Sandy Smith writes: I know he would rather I were drinking a good wine instead of a mixed drink, but I drank a toast anyway.
Howard wasn't big on hard liquor other than tequila, but he did love his tequila.
There will be a big hole in this group that it will take some time to fill.
Yes, indeed. In my life, too.
I was real fidgety tonight after returning home from the funeral and from visiting Howard's parents. Ellen suggested I go out to a bookstore or record store or something, so I did just that. I bought two books, on real me-ish (Jean Anderson's The Food of Portugal; I got it because How used to go on and on and on about the wonderful dining experiences he had in Portugal), and the other real Howard-ish: Jan Read's The Simon & Schuster Guide to the Wines of Spain. I know very little about Spanish wine -- aside from knowing that I really like it -- so I figured this would be a good way to find out more.
Anyway, I was flipping through the book and it suddenly occured to me to look up the wine that How asked Ken and me to bring back from Spain for him. Neither of us had any luck locating the wine in Madrid or Barcelona, so Ken got him a wonderful-looking Gran Reserva Rioja instead. Sadly, How's wine-drinking days were over by the time we got back from Spain. I flipped to the Castilla-León chapter and looked up Vega Sicilia. No wonder How wanted it. (And how typical he'd know the wine.) And no wonder we couldn't find it:
| Vega Sicilia is a name to conjure with in Spain, where its wines, all of them red, are strictly rationed and supplied only for state functions and to the best hotels and restaurants. |
Ah, well, I'll be sure to toast How next March at Lhardy in Madrid with a nice bottle of Vega Sicilia.
It's funny the things you thought you'd forgotten about someone that come back to you at times like this. And of course there are the more recent things that suddenly seem so much more important or revealing or poignant. For the last month or so of his life, Howard was suffering from dementia. It may sound horrible, but it was a real blessing -- he was happy and friendly and, when he still had the strength, incredibly chatty. His short-term memory was shot to hell, but he still had the long-term stuff and he was still powerfully himself with all his intelligence and wit intact. Howard's delusions centered around travel and food -- he was always just in from a trip to Spain or Egypt or Paris, or he thought we were in Spain or Buenos Aires or Cairo or Saudi Arabia, and he would talk at length and in incredible detail of the sights he'd seen and the amazing meals he'd eaten.
A few days into the dementia and we noticed a change. Now Howard was picking up cues from the music playing (Vidal, one of the attendants from the Visiting Nurses Association -- and if you are looking for an incredible organization to donate your extra cash to, look no further -- noticed that How liked Latin music, so he brought in CDs of his own of Uruguayan music to play for How, and listening to it convinced How that we were in Buenos Aires) or from whatever was on the television. One night as I was on my way out to make a late-night Diet Coke run, I poked my head into How's room to ask him if he wanted me to get him anything. He didn't, but he seemed distracted by the historical drama on PBS, and then he gestured to me to come closer. He told me to be careful out there because it's so dangerous. I wasn't sure what he meant. He grabbed my hand and said, "I want us to be old men together. Just be careful." It turned out that he thought we were French soldiers in the Napoleonic invasion of Spain. He also had a bone to pick with me since I was the one who brought the English into this war and we all know that the English always muck everything up. I tried to keep up with him, but I failed. I know absolutely nothing about Napoleon's invasion of Spain. Anyway, I assured him that I would indeed be careful out there.
I, too, wanted to be an old man with Howard one day.
