Ben’s daughter my grandmother in her own nineties still called him Papa (“puppuh”). Kate would change nothing in the house—she would not add a new register to heat an upstairs bedroom, or cut a new door for convenience, or block off an old useless one—because the house remained her father’s place; it would stay the way it had suited him. In the early 1980s, five years after Kate’s death, when Jane and I added a room and made other structural changes, an annoyed ghost closed doors on us locking us out of the house. Was it her father? Was it Kate’s outraged spirit defending her father’s house?

My grandfather loved Ben, as his stories made clear, whether or not Ben was a difficult boss. It was Wesley’s temperament not to complain—as it was his temperament to show affection. The reader must feel skeptical, like my friend who asks me, “Wasn’t there anything wrong with him? Was he perfect?” Doubtless, I think yes, he was perfect. But also I think: Is it blameless never to blame? Maybe I should complain that he never complained; maybe he was accepting to the point of passivity. My grandmother and he played a continual game, like the games all married people play who endure and celebrate decades; the game supports my grudging notion about his imperfection. As they hugged and mumbled together, her tone was always mildly aggrieved while his was always penitent, always promising to do better. (Kate’s grievance might be Wesley’s failure to wear his cap on a cool dewy morning.) In the economy of their affection, he was always the suitor, she always the reluctant pursued. Possibly Wesley tolerated Ben’s bossiness because Wesley enjoyed being bossed.

When Ben died, the small mixed farms of the valley still prospered; but soon the agricultural depression set in—a decade before the crash. By 1918 the little farms of New Hampshire—assembling their livings from cattle, sheep, poultry, sugar, and timber—were done for; by now they are gone. My grandfather kept his enterprise going until 1950; so did many other old men, farming the old way, often alone, in a twilight of the farm culture north of Boston.

In the winter Wesley chopped cordwood on the mountain.

In two or three weeks, I hope to pick up my story again. Today is 30 April 1992, 5:30 A.M., and I must telephone the hospital at 8:30 to learn my time of admission. This afternoon they will dye, photograph, and angio-invade my liver in preparation for tomorrow’s lobectomy. May Day. M’aidez. In the past week I’ve done little on Life Work because I’ve been working so much. I’ve made late discriminations for The Museum of Clear Ideas; and—what I didn’t know I would do—I’ve cobbled together the manuscript of a further putative collection to take to the hospital with me, to scribble at, tonight and tomorrow morning—a collection complete with notes for Jane about editing for posthumous publication.

And there’ve been one or two other things: answering mail with drastic postcards, answering the damned telephone to calm down my friends, conspiring about the NEA meeting that begins today … and visiting Abigail Smith. Last night we brought supper to Philippa and Jerry after she came home from the hospital with Abigail. We congratulated Abigail’s three-year-old sister Allison dressed in pink.