Winter weather is one of many reasons to move to Key West. Writers thrive here. Made famous by Ernest Hemingway whose legend is steady like a patron saint. Tennessee Williams spent far longer here, and later the likes of Truman Capote and Tom McGuane, and onward the list of venerables goes.

Oddly, this winter even Key West has been chilly. Still the tourists come, searching for succor. Tourists are identifiable, besides their pallid skin, they optimistically wear tee shirts and shorts while locals don caps and bluejeans.

Since moving here, I very luckily met the local tribe of writers, and because my education is a pockmarked mess I had never heard of most of them. I set about reading. I imbibed all of Annie Dillard with my mouth open in awe at her skill; Ann Beattie, William Wright, Phyllis Rose, Judy Blume, Alison Lurie, Marie Chaix, Harry Mathews, and many more. Laurent de Brunhoff of Babar was the only name I knew, having perused his cartoons as a child, and it was my honor to meet the man behind the elephants of my youth.

The undisputed top of the heap was Robert Stone. Another I’d never heard of. Yet, everyone here resoundingly agreed he was the best, described as having ‘the finest mind on this island.’ I threw myself into Dog Soldiers and Damascus Gate and fell forever for his deft expert touch.

Two years ago, having dinner at Bill Wright’s (another whose oeuvre I absorbed like elixir, every word so perfectly chosen), I was seated next to Bob Stone and having read his work I made a point to listen rather than gab. He and his wife Janice share a deep connection. They are the sort of couple you dream of but rarely meet, people who like one another, who operate as a team, pulling the cart of life together.

In 2013 Bob published The Death of the Dark-Haired Girl. It is flawless. I’m told he fretted over every word and took the task deadly seriously, at no point did he relax into his reputation, his perfectionism always hand-in-hand with his genius.

Robert Stone died January 10, at home with his beloved Janice. Early February his memorial was held in a brick turret in the old Fort by the sea, suitably ravaged by time. Someone thoughtful had interlaced the space with flowers, I’m told Bob loved flowers. Every one of the vaunted artists came to pay their respects, wrapped in sweaters and long pants, and many spoke their thoughts and memories. Bill Wright pointed out Bob’s sincere kindness, the rarest of attributes. Judy Blume told of a time when she unexpectedly ran into Bob, on a day filled with anxiety for her, and in the most tender way he soothed her. Like everyone who knew him, they deeply appreciated him.

The end was signaled by a bagpiper piping his melancholy notes, but just as he began he was silenced as Bob and Janice’s daughter decided unexpectedly to speak. But when she took the podium she lost control of her tears and rambled ever so slightly, and she returned to her seat. Then the bagpipes resumed their gorgeous lament, no doubt mingling with Bob’s laughter in the sky.

There was as much love as sadness that blustery sunshiny day.

Image by John Martini©

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