But one idiosyncrasy of not having to be tied to anyplace can also extend to anyone, and that became pervasive throughout the culture of our family in its various forms in the following years. To some, this might seem a great freedom and in many ways it was. It was easy to pack up for a month, for three months, for six months, sometimes with family in tow, often on his own to gather research and write. That summer and always, aside from his travels for research, he never had to be any particular place to do his job. Through a myriad of manifestations my father always had a stunning ability to move on, sometimes shucking earlier friends like fresh snow from his shoulders. Louis, and then Maria Eckhart, a doctor’s daughter from Tanzania by way of London, poet, gifted editor and storied hostess. He would expand that circle through his subsequent two marriages, first my mother Deborah Love, a poet and writer originally from St. The rare opportunity to rent such a place came to us through my father’s profession as a writer, and by extension his circle of artistic and literary friends from his first marriage to Patsy Southgate, Smith graduate and daughter of Richard Southgate, Chief of Protocol for the Roosevelt White House. At the age of seven in the summer of 1965, I lived on an island in Galway, Ireland, with my mother Deborah Love and father Peter Matthiessen, and my twelve year old step brother Luke from my father’s first marriage.
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