I am not sure how much I can add to the many words I have written about her. The book Querencia-- here, -- is her memorial, as is the kind of life I live.
The summer after her death, Tom McIntyre wrote a memorial essay in Gray's Sporting Journal. I can't improve on it.
"As much as she wanted to - and as fiercely as she tried - Betsy couldn't be here this summer.
"You know Betsy Huntington. If you've ever read Steve Bodio, you know her. For nearly a decade she and Steve were friends, partners, accomplices, secret sharers. On the Plains of St. Augustin they kept a blue adobe house that was home to them, as well as itinerant friends, hawks, bird dogs, gazehounds, pigeons, insect collections, books, shotguns, rifles, fishing tackle, riding tack, typewriters, a bulletin board posted with crazed memos, a telephone for making and receiving of midnight calls, the echoes of sporting-writing-living conversations that were never conducted at a level below a howl, wreaths of dried chilis, a Cape buffalo skull...in short, the bare necessities of life. Whenever you read Steve, those words are a direct result of Betsy's life with him, and his with her.
"If you want "facts" about Betsy, she came from a family of soldiers, divines and farmers. Born in China to an Episcopal bishop, she and her family were forced to flee the country ahead of the invading Japanese. She was schooled in the Northeast, traveled through Europe like the women who both intimidated and allured Hemingway, lost no small amount of money without ever feeling the least bitterness or rancor, became a journalist, then a breeder of rare margay cats, then met Steve and lived, as a matter of fact, happily after.
"Those are the facts. But you already know Betsy.
"In the late fall of last year, when there was snow to push elk out of the high country, and after her hard fight, Betsy Huntington died, in sleep. She was buried in the East with a thick coyote pelt to keep her warm, and Steve carried a lock of her hair back to the New Mexico she loved. And now because of all she meant to so many people, it is time to say goodbye to her here and to tell her how much she will be missed this summer, and after. She enjoyed summer, as she enjoyed all the seasons, and no doubt she would have liked this one, too, very much."
Annie Davidson, frequent commentor here and old friend, introduced us. She adds:
"I liked being with Betsy. She had been on great adventures but
somehow managed to make everyday, boring, mundane stuff feel like
adventures too. She saw potential, expanse, and details everywhere.
And she liked me.
"When I wanted a maroon cableknit sweater, we'd walk in the store, and
there it was. On sale. Ditto, when I said I needed a wingback chair
to make my life complete--she'd seen an ad, and we went and got it,
and it was perfect.
"In my mind she is tall, taller than me, but in inches she was much
smaller. We couldn't trade clothes. I wanted so much to look like
she did in her French whore dress, but just looked silly.
"Before they were illegal, Betsy had (nearly unheard of) breeding pairs
of margays. I met her when one mother refused to allow her baby to
nurse, so it needed to be bottle raised. She impressed me by how
keenly she intimately knew and understood each animal. I realized
that 'I need to know everything' approach reflected very much who
Betsy was. She lived in her interests, and she was interested in
everything.
"I never actually met her bobcat, who allegedly socked anybody new just
once in the face. But I don't like to get socked. And Betsy didn't
insist, and she still liked me.
"I liked her approach to life, of 'Let's try it' 'Want to go?' 'Might
be interesting', and I still try to emulate that.
"Maybe I was an interest. Becoming friends stretched me. And
comforted at times I needed it. I still miss her."
Sleep, Bets. We remember you well.
9 comments:
Thank you Betsy...for helping to shape a man I respect and adore.
Sadly, I was never priviledged to meet Betsy.
When I first knew Steve, through "steam " correspondence way back then , we never met .
However, I felt as if I knew them both so well, from Steve's writings and stories.
When I finally met Steve,first in Bozeman , and later in our beloved Magdelena, Betsy seemed so close by, and will never be forgotten , and her influence still endures.
Magically, Steve found another Soulmate in Libby , and her son , Jackson , and his wife,so yet another era opens.
Never forgotten , but life's unending , and enduring stream of Love flows on, and we must never forget that too.
JohhnyUK
what a beautiful tribute, as was Querencia....
Being in a relationship so vital and intense during the early years of one's life is a special problem. On the one hand, one needn't worry about nothing ever happening -- PLENTY happened! On the other hand, if that person is lost, what does one do with the rest of life? Do you spent all the years remembering, maybe pining? Or do you think, "If it happened once, it could happen again!" Or does one worry about forcing new experiences into old molds, not growing? Or does one see this early romance as an education, a door opening into a world one loves?
It helps to be a writer, since writers are SUPPOSED to explore such problems! So Betsy gave us Steve and Libby and their work. (People think writers work alone, but they don't.)
Prairie Mary
I can remember seeing you off!!!
And I remember well "that" summer and how it eased into autumn with its myriad of colors reminding us of change.
Hunters and gatherers, ..... at the table ..... sharing nature's bounty, ..... relishing the seasons, ..... trading stories, ..... good guns, ..... promising dogs, ..... young hawks, ...... life long friends!
Be well my friend, we're a reflection of those closest to us.
Eric
Thank you one and all, friends, fellow writers and adventurers. Bodie-- you are right on, ditto John. Mary, perceptive as always and on the money-- thanks for implied compliments. The thing about our "team" today is absolutely true. Eric: I believe you-- who couldn't have been long out of high school-- were at the party to see us off from Boston (actually Newton), not to mention that you were one of my housemates in Maine after she died. Larissa-- you-- and Libby, as she wants me to add-- would have enjoyed her company and wit.
Thanks all again.
Brings tears to my eyes Steve.
I met Betsy briefly in Boston, stayed with her and Steve in Magdalena a few days, and miss her yet. I will claim only one anecdote in Querencia when I caught them cheering for the evil predators in a nature movie in my library/TV room. Of Betsy's many dogs, I remember best a manic Springer Spaniel named "Spud," who didn't live long. I was fortunate to miss the cats, though not the hilarious stories about them. I heard later that the lock of her hair went into a bonfire in Kelly, a ghost mining town near Magdalena, a haunted and spiritually powerful place we visited on my visit. She died too young, but had already lived several wonderful lives, not least her years with Steve.
--Mark Zanger
There is no better tribute than remembering.
I'm another who first met Steve and Betsy in Querencia and I loved and wept with you in that, and then, later, long after, when we got to 'meet' more personally, which the internet can be given the right correspondents -Steve and Libby (and the right reading and reading list!)- I carry on remembering.
As sometimes it's good to hear a voice, so sometimes is it good to see a face. What wonderful photographs you posted.
-xmargory
Post a Comment