A little something from Edie Clark
April 14, 2014It's been a while. I've been traveling, doing readings from my book, falling behind in maintaining my website. But enjoying the process of meeting those interested in the hidden parts of WWII, not the battles of the war but the human part, the part about coming home and what happens after the war is over. All this I learned from my parents' letters and a good deal of research on my part. I'm home for a while now, and hope to be more regular with the newsletters from the website. Here's the essay for this issue of Yankee magazine. I hope you like it.
The View from Mary’s Farm for MarchApril 2014
Even when Mayday came limping toward her end last fall, Harriet gave me a clue to her deep connection to her friend. As Mayday prepared to leave us, I found Harriet sitting beside Mayday’s bed, day after day, as if sitting vigil. Could she know? At last, when we returned from that final visit to the vet’s, Harriet went directly to Mayday’s bed and not only settled into it, she draped her whole body lengthwise across it. Though she looked uncomfortable, her head hanging over the edge of the bed, she didn’t move for days. I kept rejecting that this could be anything but fatigue or coincidence. Surely in our dogs, we have all seen expressions of love, anger, sadness, guilt, shame, happiness, the whole range. Why not grief? Just because they do not shed tears does not mean dogs do not experience the same depth of emotion after loss that we do.
Mayday and Harriet did not start out best buddies – Mayday reacted to the new puppy like an angry python, lashing out, lunging and snapping at the tiny Harriet. In fact, Mayday was so upset, she rejected me as well, deciding to sleep on the couch rather than her customary place beside me on the bed. If I walked into a room, she would get up and walk out, ears back, nose ever so slightly raised. This discord continued for at least six months but Harriet persisted. She wanted a friend. She needed a mother. Where Mayday went, little Harriet followed, whether room to room or field to field. Gradually, Mayday softened. Once Harriet was grown, they were about the same size, Mayday gray with a cropped tail and ears tall like a donkey’s and Harriet black with brindle face and legs, soft ears folded down, black tail wagging. They walked the land together, nosing the grasses and exploring the edges of the pond. They rolled in play, pretending to fight, snarling fiercely but using blunt teeth. At rest, they shared the top of the couch, a double blind which allowed them to keep watch on the field, yet survey activities inside the house as well. They ate peaceably side by side, never straying to the other’s dish. The backseat of the car became another refuge, Mayday vigilant, warding off approaching dogs, Harriet, resting against the back of her seat like a little Buddha, content to let Mayday protect us.
Gradually, Harriet returned to life as she had never known it, a life without Mayday who was her mother, her sister, her best friend, her teacher, her protector. At first, nothing I did seemed to console her. It’s not that the loss disappears. More that each day brings new experiences. Friend Debbie brought her dogs to play with Harriet and the distraction seemed to work. Still.
One day, a couple of months after Mayday passed away, I pulled into the post office. In the car parked next to us, a mini-schnauzer that looked very much like Mayday sat calmly in the passenger seat. Harriet saw the dog at the same time. She leapt up, cried out, and pawed the window. “It’s Mayday! It’s Mayday!” she seemed to be saying. But just as quickly, she realized it was not Mayday and she turned from the window, slumped back against the seat, and dropped her head in what looked like true despair, stung by the allure of mistaken identity. She remembers Mayday just as we remember our lost friends. No substitute or look-alike will do. But, even now, when I talk about Mayday to others, Harriet hears that lost name and she jumps up, eyes wide with surprise, waiting.
My book about World War II, What There Was Not To Tell, based on 2,000 letters exchanged by my parents during the war, can be ordered through this website or through Amazon. Thanks, as always, for your support!