May 15, 2005
Sunday
As I write this, a memorial
service is taking place at the Woodsworth Housing Project in Toronto.
That city is 600 miles north of where I live, a long drive but one
which I nevertheless considered undertaking when I first learned of the
event. I reconsidered when I heard in my imagination what would surely
have been the deceased's reaction. He'd have thanked me for the gesture
but would have insisted that my time and resources would be better
spent in the company of my living loved ones.
Thus it will be someone else who reads the message I composed to pay
tribute to my friend, David Ibbetson. I print it here to give it some
fleeting substance.
American poet Emily Dickinson, known for her reclusive habits, had a
wide circle of relationships established and continued through
correspondence. In 1862 she observed:
Bereavement in their death to
feel
Whom We have never seen —
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs — between
—
For Stranger -- Strangers do
not mourn —
There be Immortal friends
Whom Death see first —'tis
news of this
That paralyze Ourselves —
Who, vital only to Our
Thought —
Such Presence bear away
In dying, --'tis as if Our
Souls
Absconded -- suddenly —
David Noel Isserlis Ibbetson, a resident of the
Woodsworth Housing Cooperative, died on March 23, 2005, after a brief
illness. He was born in Wallington, England on September 24, 1933. He
received his education at the City of London School and the Imperial
College, University of London, where he graduated at the top of his
class. He was also an Associate of the Royal College of Science. During
his college days he joined the Special Air Service Regiment and the
Artists Rifle Association. He moved to Canada in the 1970s.
Educated as a statistician, he worked in that profession until his
retirement. He was also an active member of Mensa.
Those facts I know about David Ibbetson because they have been
published as part of his death notice. As it happens, I never met him,
but I counted him as a dear friend. I am one of the multitude who knew
him through his participation in a number of e-mail discussion lists,
lists populated by word lovers and editors and technical writers and
fans of Dorothy Sayers.
David had myotonia congenita, a muscle wasting disease that
limited his mobility and caused him great pain. He also had diabetes
and several other health problems. The Internet was a great boon to
him, allowing him to use his sharp mind and his prodigious knowledge to
interact with others. Through his contributions to the various
discussions, he developed friendships that expanded beyond the business
of the lists.
David was a man of grace and wit. He had a base of knowledge that was
both broad and deep. He was generous, warm, and caring. His death
triggered hundreds of messages to the lists expressing profound grief
and recounting many memories of private exchanges with him. Almost no
one who wrote had actually ever met David. If his character could be so
indelibly impressed through the fairly sterile medium of e-mail,
imagine what he was like in person.
The signature I use for my discussion list contributions includes the
address of my personal website. David’s natural curiosity led him to
investigate my work, personal essays about the life of a suburban
American mother, someone with whom he would appear to have little in
common. He wrote to me about the site and included technical advice for
improving the look and feel of the design of the page. I know that he
continued to read from time to time, and not infrequently sent notes
commenting on my work and encouraging me.
Like most of his online friends, I will be unable to journey to Toronto
for his memorial service , but I will be thinking of him in that hour.
He remains in my heart and on my hard drive, where I have retained in
particular the birthday note he was known for, a droll message that
involved dragons, frogs, and sincere wishes for a long and happy life.
David’s life was long by some measures, but too short for those of us
who miss his voice. I salute my immortal friend.
