In Memoriam Verlyn Flieger Priscilla Tolkien, 1929–2022 Priscilla Tolkien died on Monday, February 28, 2022. She was ninety-two years old and had lived most of her life in the bright spotlight of her father's work. She was ambassador at large to the myriad readers for whom she represented their most direct contact with his genius. In countless appearances at conferences and in interviews she shared her personal experiences of both the man and his work. In 1992 Priscilla and her older brother John published The Tolkien Family Album, a collection of family photographs with commentary, inviting Tolkien's readers into his and his family's domestic life. Only they could have done it, and the book remains the first and most genuine introduction to Tolkien as his family knew him. This essay will be a remembrance of Priscilla Tolkien as I knew her—a warm, witty, razor-sharp lady who carved out her own career independent of her father's fame, first as a social worker and probation officer, and then for many years as a teacher. I met her first in 1980 when, learning she was scheduled to give a talk at my local public library, I was emboldened to call the house where she was visiting and ask if she might be willing also to come and talk to my Tolkien class, at that time deep in The Lord of the Rings. She refused, politely but firmly, and I realized she must get such requests all too often. She did, however, take time to chat after her library talk, and so remembered me when I wrote a year later to say I was coming to England and would like to meet. That visit began a friendship that lasted forty years, during which time we both crossed and recrossed the Atlantic many times to visit one another. I treasure the memories. I remember her best in Oxford, pouring tea or serving dinner in her tiny but warmly welcoming house on Middle Way in Summertown. I remember its wall of windows facing the sun, its front room bookshelf overflowing with volumes of her father's works, the adjacent wall holding her mother's piano. I remember her beautiful garden behind the house, a long narrow space crammed with flowers but with a path to the blossoming apple (or was it crabapple?) tree, the statue of St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus. The sun seemed always to be shining. I remember walking with her down to South Parade, the beginning of the Summertown shopping district, and having her stop again and again to say hello to street people, vendors, buskers, panhandlers. They all knew her, and she knew them. Her hand was always reaching for her purse to find coins. I remember her visits to my home, wonderful, wide-ranging talks [End Page 3] around the dinner table on everything from problems of theology to the vagaries of social work. I remember the part she read in an Arthurian playlet I had written, the sultry, provocative Morgause whom she clearly enjoyed bringing to life. I remember the time she attended (incognito) a talk on Tolkien I gave at the Smithsonian in downtown Washington, and her amusement at the range of questions I was getting from the audience about the Tolkien family, especially at the one about "the daughter." In her later years, when travel became difficult, we talked often on the phone. It was when she didn't answer the last time I called, and my voice message went unreturned, that I knew something was wrong. I called Cathleen Blackburn, the Estate lawyer and her friend for many years, who told me the situation was grave. Thanks to Cathleen, I was able to send Priscilla a last message and to be assured that she got it before she died. She's a grand memory, one that I will always treasure—not because she was a Tolkien, but because she was Priscilla. ________ Tolkien Studies notes with sadness the passing of Edmund R. Meskys (1936–2021), who died on July 25, 2021, at the age of 85. Born in New York City of parents from Lithuania, Ed was educated...
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