In 1971 I returned to Chicago after a couple of years in New
York. Rand McNally was much the same as when I had worked there in the sixties,
but they had just acquired the Lyons & Carnahan company, and brought in
their editors.
One of their editors, Jane Robinson, was ten years younger
than I, and at that tumultuous time we should have been on opposite sides of
the generation gap. Surprisingly, Jane and I hit it off immediately. We were
both feminists, political liberals, and voracious readers. (We also tended to
have a critical view of the world, and to broadcast our opinions.) Jane was a
bright, hardworking editor whose talent was probably wasted on the social
studies textbooks she worked on.
Jane was a perfectionist, which made her an excellent writer
and editor. It affected other aspects of her life as well. I used to tease her
about what I thought was her obsessive approach to shopping—then saw her
furnish and decorate a series of beautiful homes. More importantly, Jane was a
warm, humorous woman who made many friends easily.
Soon after we met, both Jane and I married. I had come back
from New York to marry Harold, and she had met Larry McGoldrick, a brilliant
young professor at the University of Chicago. Harold and Larry were very
different men, but they shared a wry sense of humor. All of us got along well,
and we saw each other often.
About 1980 we all left Chicago. We did so with some regrets,
because we loved the city. But, Larry had accepted a job with NASA in
Washington; Harold, with a young engineering firm in San Francisco. Larry and
Jane had also just become the parents of Daniel, who would keep them very busy
in the coming years. In spite of living on opposite coasts, Jane and I managed
to see each other every so often, and we kept in touch by mail. Jane became an
editor at National Geographic’s World magazine,
I went back to grad school and set up an editorial service.
When Jane was about fifty, she made the major decision to
return to grad school in order to become a Jungian psychologist. That would
have been a tremendous effort even for a younger woman, and must have been
extremely difficult for her. With her typical determination, she spent several
years achieving her dream. As Dr. McGoldrick, she became a psychologist for the
Air Force, then established a private practice in New Mexico. (Larry and Jane
had fallen in love with the Southwest, and finally managed to relocate there
just a few years ago.)
Jane and I exchanged some gifts over the years, and I
treasure those concrete reminders of her. But, her greatest gift was a visit to
us a few years before Harold died. Realizing she might never see him again, she
flew to California to spend a couple of weeks with us. We had a wonderful time
showing Jane the Monterey Peninsula, North Beach restaurants and the City
Lights book store in San Francisco, and many other places. It gave Harold and
me a much-needed respite from his surgeries and hospitalizations, as he managed
to stay well during her entire visit.
In the spring of 2012 Jane called to tell me she had been
diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, but intended to do everything possible to
survive. Knowing her perseverance, I thought that she would succeed. For more
than a year afterward she was subjected to chemotherapy, radiation, and
alternative treatments, traveling from her home in New Mexico to southern
California and New York. In spite of everything, the cancer metastasized, and
this August she succumbed to it.
I think Jane believed, as I do, that our death on this earth
is not the end; that in some way we rejoin the Spirit. That belief should
comfort me, and in time it will. Now, though, I want to rage as Macbeth did,
“She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time for such a word.
. . ” September 3 would have been her sixty-fifth birthday. Jane should have
lived for many more years, giving of her love and intelligence to all of us who
remain.
