Harry
Cauley—author of Bridie and Finn and the memoir, Speaking of Cats,
recipient of the Writers Guild of America Award and the W.H. Smith Fresh Talent
award in England, staff writer on Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and several Carol
Burnett specials—died yesterday. He was 93.
In recent years, as I have mentioned Harry to friends, I’ve been asked how I came to know him. I get it. The question suggests no disrespect to me, I know, but… How did I, from the very small reclusive sanctuary I have created for myself, brush shoulders with someone who lived and worked and partied in Hollywood? Well, I’ll tell you.
A couple decades and change ago, a handful of other writers and I used to meet bi-monthly at the Barnes & Noble in Rancho Cucamonga. Sometimes the PR person for the store would tell us, “I have a guest speaker for you,” and we would be introduced to someone who was there to promote a book. I will never forget the night we met Harry. He was there to talk about Bridie and Finn, the rich, heartfelt novel he wrote—his first, written when he was sixty-five and had retired from writing teleplays.
What Harry said that night continues to resonate with me. I still have it in a notebook: “Writing is the loneliest profession there is.” He went on to elaborate on how difficult it is to sit alone in a quiet place—how intimidating it is to face the blank computer screen, the blinking cursor—and begin to compose a work of fiction entirely from scratch. Boy howdy.
Harry had no idea who I was that night, of course, and we didn’t really speak, other than my sincere thank you as he was leaving. But fast forward a decade, and our dear mutual friend, Peggy Jackson—PR person for Borders Books at the time—was having lunch with me and another friend in Claremont, California.
“Kay, I loved your memoir about your dogs,” Peggy said. “You remember Harry Cauley? He’s written a memoir, Speaking of Cats. You would love it.”
I did read and love Speaking of Cats. So I reviewed it on Amazon. And Peggy emailed Harry to tell him. And Harry emailed me to thank me for the review. (What a classy guy!) And so it began, Harry and I exchanging emails about books and writing and our love of cats and dogs and gardening.
Harry lived in Cherry Valley, which is where I had planned to retire. When the time came, I ended up in Calimesa, but I was 15 minutes away from his house, and our emails became phone calls and visits. By then, his health was beginning to decline, and, although he was still driving himself around town, he occasionally needed help getting to appointments that were a freeway journey away. When I drove him, he bought me lunch. Oh, the laughter over those lunches! This man had 80 years’ worth of stories! About mowing Albert Einstein’s lawn (because Harry was born in Princeton, New Jersey, and “the Einsteins” lived down the street). About his stint in the army (“I tap danced my way through the Korean War”—and he meant that literally). About his plays being performed on Broadway. About the produce he would bring to rehearsals because he had a vegetable garden and he loved sharing with his friends. About celebrities—the truly nice ones (Carol Burnett), the “bitches” and the “s.o.b.s.”
Harry gave me unsolicited advice nearly once a week—how to train my dog (because he never understood why Thomas wasn’t friendly), how to grow vegetables (as if I hadn’t been doing that for decades), why I should stop looking for love from a man (sigh), how to make soup (as I was making a pot of soup). And I listened, whether I needed the advice or not. Because you don’t get as old as Harry without becoming a deep repository of wisdom and truth.
The pandemic separated us. I didn’t see him for many months, though I left homemade bread and cookies at his doorstep as often as I could. Fortunately, just months before the lockdown, I drove Harry up to Living Free Animal Sanctuary in Idyllwild where he adopted a beautiful black cat named Asher. Asher was his only companion during all the months he was shut in, and we both often remarked on the phone that Harry had selected “the perfect cat” from the dozens he visited with that day.
Asher and Harry were separated when Harry went into assisted living a couple years ago. Please don’t be sad for him; the “perfect cat” continues to be the perfect companion for another human who needed him as much as Harry did.
And now Harry has left his physical shell and gone on to rejoin all the dear friends and family members he has lost in nine decades. He lived an extraordinary life, and he accomplished extraordinary things. Bravo, Harry. Bravo.
