“It was just a general conversation… one alcoholic to another.”
The last farm
Ebby came back from Texas at the end of 1961, sick and thin. “When I left your ranch I weighed about 170,” he wrote to Ralph and Mary Lee J. the next summer, “today about 122.” He had emphysema, and Camels had been his cigarette. He stayed with his brother Ken in Delmar, near Albany, then for almost a year with Bill and Lois, then at Chit Chat Farms in Pennsylvania and at High Watch. For two years he had trouble with drinking.
In October 1963 he was Bill’s guest at the annual dinner in Bill’s honor at the Hotel Commodore in New York. He didn’t look happy, and his health was failing. That fall he stopped drinking for the last time.
On May 30, 1964, Bill drove him to McPike’s Farm, a rest home for alcoholics on a country road called Peaceable Street, in Galway, twenty-five miles north of Albany. It was run by Margaret McPike, a licensed practical nurse, and her husband, Mickey. Ebby arrived “very, very sick,” Margaret remembered, and wouldn’t take his medicine or do anything for himself. For a week she gave him bed baths. After that he agreed to bathe himself rather than have the boys do it.
Slowly he came around. He came down for lunch and did the New York Times crossword, which he could finish quickly, at a long table of brown ash built like a picnic table. He talked about celebrities he had met, the plane ride with Bill, the car he drove into a house, and said little about the kitchen table. “Even though he’d be out of sorts and lose his temper,” Margaret said, “towards the end of the day he’d always say he was sorry.” She also said, “I think he was disappointed in his life.”
He never drank at the farm, and never tried to get a bottle. By August 1964, Bill wrote, he could scarcely walk twenty feet on level ground without losing his breath. In January 1966 his brother Ken died, and Ebby was too sick to go to the funeral. Margaret thought he gave up after that.
In March, Eddie D., who worked at Beech Hill, came by and talked with him for an hour. The next day Ebby felt ill, and the doctor didn’t like the sound of his heart. He began to talk as if he knew. “Well, we all have to go sometime,” he said. He died at one in the morning on March 21, 1966, in the hospital at Ballston Spa. He had been sober about two and a half years.
Galway, New York, 1964. A farmhouse on a country road called Peaceable Street, twenty-five miles north of Albany.
Ebby T. is sixty-eight and very sick. His lungs are failing. Bill W. drives him up on Memorial Day and leaves him with Margaret McPike, a nurse who runs the place with her husband, Mickey.
At first he won’t do anything for himself. Slowly he comes around. He comes down for lunch. He does the Times crossword at a long table of brown ash. He loses his temper, and by evening he always says he’s sorry.
He doesn’t drink at the farm. He doesn’t even try.
In March 1966 a friend comes by, and they talk for an hour, one alcoholic to another. A few days later Ebby dies in the hospital at Ballston Spa. He has been sober about two and a half years.