Raymond Carver a Washington Writer

I've been reading my small collection of Raymond Carver books again.  In some ways it suits this dark and blustery weather, and the late fall season.  His later work is a reminder for me of what a game changer it is when the realization strikes that you've come out appreciative and still moving forward after life's early sturm and drang, even in the face of great personal challenges. The first Carver I ever bought and read was "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love," it's 1981 collection of short stories and the title of one of the stories.  One of this week's joys will be strolling through the used book stores looking for the missing books in my collection.  I looked him up on the web and found Carver is buried at Ocean View Cemetery in Port Angeles, Washington.  I'm sorry I didn't visit him during my last visit there.  This is the inscription on his tombstone.

LATE FRAGMENT

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

Also his poem "Gravy" is inscribed there.

No other word will do.  For that's what is was.  Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved by a good woman.  Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going.  And he was going

nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head.  "Don't weep for me,"
He said to his friends.  "I'm a lucky man.
I've had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected.  Pure gravy.  And don't forget it."
RAYMOND CARVER
(1938-1988)