AN IDAHO MEMORY
Call it a close brush with history…or was it an opportunity missed? Today I wondered again what I’ve wondered for 60 years to this day—could I have made a difference? What if?
I was with two other travel writers—Tom F. of Michigan and Bob S. of Texas—on the last day of a week-long writers’ tour of southern Idaho, and the three of us were ending it in style at the posh Sun Valley Lodge on the outskirts of Ketchum, Idaho. Our hostess was Dorice Taylor, an elegant lady who was head of public relations for the world-famous skiing destination. That July 1st afternoon we three guests enjoyed an end-of-the day cocktail with Dorice Taylor and her husband. After the exchange of the usual pleasantries, the talk predictably turned to the Taylors’ nearby neighbor, Ernest Hemingway. He was the reigning king of the American novel then, and what young journalist would not want to cap off his pedestrian stories about fishing the Snake River with an interview of Ernest Hemingway, the widely acknowledged star of American letters?
Mr. Taylor was neither encouraging nor discouraging when we asked him whether Papa might be accessible. But I do I remember him saying that his hunting companion had been “a bit moody lately.” We chose to interpret that as a “go,” and at about six p.m., with directions to our destination in hand, we walked into the town of Ketchum and stopped in a bar for a drink while we got our thoughts together and our questions ready. Our spirits were already high, but we ordered a round anyway, and talked.
What if Papa wasn’t up to an interview? Did we just apologize and gracefully make a quick exit? We ordered a second round of liquid courage and the gabble strayed to a discussion of other writers we admired and time-wasting arguments about how Papa compared with Faulkner and Steinbeck. Before you knew it, it was eight o’clock. I can’t remember whether it was Tom or Bob who said “You know, I think it’s too late to barge in on him unannounced.”
Agreement was prompt. And the lack of talk during our unsteady walk back to the lodge betrayed our disappointment…in ourselves.
What kind of fearless reporters were we?
The next morning I was driven to Pocatello to catch my plane home. I was in a funk. What story had I missed due to…well, I might alibi and call it courtesy, but I knew it was cowardice. Did I have the makings of a good journalist? I might not, and I carried those doubts with me onto the plane, and brooded over them all the afternoon flight home.
When my wife met me at LAX she seemed uncharacteristically animated.
“Did you hear the news?
“No, what news?
“Hemingway is dead. They think he committed suicide this morning.”
I was stunned. I am still stunned. The night before he mouthed the shotgun I could have been there. Would it have made any difference? Altered his self-destructive thinking in any way? Would three young strangers knocking on his door the evening of July 1, 1961 have changed his mindset? Flattered him? Enraged him? I still wonder what story I might have had if I had behaved differently exactly 60 years ago. Of course, it’s always possible I might not be here to wonder.