In Memorium: Dick Francis

My people love murder mysteries, horses, dogs and everything else that goes with country life.  (Meaning English country, not Britney Spears driving-with-baby-on-the-lap kind of country, y'all.  Shudder.)

Dick Francis, the steeplechase jockey turned writer who died on Sunday at the age of 89, had a special place on the (slightly moldy) bookshelf of every Waspy vacation cottage.  At one point I believe four generations of my father's family were reading Francis novels during our holidays on Florida's Sanibel Island: my great-grandmother, great-aunt, father and a very young me.  I was a precocious reader.  One summer vacation, when I was sunburned and bored, Dad tossed a thick volume over to me and said, "Here, read this--it has horses in it.  You'll like it."  The book was the now out of print Three To Show, a trilogy of Francis's best early mysteries, and I was instantly enthralled, caught up in the world of intrigue among the racing set.

I was a faithful Francis reader for many years after that.  I even risked the scorn of my eminent literature professor at Sarah Lawrence when I meekly confessed that I had to skip out on a conference so I could hop the train into Manhattan, where Francis was signing his latest novel at Brentano's.  (For those of you too young to remember, this was a bookstore back before the law was passed that we could only have Borders and Barnes & Noble.)  The bookstore minions had us put our dedication requests on a sticky note, which was then handed to the great author, so he wouldn't have to talk to everyone.  But when it was my turn, Francis studied the note and then looked up at me, asking, "Are you Cas?"  I choked out a shy response.  "No, he's my father, but I love your books too!"  I was rewarded with a smile and a hint of a wink.

What a charming man.  He will be dearly missed.