Don Whitwell, Gary Whitwell, Red Robertson, Donald Robertson, c. 1940, Oysterville

Memi wrote yesterday that her cousin Gary Whitwell is in hospice.  The news triggered a jumble of thoughts — all rather self-centered, I fear.  Gary lived here in Oysterville during the years I was a summer kid.  I think he was a bit older than I and, for that reason, as well as the fact that he was “a boy” and lived at the other end of town (I think), I don’t know if I remember him.  In the early 2000s he wrote a story  called “The Best Days of My Childhood” for the “Growing Up In Oysterville” issue of the Sou’wester I edited.  I had always hoped to thank him in person.

Memi’s news put me in mind of a line Willard wrote in the introduction to his Oysterville book: December was the month when the old folks generally died.  He was 66 when the book was published in 1976; I was 40.   I certainly didn’t consider either of us old, yet that one sentence has stuck with me all these years.  This is the first time, though, that it has resonated so loudly.  We’ve lost four friends/relatives this year — all men in their 70s and 80s save one, and three of the four in December.  Only one, I might add, died due to Covid.

To put it all in perspective, I read Willard’s comments on the other seasons.  I excerpt something from each month here:

Oysterville by Willard Espy

In January, tens of thousands of brant, a seaweed-eating goose, lined the edge of the tide…
In February, herring swarmed over Leadbetter Bar from the ocean in such quantities that they must have raised the level of the bay…
By March, lovesick frogs were calling in the marshes, and tadpoles in stagnant ponds were dreaming of the high-jump records they would break once their hind legs had grown out.
In April, leaves replaced the pussy willows, and a green haze blurred the silhouettes of the alder trees.
In May, lilacs, azaleas, hydrangeas, and rhododendrons caught fire in the rain…
In June, when the salmon berries ripened to a watery yellow, we sometimes saw hints of sun.
The following month, a northwest wind would come in the afternoon to spin the vanes of the windmill standing beside our house…
August was a time of dahlias, marigolds, and chrysanthemums.
In September, the Virginia creeper that blotted out the chimney of the Wirt house across the lane became a scarlet cascade.
In October, the villagers harvested the cranberries on hands and knees…
In November, ducks and geese cried in the flyways, marshes, and lakes.
December…

I’m looking forward to January.  Nowadays, there aren’t so many brant, but I still connect them with a bit more light morning and night and a bit more hope on the horizon.