Friday, June 20, 2008
Edith Macefield
Photo courtesy of Barney Burkehttp://www.burkedigitalpix.com/Seattle.html
Photo by Richard AndrewsObituary
Edith Macefield
1921-2008
I knocked on her door, tentatively.
I could hear her stir from within. She pulled the frayed curtain aside.
"Excuse me ma'am--my name is Richard, and I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.' I just wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes."
"Bullshit?" she asked, laughingly. "Well Hell, I like bullshit, c'mon in."
Thus began a three year odyssey into the incredulous life of a legend. This was before reporters would plague her. She grew to trust me; she let me peer into her past, she let me film her, but not too much.
I was originally intrigued by the "David and Goliath" aspect--her sling would be her knowledge of code and zoning, and her smooth stone would be her unstoppable defiance to the construction concern that tried to steamroll her into submission. But she had bought the house in 1952 for her mother, who passed away there. Now it was her turn to meet the Eternal, and by God she was going to do just that, right there. Two generations would wind their way to the Maker at the same domicile.
But the 'story' became so much more. Her life was an odyssey that even Homer or Dante could not envision. She mesmerized me with tales of intrigue from World War Two, and she would mention names that live in historical anthologies, without blinking her eyes. . .Bertrand Russel (a beau in London), Winston Churchill, Julia Child. . .on and on, I believed every vignette. Even if some story had a tad of ageist license, well that was just fine with me. Every incredible remembrance had a string to one source: her love of people.
"People invent demons," she remonstrated. "Why do that? Aren't some things just obvious?"
I once had a friend named Oliver Feathers. He was 96 years old, born in 1886. "Gettin' old is Hell," he told me. The natural ravages of age took its toll on Edith, and she was OK with that. Her savvy intellectualism never was affected, and she delighted in that.
She was victorious to the end. We all need to realize that the fight, according to her, is the passage. Results were almost predictable to her, but the battle was always twisting and turning, and that's where the excitement lived.
"A warrior knows no gender," she told me. "Never forget that, lest you imprison yourself."
I could hear her stir from within. She pulled the frayed curtain aside.
"Excuse me ma'am--my name is Richard, and I write a newsletter called 'Ballard Bullshit.' I just wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes."
"Bullshit?" she asked, laughingly. "Well Hell, I like bullshit, c'mon in."
Thus began a three year odyssey into the incredulous life of a legend. This was before reporters would plague her. She grew to trust me; she let me peer into her past, she let me film her, but not too much.
I was originally intrigued by the "David and Goliath" aspect--her sling would be her knowledge of code and zoning, and her smooth stone would be her unstoppable defiance to the construction concern that tried to steamroll her into submission. But she had bought the house in 1952 for her mother, who passed away there. Now it was her turn to meet the Eternal, and by God she was going to do just that, right there. Two generations would wind their way to the Maker at the same domicile.
But the 'story' became so much more. Her life was an odyssey that even Homer or Dante could not envision. She mesmerized me with tales of intrigue from World War Two, and she would mention names that live in historical anthologies, without blinking her eyes. . .Bertrand Russel (a beau in London), Winston Churchill, Julia Child. . .on and on, I believed every vignette. Even if some story had a tad of ageist license, well that was just fine with me. Every incredible remembrance had a string to one source: her love of people.
"People invent demons," she remonstrated. "Why do that? Aren't some things just obvious?"
I once had a friend named Oliver Feathers. He was 96 years old, born in 1886. "Gettin' old is Hell," he told me. The natural ravages of age took its toll on Edith, and she was OK with that. Her savvy intellectualism never was affected, and she delighted in that.
She was victorious to the end. We all need to realize that the fight, according to her, is the passage. Results were almost predictable to her, but the battle was always twisting and turning, and that's where the excitement lived.
"A warrior knows no gender," she told me. "Never forget that, lest you imprison yourself."
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ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
ballardbullshit@yahoo.com
