Bob Nash's Last Ride

A pallbearer, for our friend all clothed in white linen

L to R: Back door to Bob's cabin, Toby and Bob. Bob was in hospice care and got to die at home, in his cabin, as he wished; Bob's cabin, which he built with Rosa, in the early 70s. He first bicycled to Big Sur in 1952, from the Bay Area. For love, of course; Bob "in state," in nature. Toby found some lupin and rosemary to wrap in his sheets; Susie wearing Bob's vest, in the cabin; Jay takes a look out at Partington Ridge with Bob; "Saint Bob." He would laugh at this one. He had little use for religion; Jon's drawing of Bob, in his bed, before we moved him outside. He wanted to be cremated, and since he lived so far from the road, we "wrapped" him in his bed linens, and carried him, like pallbearers without a coffin, up to the road where a fellow from the Mortuary met us; and Sula, Bob's executor, also drew Bob as he was in bed. This looks more like Bob when he was alive... he was a big, strong, guy!

(L to R) Susie and Bob when we took a break from carrying him, at the crest of the hill; We miss him so much; Toby made a toast; This is the red chair where I'd usually find Bob when I walked down for a visit to his cabin. He'd be here with his cat, Teddie, and we'd have a chat in the sun; I never saw my parent's bodies when they died. I'd never "touched" someone after death before. We thought Bob would be "light" to carry, but it took six of us, full strength! We used his bed linens to wrap him, like a carrying cradle; Bob's Last Ride; This is the fellow from the mortuary. I don't know if he'd ever been part of something like this. He was a little nervous at first, out in the country with the "beatniks," but he had tears in his eyes when he left; His hands were so soft; A botched photo of the carrying, but this is a bit of how it felt.

---

(L to R): Approaching the driveway; The sun started setting as we reached the guerney and van; Setting Bob up on the guerney. We all hated to see him go. We’d welcome his ashes back at the end of the week; Everyone saying goodbye one more time; No one was ready for it to be over; The sun's parting shot; Bob watched these sunsets every night, overlooking the Pacific; Bob's eyesight had been failing for many years, but he always greeted us with SO MUCH COLOR.

One of my favorite poet friends, Bob Nash, died February 10th, in 2008. I was unexpectedly with him in the near hours, to be an impromptu pallbearer.

My lover and I were going to visit him on the 10th, in hospice, and on the way down Highway 1, his loving neighbors called to say, “He’s gone. We need to carry him out.” Bob lived on a mountain ridge, no car access to his cabin.

Nash was a little different from most of of my friends. He was a legend— of a rather magical place. Bob was the last connection to the Beat Generation that flourished in Big Sur and the Carmel Valley after WWII. He rode a bicycle to Partington Ridge in 1952... from Lafayette! He made over 20,000 drawings and paintings, a lifelong artist. Yes, he partied with Henry Miller. He took care of Edward Weston. He was best friends with diplomat Nicholas Roosevelt. He built a cabin on property he didn’t own, and became grandfathered into the parcel. He died one week shy of 90.

Bob also loved the radio, and all things audio. There’s a radio tower named in his honor! Bob’s eyesight started going about ten years previous to his death. Didn’t seem to slow him down. He was passionate about storytelling, science, astrophysics, politics, and sex. The first time I asked him what he liked about my audio programs, he looked at me very carefully, and then said, “I like the way you say 'fuck.'”

How did he survive out in the middle of nowhere? —With tremendous skill and labor, but also a lot of mediation and a peerless application of “doing nothing.” One day, a man came to Big Sur who’d just decided to change his life, and drop out of the rat race. He asked Bob what he thought he should do first. Bob said, "for the first year, look at the clouds." And he wasn’t kidding!

You hear that phrase, "he died as he lived" — so true in Bob’s case. He had no pain. He let go in the night. He was home with friends visiting him 'round the clock. His kitty Teddy was with him. His body was carried by his friends. He had his wits with him till the very end.

When Linda, his main gal-caretaker, was visiting him the night before, she'd fixed up his bed and read him a story. When she asked if he needed anything else for the night, he said, “How about two more blondes?” 

When his friend Steve came to see him, who made his web site, Bob requested that he go into the house and get “ a big blue book” near the cat bowl... It was Quantum Mechanics, a textbook. Steve, no slouch, struggled to read it, but Bob helped him through.

It turned out to be prescient that we drove down on the 10th. I don't know how we would've  moved Bob without all our strong arms!

I wasn’t with my parents bodies when they died. Everything was quickly tucked away.

I asked Linda if I could go to Bob’s cabin by myself for a couple minutes, before we carried him out, so I could see how I’d handle it. I felt like a scared kid wandering in, but then I just started talking to him, and that relaxed me. I finally got the nerve to put my hand on his.

When one dies, all your wrinkles seem to disappear, and your skin is so soft... that’s why everyone looks so beatific. I loved Bob's peaceful countenance, but I was sad too, because he was a small figure now, and he once was so big. This guy built everything, was a first-class seducer, and carried every child on his shoulders.

We rolled him up in his bed linens, and picked him up, and walked up the hill. I now know the meaning of "dead weight," Bob! So much for being small! I'll miss you dearly, and the Ridge will never be the same.

Henry Miller famously wrote of our friend, in 1959: