I spent my summers as a park ranger in Yellowstone. Before you get all teary-eyed about how romantic and macho that sounds, let me remind you that most of it was spent corralling college interns, breaking up campground spats, and trying to keep the local black bear out of the ranger station dumpsters. Once, so long ago I can't really recall the year, I did something more heroic, but instead of it being rescuing stranded hikers or live-trapping grizzlies, it was discovering a drug distributor and making an arrest. He tried to run so I actually got to turn on the ranger vehicle strobe lights and chased him up to the high pass before altitude got the best of his little Honda and it stalled. I never took my gun out, but my heart was beating hard enough from the high speed chase to firmly plant the experience in my memory. Next time maybe I will wise up and wait for the Staties to arrive on the scene.
If summers were an experiment in patience, hot weather, and an opportunity to get outdoors to meditate and take photographs, winters were either better or worse depending on my mood. Better in the sense that my fall migration to New York City was a serious change of scenery that allowed me to pursue my writing and photography. I was hoping to complete my first book of stories and photos that winter. But returning to New York winters, with their slush and hubbub -- the bustle of bankers break-necking it to Wall Street bars, nannies herding over-attended three year olds, like cats, into and out of cabs and museums, and the reverb of overwhelming cultural diversity around every corner -- meant I hibernated most of the time, sneaking out for the occasional Chinese food, dry cleaning (I could only write in tattered tweed coats mothballed in spring), and through-the-park reality check walks. Truly, I spent my days tapping away, maneuvering through Photoshop, or helping my condo neighbor, Ms. Hargrave, a 90-year old great grandmother who, spry as she was, appreciated my assistance with groceries or minor household challenges.
The writing was harder than the photos, but I was determined to join my images with story. Summers allowed me ample time to work on my camera skills, but left me no energy for composition, so I brought both together during my city stays. I'd inherited the condo from my uncle -- the hermit in the family -- and it afforded me the space I needed to work. It was humble in every regard except one: my uncle had completely renovated the kitchen, removing a bedroom entirely to accommodate the spacious design. He cooked, and by that I don't mean tomato soup or French toast. He'd taken a year off after being made partner at a midtown firm, and he studied cooking in France. He'd always appreciated a fine meal, but upon his return he started cooking them for he and his occasional visitors. He left behind a cabinet of recipes, covered in notes to himself, as well as olive oil, butter stains, and hardened, dried bits of dough and flour specks. I'd spent hours one day thumbing through the catalogs of dishes, not just from France, but Indonesia, Japan, India, and Italy -- everywhere really. I had even taken a few out, taken out the mixer and the chopping block, and prepared a few meals. But it never tasted right to me, and the decisions and nuances were overwhelming to my mind. So, for the better part of a decade now, the kitchen, the most glamorous room in the place, had been ignored. I put the counters to work storing stacks of reprints and negatives from my writing project. Besides the Saturday morning scrambled eggs or oatmeal, or reheated take-out, I had given up on my culinary development to focus on my strengths.
So it was that I found myself on a stormy late-October Monday morning scribbling over my latest chapter, dribbling milk absent-mindedly from my cereal bowl as I ate, and wishing the sunlight was pouring in rather than the rain pouring down the window pane. The phone ringing pulled me out of my intense editing and swirling thoughts, and by the time I set aside my cereal, got up from my chair, crossed the hall to the living room and picked up the phone it was too late. My octogenarian editor was an early bird (as well as a strange one), so I surmised it was him calling. Perhaps he'd leave a message and I made a mental note to check. John had retired long ago but was an old friend of my grandmother's and agreed to help me find a home for my book if I ever finished it. I returned to my soggy cereal and tried to focus again, but I'm afraid the call had distracted me sufficiently that I couldn't get my head into it and I fell asleep on the couch.
Again, the phone rang, this time waking me abruptly. I rolled off the couch, and grabbed the receiver.
"Jesse here," I blurted, sounding both groggy and startled.
"Jesse, it's Karen. I'm sorry to call but I have been trying to reach you and it's important."
Karen was John's assistant, an astute judge of character, and a heaven-sent organizer of John's overwhelming catalog of books, notes, edits, and business contacts.
"I have very sad news Jesse. John died in his sleep last night -- his caretaker found him this morning when she came in," she said, in a whisper, her voice cracking with emotion.
I sat back heavily on the couch, holding my head with one hand, the phone with the other. I'd known him for forty years, and had helped him edit a photography dictionary. I'd watched his children grow, briefly dated his youngest daughter, and had Thanksgiving with his family when I attended college in the city. John was a trusted mentor, and a stalwart friend for me, in good times and bad.
With a heavy voice, I wrapped up the conversation, not really knowing what to do or say, and spent the day bumping around the condo in a daze -- drinking teat with toast and, as the day wore on, whiskey. It was hard on me, and that Monday seemed pass in a dream. The days wore on, and my writing suffered, shelved itself, as I passed time watching TV, taking drizzled walks in the park, and talking to friends and family on the phone. I distracted myself by fixing old camera gear, corresponding with fellow rangers via email, and planning the eulogy. I was expected to speak, and I somehow got through John's service, said hello, and much too quickly, goodbye to his family and other friends, and found myself back in the condo, staring at the huge messy pile of photos and notes that formed the backbone of the book.
Suddenly the intensity came back. I had to finish this volume, and I would dedicate it to John. this was my way of saying goodbye I decided, and I threw myself into it seven days a week. I was surprised by my fervor and within two weeks I had completed a draft on my computer. It needed work, but what before was a skeleton of ideas and images was now a full-fledged book. Karen had promised to try to find another partner willing to take on the editor role, and when an email arrived from her announcing she had succeeded in finding someone to help me, I was thrilled. We made an appointment the following week which gave me time to get a semi-professional printed copy prepared and put in some last minute technical touches to the draft.
It was a cool, cloudless day in November, so I packed my draft and walked from the Upper West side to the twelve story midtown building of the publisher. Karen met me enthusiastically -- I hadn't seen her since the service a month earlier, and we had a long, supportive hug. She led me to the elevator banks, up a floor, and across to a windowed corner office. I guess I had been shopped "up" I think the term was, and I was impressed.
"She is a bit frosty at first blush, but she is the best," Karen told me as we approached the office entrance.
"Simone, this is Jesse. Jesse, Simone," she introduced us.
I was a little taken aback by the corner office, then by how much younger Simone was than I had imagined. Perhaps in her late thirties, she stood and surprisingly firmly shook my hand, gazing unflinchingly into my eyes as we greeted each other. She was dark haired, with straight locks that were held in at tight elegant tie at the base of her neck. A dark, elegant suit said Wall Street more than editor, but the pencil behind her ear, the reading glasses, and the lack of flashy jewelry gave away her real profession. She was strikingly beautiful, in a formal way -- sharp profile, slender, tall. Her eyes radiated an intense confidence and curiosity, and she was obviously very comfortable in her own space. The office was sparsely furnished in a more modern style than I was used to from my visits with John, replete with a large Miro print on the only wall that wasn't glass. I refocused on the meeting at hand.
