Dave Wood

I recently wrote a story congratulating myself for being the last person in Christendom who still writes letters, real letters, the kind you put in a stamped envelope and mail to a friend — or even an enemy. When my Beautiful Wife read it, she immediately scolded me — lovingly of course — “Shame on you, you putz. Have you completely forgotten that we get real letters from Faith Sullivan every month?”

Oh, but of course. Faith Sullivan. I first met Faith Sullivan years ago when we both appeared on a panel at Mankato State University to discuss Minnesota writers. Faith, Mankato State alum, was riding high with the publication of her second novel, my favorite, called “The Cape Ann,” a charming story set in rural Minnesota about a little girl who wants to live in a real house, not the train station where her mother is depot agent. She saves all she can to purchase a Cape Ann style house, much to the chagrin of her husband, who prefers gambling and losing as much as he can.  Why it hasn’t been made into a movie still amazes me.

Well, Faith and her husband Dan have been our friends ever since — throwing parties, attending parties, talking smart about the ills of the world and the state of the arts in today’s America. Things Ruth and I haven’t done for years. But that’s not Faith. She’s a lively one in her eighties.  Recently her husband Dan, a celebrated drama critic who revitalized reviewing plays for daily newspapers at the Los Angeles Times, contracted Alzheimer’s.

At home alone with little chance for conversation, Faith began writing a monthly letter and sending copies to her stash of friends. How could I forget how much B.W. and I wait to get our next installment. The irrepressible Faith brings our stuffy household a whiff of fresh air. Her latest missive begins with “Hey Ho, Darlings,” and moves along with recollections of her recent trip to California to visit her kids and a grandkid, Jack, a tot who already has a career in mind: cartooning. “I shouldn’t go on about him, but he’s so bright. I call him Captain Jack of the Horse Marines! After the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. He beats me at adult games. If he weren’t so adorable, I’d farm him out to some other old lady!”    

Then it’s on to the political scene and she writes, “I don’t know what the initials stand for, but people like Ron DeSantis don’t like WOKE people, so let’s all be one. Is ASLEEP The opposite of WOKE?” Touche’ oh ye of lots of faith, Faith!

And speaking of faith, she continues with a reminiscence of May baskets on May Day: “Mother was very fond of our priest, Father Prokas, so his May basket was always the most splendid, and when I left it on his porch, he ran out, kissed me on the cheek and handed me a penny. If all priests were as kind as Father Prokas, I might have, might have remained in the Church past the age of twelve.”

And so Faith’s letter went. News of new books she was reading, close attention to stylistics and purity of language and disgust at our cliché-ridden world. She closes with a reminder to come to the memorial for her late husband Dan at the Open Book on Cedar Avenue. It’s a bookstore. Where else?

When we got there, the auditorium at the Loft was well filled, but probably not as full as Bud Grant’s memorial across the street at the vulgar new stadium. But Dan’s crowd, I’d venture to say was every bit as enthusiastic, and full of very clever and witty speakers, including Dan and Faith’s daughter, who talked of her father’s obsession with rummage sales and never buying a new car, usually in favor of an offbeat used jalopy.

A high point for Ruth and me was renowned classical music critic Michael Anthony, who filled us in on the good old days in Minneapolis’ entertainment world when Mike and Dan and Faith all wrote and performed in marvelous satiric sketches at Dudley Riggs’ Brave New Workshop.  We found out all manner of fun stuff, like the arrival of the Guthrie Theatre and its landmark debut of Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.” Mike recalled that Dan and the Workshop crew remounted it as if it had been written by Tennessee Williams and called it “Hamhock,” in which Polonius became Polltax, Gertrude and Claudius Big Mama and Big Papa.

It also ends when Hamhock exhorts, “We’s all, dyin,’ Big Mama!” (sorry we missed that, Dan).

It was a wonderful show as all funerals should be, but something was missing. Where was Faith?  Nowhere to be seen, the sparkplug of the event was missing. Midway through the accolades and the memories, the indefatigable Ms. Faith Sullivan rolled into the back row in a shiny wheelchair, having sprained her ankle on the way to the show, er, memorial for her beloved Dan. Years ago she wrote the lyrics for the Workshop’s perennial sendup of the Miss America Pageant: “She sings in the choir/ and she doesn’t perspire…She’ll make a million dollars winning fortune and fame/ By 1966 we won’t remember her fame….”

But we will certainly remember your moniker. We hope, Faith, that you don’t lose our address, so that at least one piece of dearly anticipated REAL MAIL arrives with the same predictability with contents entirely unpredictable.