Blog #10 What a Profile!

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is doing a profile on my great-great-grandfather, Edward Anders Lysaght Griffin, and they want to use some of his unpublished work.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 me
I 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 best
That 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”