Is there some way that we as a group can express our sympathies?  --skh
 
Susan K. Harris
Hall Professor of American Literature & Culture
Department of English
University of Kansas
Lawrence, KS 66042

________________________________

From: Mark Twain Forum on behalf of Rick Talbot
Sent: Mon 4/12/2010 20:49
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Dixie Carter's Passing



April 12, 2010

Dear Forum Members,

When I met Mr. Hal Holbrook at the Elmira conference last August I was
struck by his love for Dixie Carter. He made no secret of it to me then, God
bless him. I didn't repeat the following to anybody there at that time,
because it really wasn't mine to share, but with the passing of Dixie Carter
yesterday, I want to remember it again. All of Mr. Holbrook's colleagues and
friends in the MT community share his sadness and offer their condolences.


August 8, 2009

When I stepped up to Hal Holbrook in the classroom that morning, I meant
only to shake his hand and tell him that he was the start of Twain for me. I
wasn't going to tell him that he was great or any of that happy horse hockey
as I knew he'd heard it all before. But that is not how our conversation
began. I extended my hand and took his in mine.

He smiled and said, "Hello."

I said, "How's Dixie?"

He gave me a funny kind of quizzical look and paused. He was thinking. I
have never observed personal boundaries, a failing of mine, and I knitted my
eyebrows together and asked, "What is it?"

His eyes widened, but only slightly, and then he released it: "It's cancer,"
he said. "We've just come from a week of intensive chemotherapy. She's tired
and worn out, but she's feeling much better now."

I asked, "Would you mind--if I kept her in my evening prayers?"

"Would you?" he said. "So many others are doing so."

It set me back to have a man tell me something so personal, so dear to his
heart. I could feel his pulse beneath my fingertips, the softness of his
paper-thin skin, his warmth, his blue eyes; it was all so real. I wasn't any
longer awed by him. He was just a guy like me who loves his wife.

Then squeezing my hand he said, "What brings you here?"

I said, "Well, when I was seventeen I saw you on TV, and I thought then that
Mark Twain was a pretty funny fellow. After I'd grown I read him and found
that he was singing a song that was already in my heart-always had been. And
from that day to this, I've just wanted to hum along. And you sir, you were
the first link in a very long chain-so I thank you."

He loosened his grip but only slightly. He had listened intently to what I
said, and now not saying a word, he just stared at me with those pale blue
eyes. They suddenly grew red and tears formed on the rims. He placed his
other hand across my forearm, swallowed hard and gave me a nod.

Later that night at the farm I met up with him as he stood alone behind the
kitchen.

He said, "I want to thank you for that remark you made to me today."

I patted his chest with the flat of my hand and replied, "I didn't even tell
you if you were any good."

He laughed and I said good night.

Tonight's prayers will go out to Mr. Hal Holbrook. Dixie's gone home to
heaven.

Rick Talbot
Falcon Heights, Minnesota