Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins (44 page)

“Sandy had the good sense to contact Brady Coleman [Austin lawyer-turned-actor-and-musician], and he readily agreed to be Molly's chaperone. They flew out to Flagstaff [Arizona] together. But by the time it got close we had huge misgivings about whether it was doable.”

Despite the misgivings, friends who understood the importance to Molly came. Dave and Sandy Richards, who were living in Mill Valley, California, by then, were among those determined to convert Molly's wish to reality. Others were longtime friends and fellow campers, like Brady, who had made many of these trips in Molly's company. For this last grand run on the Colorado the entire group included some who didn't know Molly at all. Bill Council and Fran Ulmer joined the group from Alaska.

All flew into Flagstaff, where the rafting leaders picked them up and drove them to the river's entry point. There she was, finally, aboard a raft that comfortably accommodated three crew members and twelve passengers.

Just packing and unpacking all that gear was an achievement unto itself, as Dave Richards recalls. The crew's leader was photographer David Huff, who put himself through college running the river and figured he'd done it maybe a hundred times. Unsurprisingly, he remembers Molly well.

“I knew there were some concerns about her because of her health, but she did great,” he said. “In fact, I used that trip as an example of how group attitude can influence the enjoyment people can get out of a trip like that. She never complained—but neither did any of the people with her. I remember thinking, ‘Wow, we never had anyone complain on that whole trip, and the one person who had the right to complain never did.' She didn't want help, but if she did, it was there for her. I mean, for healthy people who camp a lot, it's a hardship, so I was very impressed with her. She seemed to bring joy to the other passengers.”

Although Molly mainly hung out at the river's edge while others went on hikes, she also helped out in the kitchen, chopping ingredients and telling stories about her early years as a reporter. True to Molly form, she organized a sing-along and talent show. As sick as she was, she still had the energy to invigorate others.

For all that, getting her in and out of the raft was a major undertaking, but, typically, she insisted on doing everything on her own. As Dave Richards put it, “We for damn sure weren't going to let anything happen to her, not on our watch. For the most part it was pretty quiet water except for a few places like Rattlesnake Rapids. Molly, being Molly, insisted on sitting up front, where you take the brunt of the shocks when you hit the rapids. You really have to hold on. Well, Molly lost her grip and went airborne. Somehow she came down partially straddling the boat. I got hold of her and we're still in the middle of the goddamn rapids. Brady held on to one leg and I held on to her until we got to calm water. I think that chastened her for the time being, but it sure as hell scared the shit out of me.”

Hearing Dave recount Molly's apparent energy surge resurrected memories of a benefit concert for the Dallas Black Dance Theater that Ella Fitzgerald did just months before she died. As this jazz icon walked onstage, murmurs stuttered through the audience. She looked frighteningly fragile. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who wondered how on earth she was going to make it through a
performance, scatting and running those trills for which she was so famous. A chair had been placed on the stage for her. She sat down after coming onstage, and stayed seated for maybe one and a half songs, and then she stood. Once the downbeat was struck she opened with familiar numbers from the Cole Porter songbook that she'd made famous.

She sang another song. Then another. She rose from the chair and moved across the stage in little steps. And as she sang, the frail, bespectacled septuagenarian magically morphed into someone twenty years younger. This was the kind of transformation Dave's wife, Sandy, recalls.

“Molly seemed to get stronger as we went along,” she said. “In the end it was the right thing to do and she was a wonderful companion. Much of the trip was hiking trails, so either Dave or I stayed with her while others went on walks. We talked, and of course we sang. We were ten days on the river, and at the end Molly insisted on taking everyone to dinner. I was so glad she had made the trip and enjoyed it so much, I don't remember anything anybody ate. I just remember that there were some people on the trip that we didn't know and by the time we parted company Molly had them all singing along.”

To me that trip was a sign of acceptance. The cancer had metastasized. Still, Molly's sense of humor rarely flagged. Betsy Moon remembers that around this time Molly was determined to make brownies and several kinds of Christmas cookies for her neighbors. She was sufficiently pleased with the outcome that she ate them all—and instead sent notes to her neighbors, confessing her transgression and nevertheless wishing them a Very Happy Holiday.

For several years Molly had sent an e-mail to friends and fans at the end of the year. Christmas 2006 was no exception, just about a month before she died. I couldn't attend her last tree-trimming party and Elvis sing-along because at the time, my mother was also dying, in St. Louis. In her last holiday missive Molly wrote:

It is that Christmas that nephew Drew remembers best. Molly would have been as proud of him as his sister, Darby. He makes his home in Chile, where he works with an educational program jointly operated by the US State Department and the Chilean government. It helps Chilean graduate students earn a master's degree. He's also in sync with Molly pals who knew her food side. He spent many holiday meals with her and was an appreciative recipient of meals during his time as a Tulane undergrad.

He remembers many a meal around her table, as well as breakfasts and brunches at Austin restaurants large and small; the lunch in his honor when he graduated from Tulane and Molly took the family to Commander's Palace. Still, his favorite memory of eating with her was that last Christmas when the oven went south.

“It was a scramble all day long,” he said. “She sat comfortably in her big chair loving all the commotion swirling around her. After the food was prepared, everybody had a great time around the table talking with Molly and hearing her famous laugh.”

There was almost always too much food and drink at these Christmas shindigs, and the party wasn't over until those assembled participated in “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” I say “participated” because one not only sang, one acted out each of the lords a-leaping, maids a-milking, and swans a-swimming. Of course, by the time singing commenced, the only thing everyone could remember for sure was a robust intonation of “. . . two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree!”

By then the spirit of these Christmas shindigs took hold with such a vengeance that some had lords milking, pipers swimming, swans dancing, and two turtledoves wearing five gold rings with that ever-loving partridge in the damned pear tree. Fractured singing and much laughter signaled the party's end.

The usual stalwarts were there, as well as friends who knew this would be her last. Anthony Zurcher, Molly's editor at Creators Syndicate, was among them. “I had been a fan for years,” he said, “so it was a kind of dream come true to be working for the same syndicate. Her editor left and she was handed off to me; I took her quite eagerly. That Christmas I could see she was failing, but she soldiered on. It seemed so strange, saying good-bye, knowing it was for good.”

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