Y'all know we lost Molly Ivins yesterday. It's sobering, sometimes almost depressing, how the good guys die off while the forces of evil hang on with inhuman tenacity; I figure the transfusions of demonic blood have something to do with it, but that's a story for another time.
I've never been a diehard Molly reader; enjoyed her stuff, certainly, when I came across it, but there's so much to read that many things get filtered out. I saw the AP piece last week of her being in the hospital and briefly discussed it with my friend Steve (a truly diehard Molly reader). I hoped for good news, he foresaw the bad. He was right, dammit.
I live in Austin, as did Molly. I had to do some little thing to mollify (groan...) the loss of such a powerful voice, a writer's voice.
The local supermarket did not have yellow roses (for that Texas imagery) in the florist's stock, so I chose a white. The miserable weather we'd endured for about a week finally broke in late afternoon; the falling sun was brilliant. I drove to Molly's home -- I'd never visited, but I knew the address, it's not hard to learn -- parked, and studied the rose while trying to think positive thoughts.
From where I sat, I could see a person standing near the end of the driveway -- mostly screened by a tall hedge, but clearly a woman, with a shoulder's length of wavy, whitened hair. I got just a flicker of hope that it was all a mistake, that there she was, healed and healthy -- but knew that couldn't be right. As I walked across the street, I could see three things. She was talking on a cell phone. She was dressed in that "businesslike, somber, just this side of casual" style that well-fits such occasions. And, as my point of view shifted the hedge aside, I could see for certain she was not Molly. I had planned simply to leave the rose at the door, but thought instead to intrude even less and just hand it to the woman, as not to interrupt her conversation. No such thing; when I was close enough, she held the cell aside and kindly told me to bring the rose on inside.
I hadn't expected this, but I walked up the path to the door. The doorbell plate was a humorous frog.
I hesitated a moment, reasoned that I had been given an invitation in, opened the door and stepped into the roomy, skylighted foyer. I was inside Molly Ivins' home. Celebrity doesn't leave much impression on me, but a sense of style can, and the foyer -- pretty much all I saw inside -- was memorable. A rock fountain, rock gardens, plants, what looked like a huge bird cage (didn't see any birds), a warm and welcoming place with some well-intended clutter. It felt like a home; it felt like a home I'd like to live in someday.
A tall fellow (and I'm 6'1", so taller than me is tall) came out and greeted me, introducing himself as Andy Ivins -- her brother, I realized later. I introduced myself, said I was just a reader and I missed her, and gave him the rose, saying it was so little in exchange for what Molly, through her writing, had given me. Andy was very gracious and accepting, given that I was a total stranger and he was probably having an overall difficult day. We exchanged a few comments; I wasn't in the best frame of mind due to lingering effects from a head cold, some distant but genuine grief for Molly, and feeling out of place in general. Andy thanked me, I said I had to pick up my kids (true), we shook hands. I took my leave.
The driveway woman was still on her call, but upon seeing me paused again to bid me good-bye and thanks. I mumbled a few words, gave her a little shoulder-hug and went on my way.
I thought I'd feel dumb doing this; I did not. I was welcomed quickly. Molly cared, and such people tend to attract other caring folk. That was surely true today, for me.
G'bye, Molly. If the powers beyond ever decide to send us a message, I hope they use you as the speechwriter. We can always use a good laugh.