The Byron Blog consists of writings, photographs, and anecdotes related to my father, Byron Dobell (1927-2017)
Reynard Dobell (1971-1984)
In the summer of 1975, my parents (Byron and Elizabeth) made their annual pilgrimage from Manhattan to Maine to visit me at summer camp. On their way home, they stayed with friends in Ridgefield, CT. One of my father’s colleagues at New York magazine, Deborah Harkins (1937-2023), offered to cat-sit for our large and very handsome tuxedo cat, Reynard.
There was a heat wave. As The New York Times put it on August 3, “Mercury Hits 97° Here; Heat Blankets Northeast.”
On August 4, Ruth Gilbert (1911-1999) (another New York magazine colleague who ended up in our apartment during this heat wave) wrote to my parents:
Dearest Byron, wherever you are, and Elizabeth, too:
First, let me thank you most enthusiastically, and with all the overheated blood in me, for your wonderful wonderful hospitality, which, up until this moment, you didn’t know you had extended me.
I went to the ballet Friday night and returned home to my cell on 32nd Street (it was always my gorgeous, adorable little hideaway, until Friday night after the ballet). And the air conditioner was broken, and the fan was saying “s-q-u-e-a-k” every second and brushing the hot air around, and I broke down in tears.
I phoned Debbie, who said “Come, come,” and I have been here ever since, cool, refreshed, happy, cheerful, reading, playing the piano, finishing up your ice cream (there was only an inch –– Debbie doesn’t know about this yet), sleeping with your cat, Reynard, who sleeps like a man, the whole length of him down my back, or clasped in my arms, except more furry, but just as comforting and less demanding.
Saturday and Sunday I left twice each day to go to the ballet and returned to what is now known as the Dobell Igloo. I have told the office so much about it, and everybody’s so hot, Debbie’s getting a little nervous because everyone wants to come over.
To prevent this, I’ve invented the breakdown of your parents’ air conditioner and the subsequent invasion of Deb’s and my privacy by them. We’ve given them your bedroom.
Incidentally, you have gorgeous rugs, and I LOVE everything in your house. The books are no great deal; I have all of them, too, or had them in my past. Deb’ll get mad when she reads this; will think I am knocking your house. It’s just that I can’t imagine NOT being surrounded by books every minute of my life. But two pianos, gee. [At that time, two pianos were in the apartment, an upright and a grand.] Debbie brought her violin. We’re playing Handel. We ate out Sat night with Quita [another colleague], and Deb as usual left most of her steak. I demanded it for Reynard, who loved it. Threw it around like a dead rat and had a helluva a good time, until Deb cut it up for him and he settled down and finished it quick.
Do people come into your house, gape, and say, “Shit, did you read all those books?”
Have to get to work now; will write you every single day I am enjoying your hospitality, which means until you wire Deb and say, “Get her out of there,” or until the heat wave breaks.
Darling Byron and Elizabeth (and young Elizabeth too if you have met up with her), have a wonderful time and come back, happy, renewed, refreshed, and able to face Clay [the editor of New York] and us again. And thank you.
Ruth
PS Elizabeth dear, I have not used your perfume. My granddaughter just came back from France where she spent a year fellowship and brought me a lavish amount, so I’m not even tempted. And I prefer Caron’s Muguet du Bonheur, which I am wearing Right Now.
Debbie will go over this, edit it, and circle any lies.
