C.S. Lewis's godson and I

I just spent an hour and a half listening to Laurence Harwood remember his godfather, C.S. Lewis.  His father, Cecil Harwood, was one of Lewis's best friends, walking companions, and debate partners: a man C.S. Lewis literally rolled on the floor with, choked by laughter.  For those of you who've read Surprised by Joy, Cecil is the friend described as a Horatio in an age of Hamlets.

Laurence shared his personal correspondences with Lewis.  Showed us the pictures his godfather had drawn in the margins.  Pictures of Magdalen (the place "like a castle" where Lewis lived), bears and angels from That Hideous Strength, Lewis in baggy trousers that made him "look like a sailor," and the brown bunny he'd been watching from his window.

Talked of his memories of Lewis's visits to his family's home.  The boom of his voice in the mornings; the sound of his bellyflops in the pond. Shared letters written to his mother on the topic of love (and being a good godfather), to his father when his mother grew sick with cancer, to himself when he failed his Christ Church exams.

And always, always, that sense of someone wholly present.  His childlike joy.  Throwing himself onto the floor to play games with Laurence and his siblings, not patronizingly, but for the sheer delight of knowing what children were enjoying, and enjoying it himself.  The ability to be all things to all people, even children.

And, may I say, Tolkien's reputation as a walker may have been unjustly tarnished.  According to Cecil, on walking tours, Lewis's enjoyment of nature vied only with one thing: his enjoyment of conversation, most of which he carried on himself.  So much for his reputation as a "serious" walker. =)