H.C.B.

Today would have been the 76th birthday of my stepfather, had he not dropped over dead while brushing his teeth fourteen years ago. It also would have been the 52nd wedding anniversary for my mother and father had my stepfather not dropped in from the heavens via BOAC.

Actually, that’s not true. Their marriage probably would have disintegrated long ago regardless of HCB  . . . and my father has been dead himself for nearly seven years, so that adds a wrinkle. Anyway, September 4 is a day of some history in this household. (It’s also my mother’s brother Allen’s birthday- Happy Birthday Allen!)

My stepfather, Humphrey Clarke Booth, was brilliant, but also something of a mean son-of-a-bitch when the stars were akimbo. It was hard to know what would set him off, and so inevitably he was inadvertently detonated at times. Long after I left the fold, my mother bought herself a Smith and Wesson revolver and learned to shoot it, and that put a damper on the mercurial temper.

But if you can set that aside, it’s worth looking at the rest of what made the man. He was an eccentric and charming English physician and through him I’ve forgotten more than most will ever know about socialized medicine. (And yes, I’m a fan.) I’ve also learned various manner of diagnostic technique– mostly using one’s ears. His patients used to talk in a kind of amazement about how much he listened to them. Often, he listened so much that the day’s schedule was a total disaster; dinner– forget about it, and house calls or a stop in at the hospital just to check on something for five minutes took half the day.

He was good at taking in strays– we had patients sleeping on the couch or working in the office or doing little chores around the place. My mother has a way with stray animals, so they took in those too. When he saw someone panhandling, he didn’t give them a dollar, he gave them a twenty– and it’s funny he seemed to have an unerring sense for those who truly needed help and others that were just begging as a career.

He was extraordinarily sentimental.

He taught me how to drive, how to ski, how to sail. He showed me how to dissect the eyeball of a sheep, how to de-bone a chicken, how to make a proper omelet. He was a true bon vivant, a fan of classical music, good food, excellent wine. He loved antiques and from him I learned how to read the marks, the signatures, the lines of a fine chair. I learned to listen as well, and bide my time, and let people tell their own stories and this is a skill that (unlike eyeball dissection) has stood me in great stead.

Neither my mother nor my father were particularly “people-persons.” It would be unlikely for them to strike up a conversation with strangers, or invite people they barely knew home for dinner. Yet, I’ve inherited this from the man who chose me as his daughter– and that’s how he referred to me as his “chosen daughter.” He had another daughter, too, same age– their relationship was something more tempestuous and that story’s not for me to tell.

It is my great sorrow that he did not live long enough to see my son grow up. Julian’s prowess at the cello would have had him in tears, and the conversations I can imagine they would have had about ancient Roman politics! He would have loved this boy, and would no doubt have put him behind the wheel of the 12-cylinder Jaguar as soon as Julian could have reached the pedals. He would have been immensely proud of him, I think.

Yesterday at the fair,  I wandered over to look at the ponies on the pony wheel. They were fat and glossy and well-kept. It was a rainy afternoon and there was not much going on at the pony wheel, and the pony man came over to talk to me. I must have had my “tell me your story” face on, for he did. We talked about genealogy, and socialized medicine and the price of hay and the state of politics (very gently) and the  ponies and his wife’s longhorn steer, Sancho, and the problems with fairs and fair boards. Without HCB, I doubt if that conversation would ever have happened.

He met people with an open hand, an open heart and an agreement of trust. Sometimes, with the people he loved the most, he breached that trust in terrible ways– but forgiveness makes those times easier to lay aside. He was certainly a man with great flaws, but also one with great talents. It’s one thing to say “I wouldn’t be who I am today without him”– many people say that about someone influential in their lives. But at my very core, I would be a much different person if not for those events of September 4.

Dear H., wherever you are, I owe you an enormous debt of love and gratitude.  xoxo

Today’s target 70 Steps 1120

Breakfast: yogurt with granola. Lunch: shrimp with a cup of pasta Dinner: roast duck, chicken with king mushrooms, rice, fortune cookie, a few m & ms. 

Advertisements

19 thoughts on “H.C.B.

  1. Awesome. I know that word is much overused but it describes this article so well. It makes me understand, especially, how and why you are the person you are today. Very interesting read. Thank you for sharing him with us, even if it was only in writing.

    • Hello, Brigit. He saved a lot of lives, he launched (at least) one successful child, and he inspired many people to reach higher and farther. That’s considerably more than “not spoiling the broth.” You may be his niece, but I had 26 years of immediate family to observe.

    • Hi Brigit , are you Humphrey Clarke Booths niece on his Mothers side, and was she named Mary Ne Clarke Booth , I am trying to trace my cousin Humphrey .last time I met him was 1966 at my fathers funeral ,just curious !

  2. Hi , I read your blog about your father , do tell me , was Dr Humprey’s mother called. Mary and his Grandfather Sir Basil ,and they lived in London ? My Father’s sister was Mary Booth, I wondered what happened to her son Humprey ,could this be one and the same ?
    Regards Janeb-Annee

  3. Humphrey’s mother was Mary Booth (Killick in later life) and they did live in London. His father was Frances Micklewright Booth, but I don’t remember about his grandfather. He was born in 1936, and he had an elder sister, Felicity. Humphrey’s younger sister is still alive, I will ask her.

  4. Humphrey Clarke Booth was my cousin – my mother, Maude, was the sister of his mother, Mary! I played the organ for his interment of ashes and have a number of memories of him – three years my senior and rather an intimidating figure to me, then a rather timid child, very lacking in self-assurance!

    • Yes you were shy then David , but I think you are self assured and confident now the nature of our genes ! Thankyou Larkin , I love reading this
      Story reminds me of my Father David Clarke Humphries uncle !
      David Price is my cousin he has just found me on facebook ! I’ve sent David this link , Hence the comment ! Thankyou Larkin !!

      • Indeed, Jane-Anne – it took me a long time to lose my inhibitions and that held me back professionally, but once I realised that ‘I’d been there, done that, and got the T-shirt’, then I threw caution to the winds and have never regretted so doing!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s