I want to call out a prayer of recognition for Mattie Decker who was with Will Hamilton for the last days of his life and shared with him the rekindling of a capacity for love that that has awed us all since we have known Will. In recent years I acquired the habit of dropping in on Will about once a month, whenever the currents of life took me to Fairview, and we would kill an afternoon drinking tea at the wooden table beside his kitchen and making small talk about love, death, and immortality, if such a thing is possible, and poetry, which, being both dabblers in doggerel, we shared. So, I also shared a blow by blow of his romance which was as pure and fraught and ardent as any teenager’s and yet somehow did not detract from, but rather ennobled, the love he’d known before.
I knew something about that because over half a century ago Susie Clarke and I had been something of an item around town, but there was much we sought and would discover that we hadn’t found here or in each other, and we took separate paths, on one of which I met Janet, and sparks flew, and at Christmas vacation of 1970 I proposed, and she accepted, but after she had to go back to her job in Boston, I drove out to the Big House to tell Susie. Although it still dings my pride a bit to admit that Susie greeted this news with an unalloyed expression of relief, her blessing of my future with Janet was genuine, and in due time she wrote me a wonderful letter asking for mine on her and Will who, she promised, would be my friend.
She was right. For fifty-one years and counting of Janet’s and my immortal romance, we have delighted in the electricity of Will and Susie’s love for each other and the warmth of their friendship toward us. Our children have grown up as friends, including even a few whiffs of romance.
I can’t imagine any love story better than that, and I tell it not only to flaunt how lucky I have been in love, but to celebrate what has filled this church today. Just as I was by no means the only swain to bring flowers to Susie Clarke to see them bloom into an affection that transcended passion, some version of that story has touched nearly everyone here. It is the weft and warp of immortality. It doesn’t die. As Paul said, “Where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away, but love never fails.”
He said, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” Will knew that and lived it. As did Susie. As does Mattie.
In her last days, Will wrote a poem for Susie, free verse, as bespoke the breadth and random nature of their lives, and I wrote a sonnet for Will, think down market from Shakespeare’s “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment.”
Blessed Lady. A Poem for you
(Written by Will Hamilton for his wife, Susie, in April, 2019)
I saw you first across a crowded room,
But I did not speak.
Golden hair, blue eyes, serious face and ready smile
Always helping, serving but not naïve. Determined.
Way beyond my hopes, I thought.
Tennis on Ealing’s grass courts. Godspell and Kafka.
Walking a canal in the pouring rain.
Agonizing about you one night Joe said
“You could do with a drink”
And served me two whiskies. My car drove itself to your home.
I said nothing. You said nothing as we fell into each other’s arms.
Courted and wed in four weeks.
Adored by the father you loved
He bought you dresses from Laura Ashley
And wept when he left you in England
But I brought you back home.
When you shed tears for your mountains.
We followed each other’s impulses.
We never learned better. A non-stop stream of guests.
French, Germans, Italians, Costa Ricans.
You like the alcoholic because he played the Blues with you.
I was relieved when the law chased him from the state,
Then cleared out the bottles from under his bed.
Doctor’s office in the house, church in the living room.
Mother to many children you taught clay, drawing, horseback riding and allowed them to play in the mud.
Carefree, you nursed your children on horseback.
You drew and made pots, but mainly taught children these arts.
You had an affinity with children which didn’t have. But it has gone. Why? Where?
Children loved you. Now you are a child.
But not a child; old; but not old.
Lost wedding invitations
Then very vague about a fender bender.
Left your passport at the airport water fountain.
Suddenly you couldn’t cook.
You, who made bread twice a week for 45 years:
Now eats my cooking with no complaints.
You can still climb the stairs. What after that?
You look at me with trust and lean your head on my shoulder.
Our Blessed Lady Dementia.
A Sonnet for Will Hamilton
Born princess to a realm of common grace,
Of race embraced by faith and hope and charity
Where art and toil brought smiles to Nature's face.
Born free to love yet fiercely bound in loyalty
She went away, as young hearts ever must,
To learn her place in wider worlds she roamed
Until upon that road from dust to dust,
She found a prince she loved more than her home
Brave man to bring her back to sacred land,
Cast bread on waters of another's royalty
And dare by humor, faith, and healing hand
To plant a field and raise with her a family.
If now, again, his princess must depart,
God bear her up and bless his loyal heart.
I knew something about that because over half a century ago Susie Clarke and I had been something of an item around town, but there was much we sought and would discover that we hadn’t found here or in each other, and we took separate paths, on one of which I met Janet, and sparks flew, and at Christmas vacation of 1970 I proposed, and she accepted, but after she had to go back to her job in Boston, I drove out to the Big House to tell Susie. Although it still dings my pride a bit to admit that Susie greeted this news with an unalloyed expression of relief, her blessing of my future with Janet was genuine, and in due time she wrote me a wonderful letter asking for mine on her and Will who, she promised, would be my friend.
She was right. For fifty-one years and counting of Janet’s and my immortal romance, we have delighted in the electricity of Will and Susie’s love for each other and the warmth of their friendship toward us. Our children have grown up as friends, including even a few whiffs of romance.
I can’t imagine any love story better than that, and I tell it not only to flaunt how lucky I have been in love, but to celebrate what has filled this church today. Just as I was by no means the only swain to bring flowers to Susie Clarke to see them bloom into an affection that transcended passion, some version of that story has touched nearly everyone here. It is the weft and warp of immortality. It doesn’t die. As Paul said, “Where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away, but love never fails.”
He said, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” Will knew that and lived it. As did Susie. As does Mattie.
In her last days, Will wrote a poem for Susie, free verse, as bespoke the breadth and random nature of their lives, and I wrote a sonnet for Will, think down market from Shakespeare’s “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment.”
Blessed Lady. A Poem for you
(Written by Will Hamilton for his wife, Susie, in April, 2019)
I saw you first across a crowded room,
But I did not speak.
Golden hair, blue eyes, serious face and ready smile
Always helping, serving but not naïve. Determined.
Way beyond my hopes, I thought.
Tennis on Ealing’s grass courts. Godspell and Kafka.
Walking a canal in the pouring rain.
Agonizing about you one night Joe said
“You could do with a drink”
And served me two whiskies. My car drove itself to your home.
I said nothing. You said nothing as we fell into each other’s arms.
Courted and wed in four weeks.
Adored by the father you loved
He bought you dresses from Laura Ashley
And wept when he left you in England
But I brought you back home.
When you shed tears for your mountains.
We followed each other’s impulses.
We never learned better. A non-stop stream of guests.
French, Germans, Italians, Costa Ricans.
You like the alcoholic because he played the Blues with you.
I was relieved when the law chased him from the state,
Then cleared out the bottles from under his bed.
Doctor’s office in the house, church in the living room.
Mother to many children you taught clay, drawing, horseback riding and allowed them to play in the mud.
Carefree, you nursed your children on horseback.
You drew and made pots, but mainly taught children these arts.
You had an affinity with children which didn’t have. But it has gone. Why? Where?
Children loved you. Now you are a child.
But not a child; old; but not old.
Lost wedding invitations
Then very vague about a fender bender.
Left your passport at the airport water fountain.
Suddenly you couldn’t cook.
You, who made bread twice a week for 45 years:
Now eats my cooking with no complaints.
You can still climb the stairs. What after that?
You look at me with trust and lean your head on my shoulder.
Our Blessed Lady Dementia.
A Sonnet for Will Hamilton
Born princess to a realm of common grace,
Of race embraced by faith and hope and charity
Where art and toil brought smiles to Nature's face.
Born free to love yet fiercely bound in loyalty
She went away, as young hearts ever must,
To learn her place in wider worlds she roamed
Until upon that road from dust to dust,
She found a prince she loved more than her home
Brave man to bring her back to sacred land,
Cast bread on waters of another's royalty
And dare by humor, faith, and healing hand
To plant a field and raise with her a family.
If now, again, his princess must depart,
God bear her up and bless his loyal heart.