HEAVENS TO BETSY, MR. GUTTKE!
You make me feel like a sort of female Englebert Humperdinck.
To think I have become a cult figure in Minneapolis! Quite
seriously
(for once) I am delighted to hear that you and your friends
are getting such fun out of my books, and should dearly love
to come
and collect that promised cup of tea, which as you may have
discerned I do adore... almost as much as I adore getting
letters like
yours.
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This was the beginning of a correspondence and friendship with
Charlotte MacLeod that lasted many years. At a time when computers
and e-mail were becoming the rage, she and I communicated in the
old-fashioned way: letters through the post. We talked about our
friends, our cats, our travels, her books, and my struggles as a
sculptor. And she did indeed come to Minneapolis for that cup of
tea... in fact she came many different times for many cups of tea
and made a whole lot of friends.
Always her letters, not unexpectedly, were filled with the same whimsy and unique
language found in her books. Our banter was creative and sometimes even playfully
biting, and she often finished with the signature of a luminary such as Mary
Poppins, Clara Barton, Her Majesty the Queen, Isadora Duncan or Carrie Jacobs
Bond. She referred to herself in a myriad of fashions: "The Bilbao
Looking Glass... came out with a terrible cover that does not show the glass
and carries an excerpt from the book- ill chosen, I add snarlingly- instead of
the charming lousy photo Grace (Desjardin) took of me looking noble, heroic (heronic?)
and also gray and fuzzy as is my wont. It's not the pictures, you know... I AM
gray and fuzzy." She wrote her books in longhand, occasionally did the same
with her note cards, and always did with her postscripts. Her typist must have
had the skill of a cipher genius or the use of the Rosetta Stone. |
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Charlotte commissioned me to do a griffin statue, and little
did I know she would be photographed, by Grace of course, with the
griffin and so appear on the back
of The Curse Of the Giant Hogweed.
To my further surprise, delight and heartfelt appreciation, she dedicated
the book to me. I take pleasure in knowing it is the strangest book she
ever wrote. It turned out that Grace loved the griffin as much as Charlotte,
and after being told of a recent burglary, she hurried over and rushed
past Charlotte at the door to make certain that the griffin still remained
in its honored spot on the
hallway table. It did.
Charlotte's books are 'cosies,' something you curl up with on a rainy
day or when life seems like one long rainy day. You inevitably forgot
about everything but the adventure in hand and a world she populated
with crackpot eccentrics that left you smiling if not laughing out
loud. She was happy to know her 'little jokes' were picked up within
the pages. |
She looked at life with the same sense of humor: "The
trip itself was the usual... adulation from all sides, rose petals
strewn in my path everywhere I went, silver bells festooning the howdah
on my private white elephant... you know the drill. I maintained my
customary demeanor or regal calm and enigmatic silence throughout."
Some years ago Charlotte became ill. There will be no more books.
But her letters are little short stories about her life and I don't
want them to languish in
some file, in some box, and eventually lost or forgotten. To share these
with old fans and possibly stimulate new readers to discover Charlotte's
delightful
mysteries is my goal. Seldom (meaning almost never) did Charlotte date anything
to the year, and going through this material and arranging it chronologically
is a Herculean task beyond my capabilities. But what I have chosen to present
first will give a 'Behind the Published Work' look at this special author.
I want to thank Stephanie Wiltse of the Starving Artists Workshop for
her kindness, talent, and consideration in constructing this site.
She never met Charlotte,
but understands that Charlotte's words and books should be remembered. I
think the two of them would have gotten along marvelously and I know Charlotte
would be flattered and appreciative of the effort. Though often complaining
that it kept her away from her work, she traveled ferociously and enjoyed
those jaunts across the country as much as she enjoyed meeting people.
So to all
of you out there in cyberland, make yourselves a cup of tea and enjoy.
But most of all, this is for you my old friend Charlotte MacLeod.
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It is not altogether remarkable that you feel like an artist these
days. LIFE will do it every time... that is, if you are an artist
to start with. Sometimes I feel like a writer. Mostly I just feel
confused.
I remain, believe me, Sirm yr, resp'ful & obdt.
Svt.,
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