By Dianna Noyes '80

When we learned of Mallory’s death and Bob’s diagnosis last summer, I was in Umbria, Italy, for the first time, looking out at a view that could have been one of Mallory’s paintings. When we learned of Bob’s death, we were in the desert on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona—another new environment for me, but one that Bob knew and loved so well. In the short intervening months, I only saw Bob once, when I took him to a radiation appointment in Keene. We talked of many things, wandering around from subject to subject—mutual friends, birds, Italy, the Catholic Church, pedophiles, age, motorcycles. On the way home, we stopped at the Chelsea Royal for Mayan chocolate ice cream cones. We sat on a bench out back, overlooking the marshy field. It was a stunning late summer day. Red-winged blackbirds chortled on cattails. A little breeze wafted through. I looked at Bob, already diminished, already starting to disappear, and thought, “this may be the last time I see you, spend time alone with you. I’d better try to make you laugh,” for that is one of the things I loved most about Bob—his laugh. So I said something, and here it came, that muffled deep in the chest wave of glee that rose in pitch through his sternum and up his throat to come out his mouth in a little burst of delight and surprise. The thing that I did not say, and wish I had, was “thank you.” Thank you, Bob, for letting me believe in my nascent birding days that the brown creeper I saw in January was really a rare warbler. Thank you for pointing out my first redstart; for confiding in me that you weren't confident about presenting a talk on moss and lichens; for teaching generations of students whether we were in your classes or not; for the love, patience, and attention you bestowed upon us; and for the laugh that I can still hear and will always treasure.