Monday, December 22, 2008


John Barrymore Stokes: 4 July 1926 - 22 December 2008

Dear Pop,
It's a warm night here in Canberra. Just the other night it was too cold to even walk into town without a coat, but tonight there is a threnody of cicadas, an absolute stillness, a blanket of pin-stars. The perfect night for remembering.

I actually only have a handful of memories of you and I alone together, without anyone else around. One of these was a time at the beach, around the time that I hated everything about the beach, which was the same time of life that Mum and Dad tried unsuccessfully to get me to start doing surf life saving on Saturday mornings. This day we were a little north of North Cottesloe and our towels were a little further away from the water than we usually sat. I was laying on a towel on my front, my chin resting on a little mound, and you were sitting there, bare ankled and making patterns in the sand. You were explaining something to me in a lot of detail - it was either something historical (about the Roman Empire or World War II perhaps) or something scientific (some particular laws of physics) but I can't remember what. I remember distinctly that I wasn't listening to a thing you said. You were taking great pains to explain this thing to me; in fact, it stood out because it was probably the most animated and conversive I'd ever seen you. You were really into it; there you were, just riffin' on this one subject, diving deep into the nitty gritty; and there I was, chin on sand. I realised suddenly, after a while, that you'd been talking for ages, and I hadn't heard anything at all, that my mind had gone to sleep in the sun, and I'd missed all the wisdom you had for me. This realisation was a shock, and I remember that I felt bad.

I didn't know you all that well, Pop. But you always seemed to me a gentle and intelligent guy, a man who loved learning, who found beauty in complexity and reason. Often, though, it seemed to me that you didn't know quite how to relate to other people, how to share in the joy and spirit of others, that, at times, you felt a little uncomfortable. Looking back, you always seemed to associate best through rational discussion and analysis. I don't mean to say you were cold - I never felt that Pop - but I always wondered what you really thought about people, about all the people gathered at Christmas, about me. I always wondered.

Pop, we have always seemed such different men, but I realise more and more these days how, in certain characteristics, we are all too similar. At times, I too find myself unsure in relating to others. I realise that I sometimes shy away from even those I love clearly and vividly, that I can come across distracted and aloof, that my emotions are grey and hidden, even at times when I am most safe and secure. Fearful of something (I know not what), I find solace in the mind. I find myself telling long, enthusiastic, detailed explanations of politics, of genealogies, of geography, of literature, of war. I notice, much more often than I'd like, the eyes of my companions glazing over as I go on too long on subjects which are not always universal in their appeal. They turn their glances, and I am left with half a tale. It's a lonely feeling, Pop, and I wonder if you felt that too.

I think I had a lot more I could have learned from you, old man. I wish I had. I wish I'd asked you more, dug deeper, been more inquisitive. I wish I'd known more about the ancestors whose inscriptions mark the goblets and wooden compasses you gave me. I wish we'd spent more time together in those lucid years of splendid rationality. I wish I knew you more, so I could know myself, more.

Rest easy.

x