The other night, my wife and I had supper at a table in the dining room of our local continuing care retirement community, described in its website as “Serving Older Adults in the Quaker Tradition.” Around the table were retirees with sterling memories of having starred. Peyton, on my left, the son of a famous missionary in China, had led Episcopal seminaries all over the world; John Gunn, emeritus economics professor at Washington & Lee University, still asks the sharpest liberal-leaning questions at lectures on the W&L campus; Harrison Kinney, on my right, was a “Talk of the Town” writer at the New Yorker until John Updike took his office in the 1950s; Jo McMurtry, next to him, is retired from the University of Richmond’s English Department. She and I were reciting a Robert Frost poem together, from memory, the one from which the stanza above is taken.
Also at the table was my wife’s mother, herself respectably accomplished with a degree in economics from Cambridge University and a pioneering government career starting in the Navy WAVES and in Occupied Japan. She has recently moved from Florida to this idyllic old folks home beside the Blue Ridge. My wife and I visit a lot, but last night it was because I was giving an after-dinner lecture, “When Journalism Was an Honorable Profession.” (The title was merely a set up for my opening line: “Honorable? Hell, it’s never even been a profession.”)
The Frost poem ends bitterly, as Jo and I underscored with chilly irony as we quietly completed our duet:
Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide.
The residents sitting at tables around the dining room, in their 80s and 90s, certainly have paid dearly for such first-rate friends. Kendal at Lexington ain’t cheap. But the lesson isn’t in the last stanza of the Frost poem, but in a stanza that applies to so many of these retired professors, or retirees returned to the little-changed town where they graduated from W&L or the Virginia Military Institute around the years of World War II.
Some have relied on what they knew;
Others on simply being true.
What worked for them might work for you.
After my lecture, in which I mentioned my past employment at the Atlanta-Journal Constitution, and even mentioned this website, Like the Dew, John Gunn came up with a twinkle in his eyes. “I have a song to sing for you.” I thought he was kidding. No kidding, he sang a song from memory, from when he was a student at Georgia Tech, something played on WSB radio no doubt. So may you all live well, kids, and keep your memories.
The Atlanta Journal covers Dixie like the dew.
Everybody there will tell you so.
Daily it reviews
Everything that’s news.
It will tell you all you want to know,
[soft voice: “I’m telling the world that”]
Every hour and every day
both here and far away,
The Atlanta Journal’s on the air,
If you want that Dixie flavor in your mouth,
Tune in on Atlanta and the Voice of the South,
The Atlanta Journal Covers Dixie like the dew,
And it hails from down in Geor–gia.