"Wednesday, Nov 21, 1928; My Dearest Mother." Thus began his letter home.
Robert Murray Clarkson was born in Scotland, 1896. He was my grandfather, and while working at a sugar refinery in the British India province of Burma, decided to up and shoot himself an elephant he took to calling "Jumbo."
I possess very little memory of the man other than my love for the smell of a pipe, a pause when I now witness an antiquated tamp performed before wizened lips draw deep and exhale the past.
An examination of history inevitably draws context into the parcel. I eat meat, but abhor big game hunting. As a writer (and reader), I have never been a huge fan of the Hemingway machismo, much of his allure attributable to the mores of the time, and quite frankly, an age of limited ease of travel that added a level of glossiness to the page.
Which leads to my initial reluctance to embarking on this presentation of a say dealing with this subject manner. But then, that matter of context tapped me on the shoulder. Much of what I have managed to glean of this tale is from his daughter, my very own Dearest Mother. At the time of his passing I happened to be playing high school rugby, only to learn years later that if not for the outbreak of World War I he would have played for the Scottish national team. My point being, there is that inevitable in one's life when the family genome begins to rub the sides of your brain.
I have recently been bequeathed this sepia-toned relic of correspondence from son to mother; in it, the somewhat blow-by-blow of his thoughts, fears, and details leading up to outright murder of one of the more beautiful and intelligent creatures on this planet of ours.
And, as above, there be an array of black-and-white photos staring back at me within the penumbra of that big star that was never truly to ever set on the British Empire.
To follow, the actual letter, and the maybe/perhaps as to the perspective to be drawn from the why one man did what he felt necessary ... whether for rite of passage or some other need of self.
*
For those interested in a bit of further setting with respect to Colonial-era Burma, an interesting read can be found in the short essay by George Orwell entitled "Shooting an Elephant." It was published in 1936 and is a fictional account of his own experiences that ring eerily similar to my grandfather's.
Don't worry, it is optional and will not be on the test. More to come.
Shooting an Elephant, by George Orwell
Robert Murray Clarkson was born in Scotland, 1896. He was my grandfather, and while working at a sugar refinery in the British India province of Burma, decided to up and shoot himself an elephant he took to calling "Jumbo."
I possess very little memory of the man other than my love for the smell of a pipe, a pause when I now witness an antiquated tamp performed before wizened lips draw deep and exhale the past.
An examination of history inevitably draws context into the parcel. I eat meat, but abhor big game hunting. As a writer (and reader), I have never been a huge fan of the Hemingway machismo, much of his allure attributable to the mores of the time, and quite frankly, an age of limited ease of travel that added a level of glossiness to the page.
Which leads to my initial reluctance to embarking on this presentation of a say dealing with this subject manner. But then, that matter of context tapped me on the shoulder. Much of what I have managed to glean of this tale is from his daughter, my very own Dearest Mother. At the time of his passing I happened to be playing high school rugby, only to learn years later that if not for the outbreak of World War I he would have played for the Scottish national team. My point being, there is that inevitable in one's life when the family genome begins to rub the sides of your brain.
I have recently been bequeathed this sepia-toned relic of correspondence from son to mother; in it, the somewhat blow-by-blow of his thoughts, fears, and details leading up to outright murder of one of the more beautiful and intelligent creatures on this planet of ours.
And, as above, there be an array of black-and-white photos staring back at me within the penumbra of that big star that was never truly to ever set on the British Empire.
To follow, the actual letter, and the maybe/perhaps as to the perspective to be drawn from the why one man did what he felt necessary ... whether for rite of passage or some other need of self.
*
For those interested in a bit of further setting with respect to Colonial-era Burma, an interesting read can be found in the short essay by George Orwell entitled "Shooting an Elephant." It was published in 1936 and is a fictional account of his own experiences that ring eerily similar to my grandfather's.
Don't worry, it is optional and will not be on the test. More to come.
Shooting an Elephant, by George Orwell
