Family, friends and fans of fantasy gathered at The Citadel on Tuesday 8 April 2008 to dedicate a permanent memorial to my brother/cousin, James Oliver Rigney, Jr. This was a celebration of Jim’s life and his work. I would be lying were I to tell you I was looking forward to the event. We had assembled only a few weeks earlier at the Citadel to induct Jim into the South Carolina Author’s Hall of Fame. That evening had propelled me back to the awful moments in September when we lost Jim. Both Harriet and I were in dread of the same happening yet again. It didn’t. Rather the opposite.
Harriet had told us all, Onward, still she and I (and I’m sure the rest of the family) were mired in that part of grieving that causes us to hang on, denial. Only a day before, Harriet had rolled up her sleeves and dove headlong into the first chapter of MoL. She, Jim’s loyal staff and Brandon were hard at work on the book. She called me to share that and her excitement was obvious. She sounded like a new woman. Harriet told me that she finally knew that Jim wasn’t coming back. That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t still hurt. The hurt will never totally subside, but now it doesn’t interfere with going “onward”. Indeed it helps to maintain purpose and focus.
The memorial dedication was begun by a brief introduction of the event from Angie LeClercq, the Director of the Library. The introduction of the panel was made by our own Harriet. Sitting with her were Michael Livingston (Assistant Professor of Medieval Literature at The Citadel), Brandon Sanderson (Elantris, Mistborn) and Dave Drake (Hammer Slammers series, Lord of the Isles series and at least 60 other books). Michael Livingston began by offering what he thought Jim had meant to literature. He compared the body of writers to that of waves on the ocean with peaks and troughs, with the last peak being JRR Tolkein. After him there was a long period in the trough of the wave, then came Jordan. Brandon then waded in with the impact Jordan had upon him as a 15 year old reading fantasy for the first time. He said that his parents were directing him towards Chemistry and Medical School. But Jordan’s fantasy world hooked him so much that he too wanted to write. But every time he’d try something, he’d say to himself, “I can’t. Jordan already did that.” (For you writers of the future out there, Brandon wrote 12 books before getting one published. Never quit.) This prompted questions about Jordan’s impact on other writers, “were there people following his style?” I think you all know the answer to that question, there are many. Dave Drake added the observation that there are those who write about something and there are those who write about something that they know because they’ve lived it. He used his own experience from Vietnam to illustrate his point. He said that when you read Jordan you are privy to Jordan’s experiences. The question was asked about who might be the next wave peak. Brandon offered a wonderful bit of insight. It won’t be someone who imitates another’s work. Brandon said that the one(s) who get it right will look not at what Jordan did, but how he did it. If they are successful in applying the method to their own experience, then we may see the next great writer.
The photo below shows (from right to left) Harriet, Michael, Brandon and Dave. The glass case directly behind them houses the memorabilia. There you will find copies of all of Jim’s books, a Heron marked blade, his wide-brimmed black hat, his ram’s horn cane, his military decorations as well as his unit insignia from the 68th Attach Helicopter Company, photos of Jim throughout his life and of course, his Citadel ring. Should you find yourself in the Two Rivers, Charleston, do make time to go by the Citadel to see this very moving display. I’ve also included a copy of the dedication program.
(click to enlarge)
I teased you before with MoL. You all know the timing, and that hasn’t changed. But as I listened in on the exchange between Harriet, Maria (a walking dictionary of the books), Alan and Brandon, I couldn’t help but get even more excited. You all know that Jim told me in great detail, the bones of the book and very vividly described the last scene. Still, listening to the team working collectively on the minute details, hearing the excitement in their voices, feeling the electricity in the room made me want to stay till we were done. I lingered for a moment before leaving watching them sitting around the dining room table where we had shared so many meals, stories and good times. As with most families, our family members have assumed places at the table where we normally sit. I smiled when it struck me that sitting in Jim’s place was the man tapped to finish Jim’s work, Brandon. I’m sure Jim was smiling too. Onward!
Wilson
Brother/Cousin
4th of 3
[Editor note: We also received some additional words and photos from Alan Romanczuk, one of Jim’s assistants. Here’s what he writes]
Jim’s memorial case was put on permanent display in the Citadel library on the 8th of this month. It’s a beautiful piece of work, and is probably worth more than some of the houses in the neighborhood. On display are a variety of artifacts representing different periods of Jim’s life, and include photographs, articles of clothing and accessories, weapons, everything one would expect to give insight into the personality and experiences of this complex and fascinating individual.
Jim’s Harriet convened a panel to discuss his life and literary works before an audience that filled one large section of the library. The panel was comprised of [I’m doing this in order of position, from the left, in the photo shown above] David Drake, famous author of fantasy and military science fiction, and friend/admirer of Jim and Harriet’s for many years; Brandon Sanderson, talented young fantasy writer who was selected to finish the last volume in the Wheel of Time series; Michael Livingston, Assistant Professor of English at the Citadel, specialist in medieval studies and author in his own right, who is dedicated to ensuring that Robert Jordan’s work be recognized by scholars to be among the masterpieces of world mythology; and, standing, Harriet. The discussion lasted about a hour, and included questions and comments from the audience. All in all, it was a stimulating evening, a fitting tribute to Jim, and I think everyone enjoyed themselves. It also gave Brandon the opportunity to say for the first time, “Read and Find Out.”
On 8 March 2008, James Oliver Rigney, Jr. was inducted as the 47th member of the South Carolina Academy of Authors (SCAA) Hall of Fame. The setting was perfect, The Citadel, The Military College of S.C. The man most of you only knew by his nom de plume, Robert Jordan was a graduate of the Citadel and adored his alma mater. Jim would have loved the attention and been embarrassed by it. You see, he wrote not for acclaim. He wrote because that’s what he loved to do. But every one of us likes a pat on the back and a “well done” from time to time. This ceremony was exactly that, a public affirmation of what we fans of Robert Jordan already know. Jim, aka Robert Jordan, has taken the world of fantasy to a level that was only a dream before. The long narrative is possible because of Jim. A writer in his genre was quoted recently for having said that we owe the likes of Harry Potter to Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time. Jim did not live to hear that line, he did however know that the SC Authors had named him to the Hall. He was informed of it at the beginning of September 2007. Jim’s response, “I’ll be there”, for the ceremony. He lost his fight only two weeks later, but he left knowing that he’d had that pat on the back from his peers. For that, I am eternally grateful. Well done, bubba.
The evening was a celebration of Jim the man and RJ the writer. Mike Livingston, a Professor of English at the Citadel was asked to speak about Robert Jordan. He began with the first three lines from Beowulf. He detailed how fantasy has always been an important art, inspiring us all to choose the harder right instead of the easier wrong, to aspire for greatness and not settle for mediocrity. He wove a brilliant tapestry of fantasy through the ages landing upon our own Jim. R.J.’s impact on the genre will be felt for as long as man pens fantasy.
Marjory Wentworth, the Poet Laureate of South Carolina, was asked to speak of the man, Jim Rigney. She told of his mentoring of promising students. She recalled how he had seemed even more excited than she when she was named Poet Laureate. She talked at length of his generosity of education and his community. She remembered fondly his story telling, his singing and his most thunderous laughter. Marjory counted herself blessed for having had Jim as a friend.
The official words inducting Jim into the Hall were pronounced by D. Oliver Bowman, Chair of the 2008 SCAA Induction Committee.
Our Harriet was radiant, a smile ever present. She worked her way through the crowd of over 150 making sure that she spoke with everyone. A special treat for her and all of us gathered were the “1st Graders”, a group of 14 ladies with whom Harriet had begun school, that’s right, in the 1st grade. There were 8 of them in attendance. They gather at least monthly to chat over lunch or tea. By way of acknowledging them, Harriet gave a Robert Jordanish, “Hoot Hoot”, which brought laughter and an encore call. So, she did it again.
Linda Ferguson and Ellen Hyatt, SCAA board members, presented Harriet with a Memorial Gift, a clock. All felt it most appropriate for the Creator of the Wheel of Time.
The mood of the evening was light. Still as people talked of my Brother/Cousin, I was transported back to that horrible time in September. Perhaps the wound is like that in Rand’s side, it may never heal. I do hope that it does, for I am sure that Jim would rather I remember the laughter, not the pain. That goes for all of us really. This night in Charleston, the Two Rivers made terra firma, the people gathered under the large oaks of Stedding Citadel, to sing the songs of praise to one of our own, James Oliver Rigney, Jr., who though passed will live in our hearts forever.
Brandon Sanderson came to see me for a couple of days this week, and he is as terrific as he sounds in the interview. I am really glad that things have worked out so that he can, and will, complete A MEMORY OF LIGHT. He will do a job that Jim would approve, I believe. And I’ll be working with him throughout the writing. And so will Alan Romanczuk and Maria Simons, who have worked Jim through a number of books, and who are both now completely available for Brandon’s support.
It is a great relief to have Brandon on board. This (choosing the writer to finish the series and getting the work launched) was the single thing I most wanted to do for my dear Jim. All the rest of the avalanche of stuff had to take a back seat — and there has been a lot that needs to be dealt with. So now I can deal with it — figuring out one colossal bad investment, dealing with the apparent collapse of the British literary agency (now apparently reconstituting itself), figuring out how to meet the payroll, all this mundane stuff. All will be OKAY, I hasten to tell you. It’s just that it all needs to be dealt with, and that means TIME.
There is an e.e. cummings poem, I carry your heart, that you can google. [The poem is included below.] I did, and burst into tears. It tore my heart open and soothed it, too — because I do carry Jim’s heart in my heart and I always will, until we meet again, which I hope and pray we will. When I said ONWARD I did not mean away from Jim. Not at all. I meant that we must always keep going, making, giving, loving, living, as best we can, through blizzard and desert. It is what we are called on to do. A friend wrote me at Jim’s death, “the transition from love in the flesh to love remembered is endless and inconsolable” and oddly this was very comforting, because I believe it is true. It isn’t the most important thing. The most important thing is to keep going, ONWARD, with his love, in his love. He loved you guys, too, you know, even if you never met him. How else could he have written these wonderful books?
So, hold him in your hearts and LIVE — it’s what he wanted us all to do.
Greetings of the season to you all. And love. Harriet
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I have photos of family around me in my office. They are a gentle reminder that we work to have a life, not the other way around. In one of those photos, Jim and I are shoulder-to-shoulder, our heads leaning in and touching at the temples. A private moment captured by my Janet. At the end of a busy day in mid-October, I was heading towards the door, glanced at the photo and thought, “I haven’t called him in days. I need to do it on the way home…” Then it hit me. I can’t call him. He won’t answer. The stages of grieving are something with which I am all too familiar. I knew what to expect: loss, denial, guilt, anger and finally acceptance. Even so, it is a trip we each must take every time we suffer a loss. And there I stood, staring at the photo, weeping for my loss and feeling guilty for forgetting, if just for a moment.
Thank you for your prayers, your well-wishing, your concerns about our family and especially for the mountains of praise you have heaped upon my Brother/Cousin. Thank you for every note. I have read all of them, all. They have offered more comfort than you could ever imagine. We are healing.
Here in this forum, I want to publicly thank Jason. He has been and continues to be a loyal fan and friend. Through his words and pictures you have been allowed a peek into the world that was my Brother/Cousin’s. Jason told you he came to Charleston feeling a bit of anxiety. It didn’t show. He blended into our family fabric as if he had always been there. Still he was there as your representative. The questions he asked were those you would have asked. The things he wanted to see were what you would have wanted to see. He touched, smelled and tasted life in the Two Rivers. With Jason’s words and photos, I pray that you were able to gain a sense of closure.
Plans are well underway to erect a permanent memorial detailing the life and accomplishments of James Oliver Rigney, Jr., aka Robert Jordan. The site could not be more perfect, the library at the Citadel in Charleston. Items that you would easily recognize will be included in the exhibit: his ram’s horn cane, his Citadel ring and one of his broad-brimmed black hats to name a few. The exhibit will be dedicated in the spring of 2008.
By now you are all aware of the grand news that Brandon Sanderson will be working closely with Harriet and Jim’s staff to write aMoL. Brandon has proven himself in the genre. Harriet, hand picked him for the task. I hope you are as pleased and excited as we that he accepted the challenge. As you will learn in Jason’s interview, Brandon has long been a WOT fan. Now he has the privilege of donning the gleeman’s cloak and telling us the ending of the tale. I am sure that he will do Jim’s epic proud.
Remember my Brother/Cousin in the old familiar way. I miss you Bubba. Now, as Harriet has told us, Onward.
Since posting the report on Robert Jordan’s funeral, I’ve come across some more items I’d like to share with you. (With permission from RJ’s family of course).
First off, Tom Doherty and Wilson were kind enough to share the words they spoke at RJ’s funeral with us. Tom is the president of Tor Books (who published the Wheel of Time), and has been a friend of RJ’s for 30 years or more. Here’s what he said at the eulogy:
Tom Doherty’s Eulogy for James Oliver Rigney, Jr. (Robert Jordan)
“He came like the wind. Like the wind touched everything and like the wind was gone.”
Jim Rigney, Robert Jordan, friend, doer, dreamer, maker of dreams, one of the great storytellers of the 20th and I believe time will prove 21st century as well. His Wheel of Time is a towering epic of power and scope. After praising it extensively, the New York Times said of it:
“– the evil laced into forces of good, the dangers latent in any promised salvation, the scenes of unavoidable onslaught of unpredictable events – bear the marks of American national experience during the last three decades -”
Truly Jim wrote for us all.
And Harriet, the love of his life, what a team, Harriet is the finest editor I’ve ever worked with. Working together they produced wonderful things. His first two books, Fallon Blood and Fallon Pride were published by her company, Popham Press as a joint venture with Ace where I was publisher and she had been Editorial Director. And then at Tor, another Fallon, Conan and the Wheel of Time. The Wheel, which has touched the lives of so many millions and down the generations will touch so many millions more.
Jim was a man of courage and heart and vision. He was my friend of 30 years. He’s gone ahead of us now. Beyond that last horizon to a place we cannot yet see. But I think he can see us and he’s glad we’re together and he’s already thinking of stories he’s going to tell Harriet and then the rest of us when we get there.
We miss you Jim. Thanks for all you’ve left behind.
Thank you, Tom, for sharing that with all of us.
Wilson, RJ’s “cousin/brother” also spoke at the funeral. He read an excerpt from “Irish Cream”
From Irish Cream,
by Father Andrew Greeley
“The issue,” said the little bishop in him homily, “is whether the tombstone or the flowers are more ultimate. It is perhaps odd that we Americans celebrate our day of the dead just when life flourishes and summer begins. Somehow we have our symbols confused. My parents called this festival Decoration Day because it is the day when we used to put flowers around the tombs. Now we put them everywhere and perhaps forget about the meaning of the festival and tombs. We honor those who died in the country’s wars-millions of young men whose lives were cut short before they had a chance to flourish. All war is foolish. Some may, however foolish, also be necessary. That is not for us to decide today. We must rather consider those long rows of white crosses-and Stars of David-and think of how much those young men might have contributed to the life of our country if they had been given a chance. We must also think of the parents, the wives, the sweethearts of those who are buried in the military cemeteries and how much their lives were blighted by early and sudden death.
“It might be said that they died for their country. It is more likely that they died because they were drafted and had no choice. They may also have died because political leaders or military leaders made tragic mistakes. We must not use this day of the dead to glorify war but rather to sorrow for those who died and for those who lost the.
“We must also ask God, with all due respect, why he permitted all these young lives to be cut short with such tragic results. We don’t expect an answer but we must ask the question. Indeed he expects us to ask the question and not to lose sight of the tragedy.
“Yet we put flowers on the tombs and we surround our homes with flowers. Hence the question: Which is more ultimate, the flower or the tomb? Death, which the white cross represents, or life, which the flower represents? Do we just make the tomb pretty or do we defy it?
“I put it to you that we defy the tomb. We do not pretend that there is no tragedy in all these deaths. We do not turn away from the stupidity, the futility, the ugliness of death, of any and every death. Because of our faith we seek to transcend it. Love is as strong as death, the Song of Songs tells us. It is a kind of draw between the two. If, however, love cannot prevent death, so death cannot prevent love and thus in the end love wins. Consider the lilacs here on the lawn: they ought to have been wiped out long ago by the wind and the snow. Yet they reappear every year at this time to remind us that there is beauty in the cosmos. If there is beauty then there is Beauty with a capital B. And if there is Beauty, death is not quite the end. There is yet more to be said. Beyond that today we cannot go and we need not go. All the beauty of this wonderful day once again defies death and we join in that defiance. Life is too important ever to be anything but life.”
In addition to the excerpt above, Wilson also sent in some more pictures from RJ’s house.
And finally, this last photo of RJ is by an artist named Lese Corrigan. Here’s what Wilson had to say about it.
The portrait of Jim is my personal favorite. It was very recently that I connected the artist, Lese Corrigan, who I had known for some time to the painting. Lese was at the house every morning and every evening for the last 6 months helping Harriet through this. She was with us that Saturday evening when the last book came erupting from Jim’s mouth. She had been a steno in earlier days and took the most meticulous notes that night. Much of what Jim wanted in the last book will be there because she was able to get it down as he said it. We all owe her a lot.”
Over a hundred people e-mailed condolences to the undertaker in Charleston. There is no way to respond on that site, and I just can’t do individual responses. I hope that those who wrote there also read the blog — thank you all for your very kind messages. I’ve read them all, and so has Will, and I’ve sent them on to Reynolds and Wilson.
The following was written by Will McDougal, who is Harriet’s son and Robert Jordan’s step-son. He was kind enough to share these experiences with us.
———–
Thank you for all your support. James Oliver Rigney was a remarkable man. I am proud to have known him, to have been raised by him and to know him as a father.
I wrote the following 2 days after he passed away. It seemed to me that some readers might like to know some of the following. Thanks again for your support.
The death of Jim is undeniable. His absence is undeniable.
His presence is absent from my life like a mountain might be over time. but with Jim, it was in three hours.
I arrived 10am, my cousin Mary somehow pulled strings at airport. She was able to park Jim’s car at the curb of the terminal building and then get to the gate to meet me so that we could get to the hospital as quickly as possible.
I took turns with others and sat with him on and off for 4 or 5 hours. He was incapable of speech. Somehow he had developed a fever but it was unclear what the reason was. They gave him every test to determine the reason. Tom Jones called. I put him on speakerfone and held the phone to Jim’s ear. TJ told him that he loved him and wished he was there. Jim definitely responded as though he recognized Tom’s voice. He smiled and closed his eyes, and I think he felt Tom’s love.
This fever, on top of myriad critical breakdowns, was killing him. Occasionally, he trembled as though extremely alarmed. I think he was having nightmares.
I kept wiping his forehead with a damp cool towel. I held his hand. I encouraged him to rest easy. I told him I loved him.
In a little while his breathing began to slow.
There were many of us there, his family. Only two people were allowed at a time as visitors to see him. Will [Wilson] and my mother were with Jim - I had been asleep in the waiting room. They woke and got me. He had died.
His breathing had kept slowing. He had begun to die and he did die very peacefully. His breathing simply stopped.
It was obvious when I saw his body. He was gone. This tremendous man had moved on. I knew that this body on the bed had been Jim. I knew that the fire which moved him, which was Jim, was no longer in that body.
I knew that the loss of the fire of his life was who I mourned. His presence. His force.
What a wild ! and ferocious spirit. What a fire.
James Oliver Rigney was a great man of mind and heart. He loved learning and he loved spinning yarns. He was extremely playful and would become a cast of different characters. He occasionally became the character of the drunken Irish butler who was contractually bound to live under the stairs. The one who had to confess he had been watering the whisky, but only moderately, and never on the Sabbath. He had an immaculate Irish accent. His singing voice was beautiful. He loved to sing sea-chantys and anything else. He sang loud and strong and clear. On holidays and dinner parties he would sing for hours.
He was a very funny man. And what I think I loved most about his sense of humor was how funny He thought his jokes were. Not that he was a bad joke teller! He could spin some of the most absurd stories, which might begin quite casually and matter-of-factly. Upon delivery of the punch line or if he realized that my adolescent gullability had waned, sometimes his face would turn bright red and he would laugh intensly, and silently, as though the mirth in it, if given voice, would knock out the walls of the house. His belly bouncing.
He would tell me the sad stories of the Nauga. I was 11 or 12. He spoke about “the huge numbers of those doomed rodents — all slaughtered to make so many couches and chairs.” That was a perrenial favorite of his. Explaining where naugahyde came from. That, and his suggestions that the “barrel-method” was optimal for rearing children. “It’s quite simple, you see. You deposit the child in the barrel when he remains, if a boy, until his 35th birthday.” She-children, of course, realeased upon their 18th birthday. He used to smoke a custom blend of tobacco in a pipe, one of hundreds of pipes he had collected. He was clear with his strategy for health as a result of smoking. “You see,” he began, “I intend to become as though a creosote log, coated in tar and hence impregnable to nature’s wear and tear.” In short he would finish that of this he “was certain.” Under the brim of his dark fedora I could see the light in his eye and it was a playful light. I can see him now. I love you Jim.
The following is an account of my experiences when I traveled to South Carolia for Robert Jordan’s funeral. I was privileged to attend his services in Charleston, and to meet his family. My goal in attending the funeral was to represent as many of his fans as possible, and to document everything in order to share it with you. I hope what follows can help give you a sense of what it was like to be there. Even though you couldn’t attend, I promise you, whether you’re reading this in the school computer lab, at the office, or in your kitchen, you were in my thoughts and heart, and I did what I could to make sure RJ and his family knew it. It wasn’t just me visiting them… it was all of us.
—
I received a phone call from Wilson on Sunday, September 16th. That’s when all of this began. I could tell immediately from his tone that something had happened. “We lost him,” Wilson said. “Jim passed away today.”
To be honest, I don’t exactly remember what my first reaction to that gut-wrenching statement was. I remember being worried for Harriet, and I remember being sad for Wilson because I could hear how upset he was on the phone, but in that infinitesimal moment when the words first sink in, I think I felt a wide array of emotions. There was sadness, of course, and shock, because we had just received good news in the previous blog entry, but there was also … what? Disappointment? It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t heartsick at the thought that RJ wouldn’t be finishing the final volume in The Wheel of Time. Most of you I’m sure, felt it too. Just as he was honest with us until the end, so I will be honest here. I think we’re all sad, and at least a tiny bit frustrated, by not having A Memory of Light completed in the way we wanted and hoped for.
Before you think poorly of me, hear me out. Obviously, we can’t blame RJ for that. To do so is to show a lack of understanding of the way he worked and the way he fought this disease. Amyloidosis is a brutal disease and nobody could fight as hard as Jim Rigney. His blog is a testament to his fight and his dedication. He proved to us, right here, that he was Aiel to the core: “Till shade is gone, till water is gone, into the Shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath, to spit in Sightblinder’s eye on the Last Day.” I don’t think there could be a stronger statement that defined RJ’s fight with the disease. When I say I was frustrated, it lasted only a fraction a second. It is, in part, our ability to overcome our negative emotions that makes us human to begin with. I took that frustration and fed it to the flame, and let the void surround me. There was work to be done, fans to be notified, and questions to be answered.
Thus began a three-day adventure that I’ll never forget.
A quick note: For those of you who may not know, Robert Jordan was a pen name used by James (”Jim”) Rigney. Jim is survived by his wife Harriet, his step-son Will, his brother Reynolds, and a full host of cousins, nephews, nieces, second-cousins-twice-removed, and more. A few people have asked me who Wilson is, and what a “Brother/Cousin, 4th of 3″ means. Indeed, it sounds like a bizarre mix of the Borg, southern genealogy, and the even stranger Aiel relationships, but it’s actually quite simple. Wilson is Jim’s first cousin and they have always been very close, so close in fact that they considered one another brothers. So, that’s where Wilson’s use of the term “Brother/Cousin” comes from. The “4th of 3″ refers to the fact that Jim was one of 3 brothers (Ted, the third brother, passed away a few years ago) and Wilson was considered the “4th” brother in that family.
Jim lived in Charleston, South Carolina, in a beautiful old home that’s been in Harriet’s family since the 1930’s. One of the kindest gestures I received this week was having Wilson say that I would be welcome there, and at Jim’s funeral.
On Sunday evening, I posted the news of RJ’s passing several hours after it occurred. Wilson sent me the brief write up that you’ve all read by now. Within minutes, the Dragonmount.com server began to see an unusually large increase in traffic. Within an hour, the site had slowed to a crawl. By the following morning, it was nearly impossible to get to RJ’s blog. Initial reports run by the DM admins on the server at the time suggested an increase of traffic of about 250-300 times the normal amount. We estimated that it would take about 120 extra CPU’s to fully handle all of the requests coming in at every moment. The DM server is brand-new, still cutting edge, but with the kind of numbers we were seeing, all we could do was try to keep the website stable.
The next morning I found myself on a plane flying from California to South Carolina. I grabbed a rental car and set off to drive to Robert Jordan’s house. Let me pause here a moment and say that again: I was driving to Robert Jordan’s house! If you’re as much of a fan-boy as I am (and I know there are A LOT of you who are AT LEAST as big a fan as I am of his books), it would be a wild and crazy thing to think of going to the Creator’s house and seeing where the books were written. Less than a week ago, such a thing would have seemed ridiculous to me. South Carolina is so far away. The closest I had ever come to visiting the Deep South before this trip was watching Gone with the Wind, and attending DragonCon in downtown Atlanta a few years ago, a decidedly different experience than visiting Charleston.
Jim once told me that he lived in the Two Rivers and suggested I check a map. I never had his mailing address though, and I couldn’t exactly Google it, could I? But now, having been there, I can tell you that he wasn’t kidding. He lives in the Two Rivers! Charleston proper is situated on a peninsula. The two bodies of water on either side of the peninsula are rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper. Jim and Harriet are very near the tip of the peninsula where these two rivers collide. They’re deep in the Two Rivers. You might say they live as deep into their Two Rivers district as Emond’s Field is in its own.
All of the homes in this area are old historical buildings, usually three, maybe four stories tall, with the well-known pillars and balconies that define the architecture of the southern United States. Jim and Harriet’s home was completed in 1795. As I drove up their street, looking for the right house number, I saw a large white gate, and knew that I’d arrived. Carved into the gates are two large, sinuous creatures with five fingers on each claw. The symbol of the Dragon used in the books. I had found it.
That Tuesday evening when I arrived was filled with so many amazing memories. I’ll never forget it. First, I want you all to know that I found Harriet very quickly (or rather, she found me) and I let her know (on behalf of myself and all of you) that I was sincerely sorry for her loss. Her way of replying was to give me a warm smile, look me in the eyes, and say, “For you as well.” Harriet is an amazing woman. You’ve heard RJ say it over and over again, but this week I saw it for myself. A southern lady to the core, Harriet is the essence of grace, with an easy manner that makes you feel like an old friend the moment you meet her, and an air of poise that belied her grief as she comforted others. Her eyes are warm and gentle, and sparkling with intelligence and wit. Oftentimes, I saw her with tears glistening in those lovely eyes, but she had just as many smiles to give to the rest of us. More, actually. She sang and clapped her heart out. She laughed with, and hugged, and kissed everyone who came to visit. I was welcomed into her home as part of the family this week, and cannot find the words to express how humbled and honored I am to have been included. By welcoming me, she and the rest of Jim’s family welcomed us all as a unified collection of fans. Have no doubt that you were all there with us that evening.
A bit about RJ’s home. God, where to begin? Every wall is covered in artwork, most of it paintings. There are some photographs, but by and large those were only present at desks or set in a frame under a lamp. The parlor has several floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with nothing except all the various editions of The Wheel of Time. It seemed as though every edition for each book was there and all of the translations. I’m six and a half feet tall and I would need a ladder to get to the upper shelves. If you have seen the book Faces of Fantasy, then you’ve seen the large, antique dragon chair that RJ owned. It’s pretty darn scary up close. It sits near the bookcases like a guardian ready to spring at the unwary critic. The effect, however, was a bit ruined by the fluffy pillows and blankets draped across it. :)
As wondrous as the house itself is, the most exciting place to visit is, of course, the place where it all happened, the carriage house. This is where RJ wrote all of his books. Inside is a library of over 16,000 books (yes, you read that right) and at least several hundred bladed weapons. Swords, axes, spears, and knives of all shapes and sizes line the walls and shelves of his office. Both the upstairs and downstairs areas are jam-packed with this stuff. It was like walking into a used bookstore that also happened to sell weapons, smoking pipes, and funky hats. I guess RJ liked to wear different hats when he wrote. Not just the ones you saw him wear on tour or in publicity photos, but wacky Viking helmets or jester hats. Who knew? Maybe it helped him get into all the different characters. Maria, one of his assistants, seemed to think he did it just to keep them all laughing, or guessing about his sanity.
One other thing about the carriage house is that it was filled with gifts sent to him by fans. There were sketches, paintings, sculptures, plaques, and other memorabilia that he had received over the years from people who loved his work. It was pretty clear that he treasured those things. So, if you were ever a fan who sent in letters or gifts, be assured that he received them. I also received confirmation that he read every single letter written to him over the years. Clearly, he did not always have time to reply to them all, but he read every one and it meant a lot to him.
Okay, one last carriage house story, then I’ll move on. While I was there, the temptation to sit down at his desk, in his chair, at his computer, became overwhelming. I noted at the time how strange it was to be feeling as though this act were sacrilegious. Of course, I meant no disrespect. I just wanted to sit at the place where these books had been written. As I eased myself into the chair, I was overcome by a profound sense of excitement and sadness. I could feel his presence and his eyes on me in this place where he poured out so much of himself through his writing. The screen was dark as my fingers hovered over the keyboard, aching to touch the letters. I typed the word “RAND”, just a silly attempt to mimic the strokes that keyboard had seen countless times before. The computer screen, which a moment before had been a dark sentinel guarding its Master’s desk, suddenly sprang to life from sleep mode and beeped loudly at me. I damn near jumped out of my skin! I vaulted from that chair as if the Dark One himself were in pursuit and fled with the distinct realization that there were a lot of sharp swords and scary masks watching my hasty retreat!
That same Tuesday night while we were outside, Wilson pointed out to me that even though we were in the downtown area of a major city, if you closed your eyes and listened, all you could hear were crickets. Our beloved RJ lived in a slice of heaven, my friends. You probably have heard him speak of how much he loved that city, and I can now see why. Look at these photos and the lush jungle of greenery that surrounded him. I have little doubt that the trees and landscape of his home helped him to imagine the Green Man and the Nym, the Ogier Groves, and the eternal forests in dreams where wolves hunt and dreamwalkers dwell. It was here in his Stedding, beneath the trees and a canopy of stars that I stayed late into the night, sharing stories with Jim’s friends and family and letting the peace of the warm southern evening pass through me.
The following morning I arrived back at the house early. Even after the warm welcome the night before, I was amazed to find myself seated at the breakfast table with the members of his immediate family. (Somebody invited me to sit in Jim’s chair, but I hastily declined because of my last adventure with one of his chairs. The walls of the dining room were covered in paintings of Jim and I felt them “giving me the eye.”) The newspaper reports were rolling in and we all read them. One of them… the London Times, perhaps?… even used the term “Randland”. Ha ha ha! I got a great chuckle from seeing that term used in a major newspaper.
Shortly after breakfast, I found myself helping out by doing dishes. Washing dishes is a soothing task for me, so I find that I do it quite often. (My wife thinks I’m crazy, but she never complains.) Also, I figured that, had any of you been there, you probably would have done the same thing. Jim has given so much to us that doing a simple chore like washing plates on the day of his funeral was an easy task to do. It also helped pass a little time before going to the church.
The funeral took place at St. Stephen’s in Charleston. It’s a small church with a simple and glorious beauty. Jim’s ashes were on a pedestal in front of the altar. In addition to family and friends, I saw some fans who had come to pay their respects. Among them was Melissa Craib, the founder of TarValon.net. I was glad for her presence as she was someone I knew well, but more than that, I was glad she was there because she was another fan. Jim would have wanted her there. Melissa has already written up a report on the funeral. You can read it here.
Tom Doherty, the founder and president of Tor Books, gave the eulogy. He said Jim was one of the greatest storytellers of the 20th century, and that he believed time would show the same was true for the 21st century. I couldn’t agree more. Whether or not you like the books, regardless if you’re frustrated by their size or pace, I think we could all agree that the sheer majesty and scope of the Wheel of Time series is unparalleled. Simply put, it’s the longest, and perhaps the most accessible, epic fantasy saga today.
By the way, I had the amazing fortune to be able to talk at length with Tom D. over the course of my visit. Tom is a man whose experience and insight into publishing is eclipsed only by his warmth and kindness, and his love for Jim and Harriet. If that sounds overly sugary, I assure you it isn’t. I would be hard pressed to meet another man as kind and attentive as Tom.
Harriet’s son, Will, Jim’s brother, Reynolds, and Wilson all spoke at the funeral. Wilson read a truly moving essay that touched me deeply. I’ll post a copy of it soon.
In the end, the most amazing part of the funeral was the singing. Now, I won’t claim that we had the most talented vocalists in attendance, but what the congregation might have lacked in talent, it more than made up for in spirit. And that is what we sang, spirituals. Songs with roots that run deeply through the southern experience and blossom at need to replenish the hearts of the grieving and remind them of the hope that lays in faith. At one point, the church was bursting with song. I remember looking up as we raised our voices to heaven, and I thought of all of you fans who were not present. I thought of how, with the people above in upper balconies and the white walls, this must be a little what it’s like to be in the White Tower for assemblies. The songs rose into the air, and together we sang Jim’s spirit into heaven, and into one another, and around the world.
I should mention that Harriet wore one of Jim’s hats to church. You know those wide-brimmed hats he wore on tour? (Not at all dissimilar to a hat worn by a certain ta’veren gambler.) Well, Harriet was sporting one of those very stylishly and it choked me up to see her wearing it.
Following the funeral was a reception where everyone could mingle and chat. I had met many of the people there the night before, but this became an opportunity to meet even more folks, and go deeper into conversation with those I had already spoken with. Many fond memories of Jim were shared. Aside from being a famous author, the fact that so many people would attend his funeral and have nothing but good things to say about him speaks volumes about the kind of man he was. I had come to Charleston for Robert Jordan’s funeral, seeking a chance to say good-bye to a well-beloved author. What I actually found after three days with his family and friends was so much more than I could ever have imagined. I was gifted with the opportunity to learn about Jim Rigney, the man, a far more fascinating person than Robert Jordan could ever be.
I spent the few hours between the funeral and the burial touring downtown Charleston and mingling at the reception. Harriet’s cousin, Harriet (yes, another Harriet), and her husband George were gracious and gave me a tour of downtown Charleston. I was able to learn a bit about the city and places Jim used to frequent. Most notably, I saw the Yacht Club where he was a member. One thing that strikes me about a place like Charleston is how much HISTORY there is everywhere you go, and how people here know their ancestry back multiple generations. Harriet and George told me that they were instructed when they were young to “know the maiden name of all four of your great-grandmothers.” I was only able to come up with one of them. I promised George that I’d research the other three and get back to him! Many of you are wiser than I am and already know this lesson, but for those who don’t know it yet, I humbly offer it here. Take the time to learn about your roots! Know who your family was and how you ultimately came to be. Most of our personal histories are still passed through oral tradition. So, take the time at some point in your life to know those who came before you and pass the information on to those who follow. This is clearly a lesson Jim learned early in his life, or maybe had bred into him from the start. These histories will help complete you and may even spark creativity or insight that you didn’t know was there before.
The final stage of Jim’s funeral was his burial. Once again I was humbled by the family’s invitation to attend this very private affair. We buried him out in the country, and I say “we” now because it was made clear to me numerous times by different people that I was an honorary member of the family, a distinction that I kindly extended to all of you in spirit. Harriet dropped rose petals into the grave with her son Will by her side. At one point, she was presented with a folded United States flag as is traditional at the burial of a U.S. veteran. The men in Jim’s family; Reynolds, Will, Tom Jones, and Wilson, all placed the dirt on top of him; an eternal blanket to keep him for the Ages.
The church where he was buried was completed in 1785 and has had continuous services since then. Jim and Harriet were married there. His grave is next to that of several family members who preceded him and Harriet told me that one day she would rest next to him at the same site. Prayers were read, songs were sung, and tears were shed. This was, by far, the hardest moment for me personally. Despite the sadness of those present, you could see the deep bonds of family coming together to support each other. The Rigneys, like your family, like mine… are just that: a group of people who have discovered that together they are greater than the sum of their individual members. I saw Jim’s family brought together by his life. Like any other family, I’m sure they have problems and disagreements, but the strength in their love for one another is evident when they gather together. These were the people who loved him, and I’m proud to have stood with them as your representative.
While the tears flowed, and the bagpiper from the Citadel played his mournful tune, I saw something radiant which made me smile. A little baby, only a few months old with beautiful eyes, was looking directly at me. I snapped a photo of her because here was a sign of new life and promise among the cold stones and the earth. Here was someone that Jim probably cherished in his last months and would have wanted the world for. The Wheel of Time turns…
Towards the end, when most of the family was finished with their farewells, I took a moment to sit before Jim’s grave. I tried to recall that first excitement I had when I read The Eye of the World thirteen years ago. I offered a bit of that feeling to him, so that the joy of having read his books might stay with him for a while as he rests. Once again I thought of all of you and told him how much we all loved him. I thanked him for the gift of his books, and I bade him farewell.
I remembered the previous times I met Jim (when he was on book tour). I would always see him and think “Wow! That man right there is Perrin and Mat and Elayne and Loial, and Asmodean and Elaida and everyone else all made flesh.” I would imagine that by shaking his hand I would be shaking all of their hands. As the burial approached, I had expected to feel a similar thing when he was buried. I expected to feel as though we were laying all of those characters into the ground, but that never happened. I realized that these characters and events are very much alive and present. Go into any bookstore and Mat is as alive and witty as ever. Rand will always be his charming and…uh…moody… self. The Forsaken will always be a threat. Jim gave these characters life, but we sustain them, and that is what I truly believe applies to the living as well. We live life in order to interact and be with others. By sharing a bit of yourself with another person you connect with them on a deeper level. There is energy within and between us all. Life, God, or the True Source, whatever you want to call it, is what I think we’re here for, or so I felt at that particular moment at the foot of Robert Jordan’s grave.
Jim had wanted a certain song to be played at his funeral, Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. For some reason it wasn’t possible to do it, so after most people had left the burial ground, Mary, Harriet’s cousin whom Jim had treated and loved like a daughter, loaded the CD up in Jim’s Porsche and cranked it up. The music evoked a sense of sadness laced with hope and the promise of salvation.
Oh, and, by the way, I got to ride in that Porsche on the way home. Jim bought it for himself when he became the New York Times #1 best-seller for the first time. (Book 8, I think). He told me a couple of years back via e-mail that “it handles like it’s on rails.” Indeed, it did.
The rest of Wednesday was spent back at the house. Once again, I walked through the carriage house, this time taking photos. (The swords and hats no longer seemed angry with me for sitting in his chair.) Wilson took me upstairs in the main house where I saw the original painting of the cover from The Dragon Reborn. This is the one for which Harriet asked the painter to remove Ishamael’s face. I also was able to see Jim’s numerous war medals, and those of his father.
The evening went on, and night fell. My flight for home left the next morning at 6 AM (yuck). Making my farewells was hard, as I had genuinely come to enjoy everyone’s company so much. I felt like I was leaving the Winespring Inn in the Two Rivers. Several of the ladies wanted to make sure I had had enough to eat, and a few of the gentlemen wanted to be certain I had all my travel arrangements in place. On both of my back-to-back nights leaving Jim’s house, I walked away with a plate full of food. I now know what the term “southern hospitality” means.
I could not possibly write about all of the conversations I had during my time in Charleston. There were so many of them, and much of what was said was somewhat private in nature. Mostly, conversations were about everyday things, but the WoT geek in me was curious, and so I poked around. I can tell you this much: nothing about the plot of the final novel was revealed to me. I’m no closer to the identity of Asmodean’s killer than you are. (Although, come on people, it’s been 15 years. You should know by now. Go read the WoT FAQ. When I suggested to Maria who I thought it was she gave me a “Don’t-even-go-there” look.) What I do know about A Memory of Light is that we need to give everyone time to figure out what’s going to happen with it next. Wilson has already revealed previously on RJ’s blog that Jim left some pretty detailed notes on what would happen. He, Harriet, and presumably Maria and the other assistants, all know the endings and secrets. There are both written notes and audio recordings of Jim saying what happened. (Wouldn’t it be cool to have that audio published with the final novel someday? Tor, are you listening?) How or when we’ll see A Memory of Light in published form needs to be worked out. Jim’s death is too recent and the wounds it left too raw to his family to say when the last volume will be completed. Time will provide us with the book we want, and the conclusion the series deserves. We just have to be patient.
Speaking of conclusions, so ends my adventure. Although, as Jim has told us eleven times before, there are no beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel. I hope this gave you even a little taste of what it was like. I’ll never forget those days at Jim and Harriet’s house. I am saddened by our loss, and at the same time, overjoyed by the opportunity I was given. I wish each of you could have seen the bookshelves, felt the grip of the swords, and heard the crickets. And the music. Wow… the music especially will stay with me forever. The Tinkers and Ogier need look no further for their songs than the ones we sang to Jim Rigney when we gave him to the earth.
I’ll end with this beautiful quote that was printed on the back of Jim’s prayer card at the funeral. I have a bunch of them and I’ll figure out a way to give them away to some of you. The other fans at the funeral may have already posted them. The quote reads as follows. I have it burned into my memory.
“He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone.”
Thank you Jim, for touching my life, and the lives of all those reading this and beyond. We will miss you so.
In loving memory, and on behalf of all those reading this, I remain,
Your Friend,
Whenever he was able to be at the computer, he checked the blog first thing. Your e-mails REALLY MATTERED to him. He loved them … and I think in some sense he loved you all.
I never thanked you for all my birthday messages, but I do now. We had a nice party…about a dozen people, ranging in age from 4 months to 82 years, sitting around the dining room table which had been covered with lots of newspaper, picking our own lovely boiled local shrimp, eating corn on the cob and homemade biscuits , and later eating watermelon; a good deal of white wine went down our gullets, too. I should add, no cooking was done by me. My dearest first cousin, also named Harriet (we’re both named for her mother), did it all, just about.
It was a happy time. Jim made it so.
He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone.
These are words Jim said to me several books ago, in the weary
, then you’ve seen the large, antique dragon chair that RJ owned. It’s pretty darn scary up close. It sits near the bookcases like a guardian ready to spring at the unwary critic. The effect, however, was a bit ruined by the fluffy pillows and blankets draped across it. :)
The Eye of the World
The Great Hunt
The Dragon Reborn
The Shadow Rising
The Fires of Heaven
Lord of Chaos
A Crown of Swords
The Path of Daggers
Winter's Heart
Crossroads of Twilight
Knife of Dreams
A Memory of Light
New Spring
Registration for JordanCon Open (2008-04-20 15:08:42)
Robert Jordan's Citadel memorial dedication (2008-04-23 12:07:27)