Death and the Jester
February 2007
Evening: Steve just walked in
with the mail. I’m in the kitchen trying
to get dinner ready so I can escape for an evening out with my
girlfriends. He’s carrying a yellow
manila envelope; the book he bought on eBay.
South Dakota
Magazine is doing a profile on my
great-great-grandfather, Edward Anders Lysaght Griffin, and they want to use
some of his unpublished work. My
grandmother, who holds the copyright on his published writing, asked Steve to
research the copyright issues. During his search he came across a rare copy of Rhymes
of a Rancher, written and illustrated by E.A.L. Griffin, published 1924.
It’s a slim volume. On the cover is a sketch of a cowboy sitting
against a tree, smoking a pipe and writing; his horse looking on. The book smells dusty and old. It looks like it’s never been opened, but the
description on eBay said it was signed by the author’s widow. Sure enough, on the inside cover in heavy
script it says “to Mattie Jennings from the author’s widow Georgiana Lysaght
Griffin.”
Steve thumbs through the book
while I continue chopping vegetables. He
makes me stop to look. There on the
blank pages in the back is a handwritten poem.
The script is ornate and difficult to decipher. There’s a title, “Death and the Jester” and a
date, February 9, 1937.
February 9, 1937
Morning: Edward, the boy who would become my
grandfather, was fourteen and living in Hot Springs, South Dakota with his
grandmother, Georgiana, and his grandfather, Ed. For generations the oldest son in the family was
always named Edward Anders Lysaght Griffin.
My grandfather would abandon the practice when his oldest son was born,
perhaps to avoid the confusion of so many family members with the same
name.
Ed, according to Georgiana’s
journal, was “called ‘Lysaght’ mostly as a child and as a young man. Here, in America, he was called ‘Ed’ by his
intimates, or ‘Griff’ and that name, ‘Ed’ is what (she) usually called
him.” He often signed his name
E.A.L. His grandchildren called him Daddam.
I imagine Edward sitting down to
breakfast with his grandparents that morning, just like any other day. It would have been cold. There would have been snow. It would be the last meal he would ever eat
with his Daddam. I wonder if there was
any hint of what would happen later that day.
February 2007
Morning: Last night, after I left for drinks with my
girlfriends, Steve scanned the handwritten poem and emailed it to my
grandmother, Barb. This morning I
hurried to get the kids out the door to school so I could look at the poem my
great-great-grandfather wrote and see if I can figure out what it says.
“When Old Man Death drops in to make a call
And leaving turns his head and beckons meI trust that I shall falter not at all,
But heed his summons unconcernedly.”
The script is challenging. The blue ink is still clear on the yellowing
pages, even after seventy years, but the handwriting loops and scrunches and
letters don unusual shapes.
“I fair would greet him with a cheery smile
(As ever I’ve been want to greet a guest)
Then bid him doff his cloak and stay a while
Before proceeding on his journey West.”
I’ve heard the story of my
great-great-grandfather’s death. As I work
to make sense of the text, I’m beginning to feel sick to my stomach.
“I’d show no sign of terror or dismay
Whereby his weak compassion I might earn
But with some pleasantry I’d start my way
Upon that trip from which there’s no return.”
The phone rings. It’s Barb.
Her voice sounds strange, high pitched, somewhere between crying and
laughing. “It’s dated the day he
died. Your grandfather always said he
left a note.”
The truth begins to sink in. It isn’t just a poem. It’s a suicide note.
“To flout his call would be of no avail,
Death grants no respite; it were therefore
bestThat men should say of me; he did not quail,
But made his exit with a parting jest.
----------
Written in morning and ….. that afternoon he passed away
Feb. 9 – 1937”
