Baba Yaga is Dying

Nancy Duncan, our local talespinner is dying of cancer. She tells us so in the Sunday World-Herald. The story is poignantly beautiful. As a story teller, the article goes on to say:

"she spun out the tale of the old man and woman who made up the rules for humankind. They decided how many fingers to put on each hand and where to place genitals.
When it came to death, the old man wanted humans to live forever. The woman disagreed.
She said, "They have to die forever or we won't value each other."

I did not know Nancy Duncan, but certainly knew of her and had heard her tell stories both in person and on KIOS, a public radio station in Omaha. I did, however know her husband, Harry.
Harry Duncan was my Fine Arts Professor under whom I studied the History of the Printed Word, and the Hand Printed Book.

For a summer, I volunteered in the Fine Arts Press to print a volume of Reiner Rilke's poetry translated by Rikka Lesser, HOLDING OUT, copyrighted in 1975. I would arrive early in the studio to wet and prepare the heavy hand made paper. Harry inked the old Benjamin Franklin press. We would print together, he inking and turning the press into the paper, me turning and making sure the wetted paper was in its proper place and he again inking, printing, and holding the large sheet up to the light checking for exactness of placement and ink application. We printed four pages at a time on both sides, to be cut apart later. I was gifted a copy of the book when the project was completed.

When the galleys were prepared to go to the translator in Denmark, I would read and he would follow along with the original, checking punctuation, spacing, spelling. It was a travel to another place, another time, and a second chance for me to observe an artist at work.

My own son, then ten years old was in the Omaha Community Playhouse production of Music Man. It was a six week run, with seven productions a week. I was mothering five, fostering one, back in college taking 15 hours after a 17 year hiatus and I saw one of the performances. How amazing I found it, to see my own professor, Mr. Duncan, playing the Mayor.

The last time I saw Mr. Duncan was in my doctor's office. He was waiting for a son, who having returned from a time in Africa, was being treated for a number of after effects of that third world country. Mr. Duncan looked frail and I was happy he remembered me.

The newspaper article says this about Mr. Duncan's last days: "In 1997, he grew weary of his leukemia and the serious complications that came along with it, so he quit eating and drinking.
He slipped into a coma and, within days, died at home. "

Mr. Duncan wove his way into my life again, posthumously. When I attended the interment services of the Nebraska Medical School for my mother two years after her death and donation of her body, we were given a program listing the donees. How joyous it was for me to read my dear, dear Professor's name listed with that of my mother's.

I read that Baba Yaga is "not afraid of death at all."