THE HERRIOT LEGACY
WRITER WARMLY DETAILED BOND
BETWEEN PEOPLE, ANIMALS
Mary Ann Grossmann
Chicago Tribune ~ March 8, 1995
There were extra
hugs for the cats in our household last weekend, and the dogs got unusually
long sniffing time on our walks. These were the best ways, I thought, to
honor the memory of James Herriot.
Our dainty grey cat was lying in my lap like a humming metalloid when
I read of Herriot's recent death. It was as though a little light went
out in my life, and I instinctively stroked Lady Jane's soft ears while
I absorbed the idea that James Alfred Wight (Herriot's real name) would
never write again of his life and work in the Yorkshire dells of northern
England.
I knew, of course, that this modest and beloved vet was a successful
author whose gentle books sold more than 50 million copies in 20 countries,
that he rarely gave interviews, and that he certainly wasn't going to leave
his ivy-covered home in the market town of Thirsk to travel to America.
Still, I cherished the illogical hope that by some miracle, we would be
in the same room so I could, well-so I could give him a hug.
People often ask me about my favorite author, probably expecting me
to wax eloquent about Proust or Shakespeare, so I used to be a little embarrassed
to honestly reply, "James Herriot." But not anymore. After spending a wonderful
weekend rereading Herriot's books, I realized that his writing has everything:
finely drawn and colorful characters, empathy for humans and animals, a
good story set in a gentler time, humor, respect for uneducated but hard-working
people and an appreciation of the land.
But there's something else in Herriot's writing that I can't quite articulate,
a glow of decency that makes people want to be better humans. I guess we'd
call it spirituality these days, this profound belief of Herriot's that
humans are linked to all animals, whether they be the calves he helped
birth or pampered pets like Tricki Woo, Mrs. Pumphrey's lovable but overfed
Pekinese.
The outlines of Herriot's life were detailed in the news stories about
his death: his youth in Scotland, finding a job with Donald Sinclair (Siegfried
Farnon in the books), his adventures with the drinking-and-carousing Tristan
(Sinclair's brother, Brian) and Herriot's love for the moors and valleys
of Yorkshire, where he drove for miles in the worst weather to help animals
on outlying farms.
In the introduction to "James Herriot's Dog Stories," he goes into more
detail about how he always loved dogs and supposed that he'd someday have
an up-to-date, small-animal practice, even though veterinary medicine was
in trouble in the 1930s because draft horses were being phased out and
keeping small pets was seen as "slightly sissy" by the hard-working farm
folk.
Even as a boy, he was intrigued by dogs: "I could never quite take dogs
for granted. Why were they so devoted to the human race? Why should they
delight in our company and welcome us home in transports of joy? There
were so many different shapes, sizes and colours, yet they all had the
same fundamental characteristics. Why, Why?"
Herriot never got his small-animal practice, but he didn't care. He
was content to lave cow's stomachs, lie on cold stone floors to examine
downed horses and muck around in pigpens so he could spend part of each
day caring for dogs and cats at Skeldale House.
His helpmate in all his endeavors was his wife, Helen, about whom he
wrote so lovingly. They celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in 1992,
the same year Herriot turned his practice over to his son (although that
didn't stop the invasion of fans who tracked him down at his home).
Because Herriot was a partner in a busy practice, spread over many miles,
he didn't have time to begin writing until he was older than 50. He couldn't
have taken any writing classes, since most of his life is accounted for
in his books, and he never mentions formal training. But there was probably
nothing for him to learn; he did it instinctively.
His first two books were published in Britain, where he was discovered
by Thomas McCormack, chairman of St. Martin's Press. When St. Martin's
published All Creatures Great and Small in 1972, a perceptive reviewer
named Alfred C. Ames wrote in the Chicago Tribune, "If there is any justice,
this book will become a classic of its kind. With seemingly effortless
art, this man tells his stories with perfect timing. Many more famous authors
could work for a lifetime and not achieve more flawless literary control."
Now, death has stilled James Herriot's lovely voice. But he left us
his books, and we can take comfort in the fact that he believed he would
be reunited with all the dogs he loved: the beautiful Irish setter with
whom he walked the Scottish hills during his boyhood; Hector, the Jack
Russell terrier; and Dan, the black Lab who rode with him for many years
as he made his calls.
In his story "The Card Over the Bed," Herriot writes of an old woman
whose only fear is that she may never be reunited with her animals after
death because some people say animals have no soul. Holding the old woman's
hand, Herriot replies:
"If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude,
then animals are better off than a lot of humans. You've nothing to worry
about there."
On days when I miss the members of our animal family who have died,
I comfort myself with a childish vision of a heaven where there are endless
fields and woods in which to run, and St. Francis sits beneath a tree surrounded
by every animal who ever lived. Who could doubt that James Herriot is sitting
with them?
© Chicago Tribune
ASSOCIATED PRESS OBITUARY
James Herriot, 78 -- Veterinarian-Author
October 3, 1916 - February 23, 1995
LONDON -- James
Herriot, who shared his experiences as a country veterinarian in the best-selling
memoir All Creatures Great and Small, died Thursday in the Yorkshire
Dales where he had ministered to animals for half a century. He was 78.
He died of prostate cancer at his home near Thirsk, his granddaughter,
Emma Page, said. "He had been ill for three years, but he had borne his
illness very patiently and bravely. His family were all with him when he
died peacefully at home today," she said.
Herriot -- the pen name and alter ego of James Alfred Wight -- wrote
15 books in the time that he could wrest away from his practice. They sold
50 million copies in 20 countries. But he continued his veterinary practice
long after his books made him famous. "If a farmer calls me with a sick
animal, he couldn't care less if I were George Bernard Shaw," he once said.
A quiet, modest man with a trace of his Glasgow upbringing in his voice,
"Alf" Wight kept out of the limelight as best he could. Despite the pen
name, many fans tracked him down at Skeldale House, the ivy-covered home
and office familiar to his readers and viewers of the popular British television
series based on "All Creatures Great and Small."
The son of an orchestra leader who played background music for silent
films, he was born Oct. 13, 1916, and grew up in Glasgow. He trained at
Glasgow Veterinary College, arriving in Thirsk in 1940 for a now-famous
job interview with Donald Sinclair -- Siegfried Farnon in the book. He
joined the practice and, aided and abetted by the hapless Tristan -- Sinclair's
brother, Brian -- settled in among the dour farmers of the Yorkshire Dales.
He started writing when he was 50. "I was dumbfounded by the reaction
to that first book, absolutely dumbfounded," he told the Daily Mail in
1981. "The most I had hoped for was that someone would publish it and a
few people quite enjoy reading it."
The real Siegfried, James and Tristan
The
BBC series ran for seven seasons, starting in 1978.
