Another paper reported these words: ‘If the mountain does something, I’d rather go right here with it. If I was out of here and lost my home, I wouldn’t last a week at my age, I’d just die, and die miserable too. I’d have nothing to live for at all, and I’d just double up and die. My old heart would stop – if I’ve got one, an’ a lot of people have said I ain’t got no heart.’
The press loved it, and the newspapers lapped it up, printing rows of dots when the language became too obscene. The public bought the papers and magazines in their millions. Truman was a star. The American people like to think of themselves as robustly independent, like the first settlers, and here was a grand old American backwoodsman, showing them all that the ‘spirit of America’ was alive and well.
Meanwhile, in the courts and committee rooms of Washington State, debate was raging about Truman’s status as the only person remaining inside the Red Zone. Was it lawful? Was he trespassing? Could the evacuation order be enforced? Should he be forcibly removed for his own safety?
The land still belonged to the Northern Pacific Railroad Company, so they enquired if the lease could be revoked in exceptional circumstances; the reply was so long in coming that it wasn’t worth waiting for. The Sheriff checked with local prosecutors about Truman’s legal rights. The lawyers conferred and came up with the conclusion that an independent court would have to decide, and that, in view of the publicity, it was doubtful they could find an impartial jury to hear the case. Therefore, they could not prosecute. Besides, there was no way of avoiding bad publicity, and the lawyer doubted if there was a law-enforcement official in the county who would arrest Truman, even if he was breaking the law.
But was he? He was in his own home, doing no harm to anyone, except perhaps himself. Some bright spark came up with the question, was he sane? If not, he could be certified and removed. But the idea of getting in a couple of psychiatrists to examine him, which would undoubtedly reach the ears of the press, leading to a stream of derisive articles, was too much for the poor Sheriff and the idea was abandoned.
The fact is, Truman was saner and a great deal more intelligent than anyone debating his case. He had always been a cute customer when he wanted something. He said once that ‘the press is more powerful than the law’. Had he foreseen what was likely to happen to him? It would have been no trouble for two hefty young forest rangers to manhandle an old-timer out of his home, into a car or a helicopter. But with the press reporting every move this would have caused a public outcry. Civil liberties, the rights of man, assault – all would have been evoked. Truman knew what he was doing all along. Not from altruism had he exhausted his stock of whisky and rotgut on the press boys. With public opinion on his side, he was safe.
‘Safe’ is an odd word to use if you live in the path of an erupting volcano, but his logic was impeccable. We all have to die, and, whatever the circumstances, it is better to die in your own home than in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers. He had said, ‘If I lost my home I wouldn’t last a week at my age. My old heart would stop.’ He was probably wrong, there. In modern America old hearts don’t just stop, and if they do, life will be forced back into them. For Truman, it would have been a nursing home, confined, confused, drugged and defeated. From that, he was ‘safe’.
Truman stayed, and on 18th May, 1980, at 8.45 a.m. Mount St Helens blew and he went with it. A blast of hundreds of millions of tons of rock, ash and magma hurtled into the air at a speed of 900 miles per hour and a temperature of 700 degrees Celsius, then poured down the mountainside. Spirit Lake and the surrounding woodland vanished for ever.
A memorial service was held for Truman a month later at the American Baptist Church in Longview, Washington State. The President of American Baptists took the service. In his commemorative speech he said these words: ‘No one lives his life amid the awesome beauty of Spirit Lake and Mount St Helens without a deep theism we could not readily define. Truman was a man of the seasons – he didn’t resist nature, he respected it – and he was a creature of the cycles nature brings. Wherever he is now, if he can see what is going on here today, he’s saying “don’t you dare cry for me! I did just what I wanted. Go have a good time.”’
I am indebted to Shirley Rosen’s book ‘Truman of St Helens’, published by Madrona Publishers, Seattle, Washington State, 1981, for the information for this chapter.
‘I’m not afraid of dying, not at all, because I know what it’s like. I’ve been there. It was after the birth of my third son, and I had a massive haemorrhage. An artery in or near the vagina had ruptured and fresh arterial blood was literally bursting out of me, like a fountain or a water jet. I felt myself sinking slowly, slowly downward, like a slow spiral. This must have been the blood and the oxygen leaving my body. I couldn’t have moved if I had tried. But I didn’t want to. I was in a tunnel, a big tunnel and I was walking along it towards a beautiful opening or door or something at the end. It was so beautiful, I could never describe it; not an earthly beauty but peace and quiet and beauty, and I wanted to get to it. I was very near. Another few steps and I would have got to it, which is what I wanted. But then I heard a sound and I felt movement; that must have been when they checked the blood flow and started pumping blood into me. And I looked behind me and saw three little children, and I knew I couldn’t go. So I turned around and went back. But, oh, it was so lovely and I so much wanted to get to that beautiful place.’
—Joanna Bruce, MBE
(Jo is my mother’s first and favourite granddaughter)
1986
ACUTE HEART FAILURE
To write about my own mother’s death is so painful that I wonder if I can do it at all. I have sat for hours at my desk with a pen and a blank page, and nothing comes but tears and regret. I have shut it out of my mind for twenty-five years, telling no one, unable to dwell on what happened, what might have happened, had I acted differently, what I could have done, should have done, what I did not do, did not know. For twenty-five years I have erased from my mind thoughts of the pain she must have suffered, her fear, her terror, and, worst of all, her anguish at being surrounded by strangers in the hour of her death, because I, her eldest daughter, was not there.
Who can write about their parents objectively? Not me, for sure. The relationship is too personal to be objective. I will say only that my mother loved life and everyone she met. She was full of fun and vitality. It was life-enhancing just to be with her. She was also exceedingly pretty.
In 1986 she was sixty-five and very popular. She had a host of friends, held constant luncheon, tea and dinner parties. She was a brilliant cook and a generous hostess. She swam regularly and enjoyed walking, gardening, and taking her grandchildren on outings. She enjoyed life, and appeared to be in excellent health.