9:15 p.m. | 2002-06-20
TIFF
I saw Timothy Findley read four times. The first time was on his Headhunter tour. The reading was at UVic. I was so charmed by him--he was adorable, all shy and gripping this red polka-dot handkerchief. I lined up to get my book signed. It was the first time I'd really been motivated to do that at a reading--because there was an "easter egg" as they're called in video game world--a little self-reference made in the story: a patient file with the name "Timothy Findley." I got him to sign not on the title sheet, but right beside that reference, on that page.
Two years later I saw him read at UVic again. When I got the front of the line to get my book signed, he said "it's good to see you," like he'd remembered me from last time. Maybe it was the purple hat. I had a penchance for hats in those days. This one had a big feather.
I named my cat after Timothy Irving Frederick Findley, who was called Tiff by his friends. My cat's name is spelled a little differently, TiF, but she is named for him. This, of course, took endless explanation. "No, it's not short for Tiffany," and "yes, she's named after a male writer."
The first book I'd read by him was Not Wanted on the Voyage. My english teacher Marion Jenkins recommended it to me, and I was very grateful for the recommendation. Timothy Findley's style and talent for telling a story led partly to my own interest in writing. Later, when I lived with Sarah in Vancouver and had got her hooked on Findley, we went to a wonderful reading of his in a small venue--downstairs at Steamworks in Gastown, my favourite Vancouver pub. After, Sarah and I sat across from Timothy Findley and Bill Whitehead and talked about the books, and I mentioned how my English teacher had wanted to teach Not Wanted on the Voyage, but was afraid it would offend the religious sensibilities of some of her students, or more particularly, their parents. Bill Whitehead agreed with me that it was nonsense, that in fact the novel's affirmation of humanity was more Christian in its sentiment if anything, and that in fact Findley had read from it at readings in churches, on some occasions. After that night, Bill Whitehead and Timothy Findley wrote Mrs. Jenkins a letter, encouraging her to go for it. She was awfully surprised.
I saw Timothy Findley read once more this past fall, From Spadework, in October, at the Metropolitan. He was shakey. It was the way it is seeing someone after a long time and being surprised at how much they've aged. I knew, seeing him like that, that Spadework would likely be the last new book I'd read by him, and that reading would be the last time I'd see him. At the end, there was mention that he would be able to sign a few books, and I thought even that was a bit much to ask. A ton of people lined up and I thought they were idiots. Let the man get back to his hotel. He's tired. He's read you a lovely story. What more do you need? I did not get my copy of Spadework signed. I said a silent goodbye and slipped out the door, and into the dark October street, festival season, the last time I saw Timothy Findley read.
I always knew I'd run out of Findley books to read, so I've saved a couple. I haven't read them all at once, so I'll still have the joy ahead of me of opening one entirely new to me. I still have The Wars and The Butterfly Plague ahead of me. I saved Spadework until this month, wanting to read it just before visiting its setting of Stratford, where Tim and I are going for Grum's wedding in a couple of weeks. I would take the book with me, but I don't like travelling with hardbacks. Tonight I was lying on the couch reading Spadework when the news came on the kitchen radio that Timothy Findley died today, in France. I put Spadework down on the coffee table and ran into the kitchen with my mouth open, and stared out at the water while the announcer confirmed the news. There, just there. Another marker of time. End of a period.