August 1st, 7:45am driving towards Santa Rosa to buy stone and plants I get a surprise call from Maggie Best. I answer and I know right away that it’s an accidental pocket dial. This has been happening regularly the last few months. I kid her about it, but it’s always nice to talk to Maggie, even when the errant call comes in at 5:30am. I’m saying, “Maggie, hello Maggie, hello Maggie!” since I know she only sometimes hears me. I hear her say, “Oh shit!” I laugh as she answers sheepishly “ hello, Dave, not again…” “That’s no way to call and say Oh Shit,” I’m laughing. She is too. “Why does this keep happening?” She always says this. “You know why…. It’s Joan making sure we stay in touch. You know she told to me look after you before she died” I’m kidding her, I love to make her laugh, but I’m not kidding as Joan told me she worries about Maggie. She holds so much and works so hard for our family, I worry about her.” If anyone has secret powers to control the physics of an iPhone from another realm it would be Joan Roth. “ Well especially today, I guess,” Maggie says. “What do you mean, why today?” I ask. “It’s the anniversary of her passing today.”
There is silence on the phone as this feeling of mysterious synchronicity sinks in. This is a moment where two things can be equally true. Of course, Joan is not controlling Maggie’s phone, but the coincidence of the errant call on the anniversary of her mom’s passing punctuates the sense of unexplainable mystery with an exclamation point. My relationship with Joan has always been like this. True or not true it doesn’t matter. Maggie calls on the anniversary of Joan passing inspires me the rest of the day to think about her and to write this missive. The phone call is not about taking care of Maggie it’s a reminder for me. “Dave if you’re going to write that story about me, you best do it now! Back in 2019 I was driving back from my annual birthday mtn-bike trip when Maggie called (intentionally) and told me that Joan had fallen broke her hip and was in the hospital. I felt it in my bones that this was her time. We had talked a few weeks earlier about her death. “Dave I’m so ready to die now, I miss Roth so much.” “He’s waiting for you.” “Are you sure.” “Yours and his love is that big. He’s always here.” “I believe that too, I’m glad you said that, it makes me feel better.”
Before I left to go see her in the hospital I went to one of my projects and clipped a few branches from a blooming dogwood tree. We have a things for dogwoods. There are quite a few at her home in Ireland and each one has a story, this one a gift from a famous artist friend 30 years ago. I can hear her voice describing all the trees “….and this one we planted the first year we came here and Roth and I chose this one and planted it together, don’t you love the Cornus Kousa, Roth loved the variegated leaves.” When we toured the country in Ireland we took photos in front of the dogwoods. Something about the flowers reminds us both of angels. It’s our own private joke. I pick wildflowers and add them to the dogwood, put them in an old watering can and arrive at the hospital. I’m allowed to go into her room and we’re alone. She sees me and a give her a small twig with 3 or 4 blossoms to hold in her hand. She looks tired when I walk in, but sees the dogwood flowers, understands their significance and bursts into a beautiful grin and she transforms into her 93 year old youthful charm.
“Look I got my wish!” She exclaims. I smile “I guess you did, but you never know for sure?” “I know.” she says. “I just want to go home now so I can be with Roth.”
We are so honest together. Where other people talk about death in whispers or do everything they can to hide from the subject, we talk about it openly. Talking about love, loss and death are the beacons of our friendship. The origin of our deeper friendship began with the grief we both shared for Phoebe Washer and William Roth. We knew each other casually. After Phoebe died, we held ceremonies at David and Maggie’s house and working on Temple projects we traversed each other’s path. Phoebe, even at the age of 20 was well known in the Petaluma art community as a great up and coming artist. Joan had mentioned that she would like to know more about her when we briefly spoke at one of the Temple work sites. Joan and William were philanthropic In the art world, especially in Ireland where their true home was. The anniversary of Phoebe’s death is a powerful day for me and on the way to my annual visit to build a fire on the beach I spontaneously called her and asked if her and William would like a visit and I would share a book I did about Phoebe’s art and life. I was expecting a short visit and to just leave the book, but they invited me into their living room. Roth had an oxygen tank and tubes in his nose and looked weak. Joan was bright and cheerful. They wanted to look at the book with all of us together. I felt honored. We sat knee to knee heads bent almost touching foreheads, Joan turned each page slowly and we talked for an hour over it. William’s eyes were red, Joan had tears, I felt emotional. Even then the conversation was about life, love and death. I felt William knew his life was ending soon and we talked philosophically about death and living, the inspiration of phoebe’s legacy in just those 20 years. Every word poetic and charged. He died a few months later.
It wasn’t as easy to get out of the hospital as Joan was hoping, her fragile hip bone was shattered and the only way the hospital would release her was to do a hip replacement surgery. The irony of saving a person’s life with an expensive surgery so they could go home to die was not lost on anyone. At 93 (I think she just always called her age 93) was absolutely discouraging for her dream. Surgery and rehab all seemed so daunting. The surgery went well but rehab not so…. I visited her only once in rehab, and she seemed confused about what she truly wanted. I might have to postpone my wish. She was thinking about her great grandchildren in that moment. “They don’t want me to go” Feeling tired and futile she decided not to continue the rehab, time to come home, the hospice bed was waiting in her room. Anna (the youngest sister) warned me not to stay too long as Joan was tired, she had not been sleeping well. She was reading New Yorker as I came into her room. The door was open and a gentle summer breeze was blowing, the room had a large window and she had a wonderful view of the garden, the golden glow of the afternoon offered solace and I felt good as if I truly belonged there. Outside I noticed a large urn with a pineapple guava pruned up into a standard tree shape and in that moment I knew the gift I wanted to give Joan before she transitioned. Always such a joy to see her, she greeted me warmly and I leaned over we kissed lightly and reached over and held her hand.
“So you finally got your wish.” I said. She laughed, this woman was so witty and so sharp. “Yes, here I am finally at home, but Dave I’m having these nightmares.” “Anna said you weren’t sleeping well, what kind of nightmares are you having?” “Hard to explain, it’s like I’m somewhere, but I don’t know where I am.” “You feel afraid?” I ask. ‘Yes, I do, I’m afraid to sleep.” “Do you want to know what I think? “Please…” Were still holding hands and I leaned in close to speak very quietly. “You’re close to death now, when you sleep in dream state you travel closer to the veil between this world and the other realm. I think if you remember that William is waiting there for you, these dreams won’t be so haunting. Remember, this powerful love you have between the two of you. Remember, this is all love and he doesn’t want you to be afraid. Find peace in that.” There were tears in her eyes immediately. I felt her gratitude welling up from her heart. I felt her sense of relief… “Oh Dave, thank you thank you for those words. You’re the only one who talks to me like that. I needed to hear that.”
It is a strange feeling when I look back on what was said. I’ve never spoken like that before, I wouldn’t say that I was channeling someone else’s information, but I wouldn’t say that I had these words rehearsed and I knew what I was saying. I had never thought about the end of life and what it would feel like to approach death, to witness the veil behind death in a dream state . Since this time I’ve reflected many hours about this phase of life and approaching death. My mom died a few months back and my dad at 97 is having a hard time. These words and this kind of direct open kindness about speaking of death and grief has been very helpful. This one small moment has changed the way I view talking and feeling about these last stages of life in our bodies. These are all gifts from her. Hospice had started and she had only weeks left. I went to the wild bird store and bought copper bird feeders, bird food, steel stands, hardware store and bought small aluminum trash cans to store things in. I brought bags of Mexican pebbles of different sizes and colors. I brought sharpies. I had the idea of putting it up all guerrilla style and surprise her when she woke up… but I thought I better ask permission. I called Anna to ask if I could come over. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea Dave, she’s very tired and not doing too well. Maybe another time,” she said.
“Anna ,this is the only time I can come, I’ll be quiet and gentle,” I pleaded. “Okay, Dave but only you, you can’t bring anyone,” she said reluctantly. “Thank you, and another thing I have a gift for her, I have a bird feeder…”. I didn’t tell her my truck was packed full and I was already driving. “You better ask her, I’m not sure if she’s up for that.”
When I arrived I knocked lightly on the door. No answer. I entered as quietly as I could. It seemed like no one was home. The house was silent and still. As I came to her room Joan was sleeping on her side on top of the bed. Her green nightgown exposed part of her legs, her arms were in what seemed an awkward position. Her skin was gaunt, paper thin, dark purple with even darker bruises. Her breathing was so light that for a moment I thought that she had already transitioned. I sat down on the chair. She was facing me. There was a peaceful childlike feeling. She was alive, but in that moment I felt that her body was here, but her spirit was already traveling far away, not just in dream state, but in some kind of enlightened spirit rearrangement of time and space. I had never felt this feeling before. There she was back in Ireland talking to her Roth. I felt this her dream. This is another gift from Joan.
As I sat there let my being feel that she had already left us. I knew this would be the last time I would see her alive. I closed my eyes and let my mind float into a dream world that could travel through the remarkable life that was hers. This was the most remarkable woman that I would ever meet she held the secrets of such a treasured history. Her world but also a part of our countries history. Life has changed so much since her birth, life has changed so much since her death. As I sit there with this sleeping gentle woman i also enter a kind of dream state and watch the patterns and story of her life unfold: I see the young girl getting ready for the cotillion ball, coming of age, all the young girls and boys. Joan is a gifted story teller and this is my favorite. Ahh the spirit of being 17. I bring my kids, tell them about Ajax, tell your story. I can hear her voice talking to my son as she tells about Ajax her snake. I lived in a castle and my father kept a zoo here. Ajax my snake, such a great pet and so while I was dressing I wrapped the python around my waist, he loved it there. While we were dancing Ajax wanted to see what all the commotion was about so he climbed up my arm and poked his out of the top of my dress. It made quite a stir, everyone screaming. I love that image, so impetuous and outside of expectations.
She goes to college and fall in love with a publisher, he runs a small press, William Faulkner was one of the literary writers, oh tell me this story. “….Oh he wears old jeans he doesn’t wash, i’m worried about what will my parents think. Dad the famous paleontologist at the New York Natural museum of history, my grandfather who named the Tyrannosaurus Rex, what would they think of this poet artist poor publisher. He just said don’t worry about the wedding we’ll take care of it and on our wedding day the family driver pulls up in their convertible Rolls Royce and I see that my Roth hasn’t told me something about his family….” She realizes for the first time that this is her William Roth, this love that will be the greatest thing she cherishes in her life wouldn’t matter if he was poor as a church mouse but rather is from one the major aristocratic families in America and the scion of the Matson Steamship company.
For their honeymoon they rent bikes and bike ride through Ireland for six months. They fall in love with this country. After the first world war they buy a piece of property, the address is simply— Hymenstown… I had gone to visit her there three times. The history of her world is contained in the magical wonderland. Everything now feels so storybook.
I know I have romanticized all this, but this story is the one I tell, the ones she told me. It is a dream this world, I try to describe Hymenstown and I say it’s like Downton Abby in 1/4 scale. Old Tomas whose worked there forever is still there tending the garden, and the gardens are spectacular, so many places to explore and get lost in.
Before I ever heard or imagined about the language of trees Joan took me to the Beech round. These ancient trees hundred feet tall, hundreds of years old. I asked how old… she answered we bought this after the war and they were this tall then. But when we entered we sat down together on a small bench, neither of us saying a word. We sat silent, the wind in the trees, the crows in the meadow beyond, a small bouquet of the tiniest orchids we picked in our hand… you could feel it, the silence held between this circle of trees was a force, the communication of them sent shivers in our arms as if they were stalwart guardians of the planet, here on this bench the secret portal to a natural world only written about in fantasy.
“They’e talking to us,” I said. “I love this place more than any place on earth,” she said. “I know they are communicating,” I have goosebumps I said “I knew you’d understand this,” she said.
Her dog Thor, which she explained that Roth named, as of course it’s Roth spelled backwards. Thor was ancient, but had the heart of a puppy. He loved to eat pâté out of her hand. She would say, “Thor take Dave to where Roth is buried!” and Thor would run and hop like a bunny though tall grasses, take us across bridges over a clear running stream, through forest, by art pieces by famous artists, around flower gardens, and vegetable gardens, inside an ancient pergola shipped from Thailand, through another forest that Roth had planted in rows to create habitat to finally a place where he would stop and you knew this was the place. And I knew exactly why Joan wanted to spend half her time here and half her time in Petaluma as this wonderful magical animal was part animal and part her departed love.
I once brought with me $400 worth of meats in dry-ice from her grand daughter Molly’s butchery and she invited friends over and each day I cooked and we ate meals on the patio where she held conversation and stories inciting laughter and inspiring ideas. The stream flowed swiftly behind the old stucco wall. Thor always on top of it gazing longingly into the river. This is where she had her bird feeder with the most beautiful song birds and finches I have ever seen.
My mind is wandering through all these places weaving her history, her love of art and literature. I would write stories or poetry, after the first edit I’d call them warm bread and share the fresh rough edits with her. I’d take her to the movies, mostly foreign ones so she could read the subtitles as her hearing wasn’t great. Id cook dinner for us. Sometimes a friend of mine would join us. Renu or Natalie, my son Henry. Her kitchen always had the best food, great fresh vegetables from her neighbor farm, meats from Molly’s store, cheeses, great wine. It was such a joy to just open the frig, cook up something easy eat and talk… it was after the food I would read something or we would talk about those subject love life and death. So many tears and laughter. Two or the best things when you are going deep into the world of gratitude and she was the champion of that. On my first trip to Ireland I was there to help her son in law David Best build the temple in Derry. That was the first time I saw her enchanted home. She wasn’t sure she would watch the burning of the temple, but she arrived on the last day to visit this beautiful structure and watch it burn with us. I was keeping her company as we waited on top of the hill. It was dark and cold. We were the builders and other VIP who would get to sit closer in a special area in front of the gathering crowd. It was getting colder and the wait seemed long and no one was taking charge.
“Don’t you think we can go yet?” Joan asked me. “Why not, I know where we are going, let’s you and I make our way down there.” “yes, let’s do it.” In the dream the temple lights are glowing, the crowd has come from all over Ireland, far more than anyone could have ever expected, something powerful is stirring, the overhead lights cast a cinematic effect. Joan holds my arm as the trail is a bit treacherous. As we get halfway down I turn around and look back. “hey look Joan, were leading the procession.” I looked back and snaking back up the hill was the group following us down. In this dream I’m taking royalty to be seated…. The dream state swirls around this places. I wonder where she is traveling in
her world. Slowly I reach out and lightly touche her hand. I’m thinking she would be groggy and incoherent from such a deep sleep. Instantaneously, as I lightly squeezed her hand she opens her eyes. “Dave you’re here!!!” she exclaimed. “Oh my god, you are here too!” and she was alive and bright. “Hey look, I brought you a present ,before we check in I’d like to put up some bird feeders. I know how much you loved your birds in Ireland. I thought you’d love to see the birds here from your bed.” “Oh dearest one, of course that would be fantastic.” She called me dearest one often, but she called others that too. I always liked it when she called me that. My mom called me dearest also. I set up the feeders and place the pebbles in a kind of spiral in the urn and around the base in concentric circles. I tie some string around the Sharpies. In my mind the intention that this bird feeder is also an alter. The birds will arrive in a few days, people will write things, or hang notes and ornaments on branches or write on pebbles. I work quietly for an hour or so. I go inside and she is asleep again. She opens her eyes slower this time.
“Thank you, dearest it’s so beautiful.” “The birds will take a few days to find it, but they will come.” “I know they will. I’ll wait for them.” I kiss her on the forehead and she closes her eyes. She is so tired. Those are our last words. There is still no one in the house. The world seems silent. I write a small note one of the pebbles. “So much love and gratitude. So much Love Joan. Thank you for everything.” A week later I get a call from Jessica (the eldest sister). She is out of breath when I answer. I can barely understand what he is saying. Finally, I get it… “The birds are here, the bird are here, tell Dave the birds are here…” She is delivering Joan’s message to me. The birds have arrived. Two days later she leaves her body and breaths her last breath. I am honored to be one of the people who got to speak at her celebration of
life in the back yard. I am standing next to the pineapple guava. it is filled with notes and cards now. The pebbles are filled with love notes. I begin to speak. Hi my name is Dave Washer. Joan Roth was my friend and she was very dear to me. let me tell you a story about her dog named Thor