided to go with the broader geographical designation that can be applied (my underlining) to this area.” Of course it can be; you can apply the term “Olympic peninsula” to the moon. But on what authority? By stretching matters, you could justify calling the entire northwestern part of Washington, with Aberdeen at the southern extremity and Olympia at the southeastern, the Olympic peninsula, but that is the limit. The Long Beach peninsula, as you will see clearly from the enclosed map, is a discrete entity. To make a mistake is much more forgivable than to pretend it was no mistake, or at worst just a difference of opinion.
If you can cite an accepted authority that says the Long Beach peninsula is part of the Olympic peninsula, I’ll buy you lunch. And if you can’t, I think you should buy me one.
Sincerely, Willard R. Espy
I doubt very much if any lunch was forthcoming. I also doubt if there was an apology, but I could be wrong. The two letters quoted above are all that I have found regarding the matter.
2 Corinthians 11:1-21
WHO Award, 1978: Sydney M. LaRue
For years I’ve harbored a teeny tiny bit of jealousy for a number of disparate people — my mother, Isaac Asimov, Virginia Williams Jones, and every single one of Willard’s grandchildren among others. And the reason? My venerable uncle Willard (who we mostly called “Wede”), at one time or another, wrote a poem specifically for each of them. In my mother’s case — more than one. And although he always told me I was his favorite niece (never mind that I was his ONLY niece), he never wrote a poem for me.
Or so I’ve thought for a very long time. And then… in this cursed and blessed cleaning out project, I ran into this note from the man himself. Dated 2 May, 1978, it said:
Dear Sydney:
I understand that certain ceremonies in your honor have recently occurred Having tried, but failed to make myself part of them, I send you this wistful tribute:
Willard Espy, 1975
You try hard to reach her;
No matter, she’ll scorn ya —
The most famous teacher
In North California!
You beg, you beseech her;
She’ll widdle upon ya —
The most famous teacher
In North California!
Oh… and the “ceremonies” he mentions? I was awarded the 1978 WHO (We Honor our Own) Award by the California Teachers’ Association, Alcosta Service Center and Hayward Unified Teacher’s Association. I can’t be sure after all these these years exactly what it was for but I know it was NOT for widdling.
All I can say is, be careful what you wish for.
Willard’s four great-grandsons with their mom, Kathleen – 2004
I’ve been tidying up — polishing silver, directing Cinderella, and even doing a bit of dusting here and there — while Nyel has been planning menus and ordering last minute food items! Charlie is on his way up from Los Angeles and the Willard Espy cousins are headed our way from points east and north. The family (or at least a part of it) is gathering! I am beside myself with excitement.
Willard and Dale, August 1914
We haven’t seen Charlie since Christmas 2019. And, I suddenly realized, Willard’s grands and greats were here in January 2020, shortly after Charlie left. They just missed one another that time so it will be the first time that Willard’s grandson Alex and my son Charlie (2nd cousins) have ever met. Charlie and Alex’s sons — Max, Sam, Jack and Ben — did meet back in 2004 at Oysterville’s sesquicentennial, though it’s doubtful that any of them remember. However, Charlie will meet Max’s wife, Micah, and Alex’s young daughter, Maddie, for the first time Monday. Most of them will be staying here until a week from today. Missing due to a health problem will be Alex’s mother, Mona, Willard’s oldest (by six minutes?) daughter and my beloved first cousin. Damn!
Helen and Harry Espy on their 50th Wedding Anniversary, 1947
And oh how I wish Willard and my mother were here for this get-together. They would both be so pleased. And my grandparents, Harry Albert and Helen Richardson Espy — great-grandgrands to Charlie and Alex and great-greats to the rest! Oh my! If their ears could burn, I’m sure they would do so. I expect that we’ll be telling and re-telling all sorts of familty stories, some familiar to us all and some not so much.
I can hardly wait!
Cover Design by Mark Nero
The 12″x 12″x 5½” box arrived by priority mail day before yesterday. It was heavy — $21.90 worth of heavy — and mailed from Seattle by Marilyn Nero. Perhaps you remember her? She and her husband Mark Nero ran the Cranberry Press which had an Oysterville address but was physically located in the 1990s in Ocean Park — in the area where Anita’s Coastal Cafe has been in recent years.
The Cranberry Press was an elegant operation. They did small, specialty press runs and my uncle Willard had them publish his book Skulduggery on Shoalwater Bay (illustrated by Nancy Lloyd) in 1998, the year before he died. The book design and typography were by Mark, himself. His expertise in those areas are part of what made Cranberry Press special.
Original Cover Design on Printmaking Stone
Sometime in the early 2000’s, Mark and Marilyn moved — to Arizona, I think. Some years later, Mark wrote and asked if Nyel and I would like to purchase (at wholesale) the remaining copies of the book. Even though we no longer had the Bookvendor, we did buy the copies. Several years after that Mark sent a package of still more of the books– this time no charge. He said he was going out of business.
Last February (2020), I received another message concerning Skulduggery — this time from Marilyn Nero. She said that Mark had passed away several years previously and she was closing up the studio. Did I want “a collection of paperwork and original correspondence regarding the publication in 1998 of Willard Espy’s book, Skulduggery?” She said she’d send it when the weather warmed up and that she was moving to Seattle…
Detail from Original Skulduggery Cover Art
I am so grateful for Marilyn’s diligence in returning these materials to me. Willard’s original, typewritten manuscript, corrections and commentary on correspondece from both Louise and Willard, plus the cover design on lithographic limestone (I think) were included in the package. Plus a few more copies of the book.
I will be taking them up to the Washington Historical Society Research Center to be added to Willard’s section of the Espy Family Archive. Maybe when the weather warms up a bit…
“Do you still have all your own teeth?”
Dale Espy Little, “Mom,” and Her Million Dollar Smile, 1928
After a prolonged absence, it was the first question my mother and her brother Willard asked one another when they’d get together — especially as they aged. Willard died in 1999 at the venerable age of 88 and, as far as I know, his answer was still “yes.” Ditto for mom who was eleven months his junior. She lived until 2009 and, but for a fall in 2007 which knocked out a front tooth, she still could have answered “yes,” as well.
Willard “Uncle Wede” Espy, 1981
I thought about the two of them and their teeth questions the other night when I bit down on a lemon drop and broke a molar. It had been filled probably 60+ years ago, so I really can’t complain. It has lasted through a lot of chewing even though compromised all those years ago. It is also one of the teeth that the clasps of my lower partial cling to — more stress no doubt.
And it’s not the first tooth I’ve lost — starting with nine front ones in that 1961 auto accident when I broke my mouth on a steering wheel. Although I lament the teeth, an even greater lament is that I never had a brother or sister who would have cared. But I’m so glad Mom and Willard did. And who’duv thunk that teeth would become a point of pride between siblings as they entered their dotage?
Oysterville by Willard Espy
In an ordinary year, a hundred inches of rain fall on grandpa’s village; we have mutated until we breathe with comfort air that is half water, or water that is half air. I suspect that if the Peninsula were to sink beneath our feet, a mishap that in some downpours seems imminent, we could live submerged without serious inconvenience. So wrote my venerable uncle Willard Espy in his introduction to Oysterville: Roads to Grandpa’s Village.
Those words were written nearly fifty years ago, and I’m not so sure we still get that much rainfall in a “normal” year. But… this year is hardly normal in other respects and, for the last few days, the rain has come down steadily. We have taken to hunkering rather than sheltering. There’s probably a fine line there, but to me, hunkering implies hiding out and sheltering is more about staying safe.
A Good Place for Hunkering and Sheltering
Besides the sound of rain on the roof and water swooshing down the drainpipes, we hear only the wind. Periodically it rattles the roller door on the west side of the house and causes the rain to splat sideways against the windows. The world — at least the part we see from our place– has lost its color; everything is curtained in gray.
I believe that this is the what grieving looks like — my feelings in 3D. Sheltering against the pandemic and hunkering out of harm’s way — “the most we can do, the least we can do, all we can do” to quote Father Tom Williams. Oysterville during this extraordinary year seems just the right place to be.
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