The summer I was 12 years old, my step-grandfather Jimmy Tyson suggested that the two of us drive over to Sag Harbor, on Long Island, to meet John Steinbeck. Jimmy, as I called him, lived along the ocean in nearby Amagansett, in a renovated 18th century saltbox house that was authentic in every way. The driveway was long and meandered through a potato field—a signature feature of eastern Long Island when Jimmy and John were alive and Sag Harbor was a good place to be anonymous.
I knew who John Steinbeck was, but until Jimmy’s suggestion I had no idea that the author of The Red Pony, which I’d read at school, had a home in Sag Harbor. On that bright and sunny eastern Long Island day in 1961, the two of us got into Jimmy’s car—a blue Dodge station wagon—and drove the 15 or so miles from Amagansett. Jimmy knew where the Steinbecks lived, and when we pulled up to their modest Cape Cod style house, Elaine emerged to say that her husband was in town having his hair cut. They probably got hounded all the time, and I don’t know if she was nice to everyone or just to us because I was a kid, but I remember that she was friendly. Now I think about it, my grandfather might have brought me along for that very reason.
Jimmy knew where the Steinbecks lived, and when we pulled up to their modest Cape Cod style house, Elaine emerged to say that her husband was in town having his hair cut.
So we drove into Sag Harbor to the town’s only barbershop, parked, and went inside. Sitting in one of the chairs was John Steinbeck. I remember his face, bearded and distinctive, and he was a towering figure when he took jimmy’s hand, though I don’t recall if he shook mine. It was a short visit, and as we drove out of the parking lot we caught a glimpse of a large poodle—the soon-to-be-famous Charley—sitting in Steinbeck’s converted truck.
I was too young to feel intimidated when I met John Steinbeck. But I’m sure my grandfather realized the importance of the event, and that must have made it enjoyable for him. Thinking back, I wonder who benefited more—Jimmy in the moment or me, much later, in memory.
Photo of John Steinbeck with dog Charley in Sag Harbor courtesy of The New York Times.
