In Memoriam

I used to think that a tribute to Reynolds Price would roll right off my keys. It would be titled "At the Feet of Reynolds Price" and would recall the times I sat in his house, sometimes on the floor, sorting books and papers that were stacked everywhere. Often while I'd work, Reynolds would tell me stories--stories about his colorful southern relatives, stories about famous and ordinary people alike, stories about his childhood, stories about pain and loss.

But you can read these stories yourself, in his books and in his essays and in his poems. I simply couldn't do him justice if I tried to repeat them; he was too good of a storyteller.

What keeps coming back to me, though, is this: In the years after my father died, every time Reynolds saw me he always asked how my mother was doing, even though he'd never met her. And he wanted to know, really know. It was a simple act of kindness that was typical of Reynolds Price.

The obituaries list his many publications and awards, as they should. They note his love for Duke University, as they should. What you should know, too, is the depth of kindness and compassion in this lion of a man.

It made him unforgettable.

[Note: This essay also appeared today in the Duke Chronicle as a letter to the editor.]