The Denver Post obit for Carlos Mann was brief. Of course the two National Book awards were the lede. His tenure at KSU--nineteen years--was mentioned. And his resignation. No cause of death given. He was 61.
In 2017 I made a 4-hour drive to interview Mann for the K-State newspaper. My Reporter's Notebook was on the seat next to me, a 6-pack of Dr. Pepper was in a cooler in the back seat. A large bag of tortilla chips was back there too.
My girlfriend at the time didn't ask to go along. In fact, her eyes narrowed when I told her about the interview. "That older guy who had an affair with his student?"
"She was a student, not his student."
She picked up her beer. "Still icky."
"But it was three years ago."
"Icky."
I remember my biggest concern the final fifteen minutes of the drive was calling him Mr. Mann. I was 19.
He was standing on his front porch as I drove up the gravel driveway. A small wooden sign identified the place: Logan Ranch.
I got out with my notebook in hand.
"You Robert?"
"Yes, uh, Bob, Mr.--"
"Carlos."
"Okay. Uh, nice place."
He shrugged.
When I look at my notes now, I'm surprised by my fixation on the physical details. How young he looked. How dark his hair and his eyes. How tall. How he kept his hat tipped back a bit. The wind. The sun.
"We going to talk about the books?"
"Well, nonfiction and fiction same year, it was unprecedented."
"Eleven years ago."
"Are you working on a new book?"
"No."
Driving home I wondered what he was doing out there then, five miles from a small town no where in particular.
"Walk up to the ridge with me." I trudged behind him up the slope.
"I've got 62 acres and the BLM's got 1000s just beyond the road going back to town."
"Do you miss teaching?"
"I've got no interest in toughing it out, slogging through disease or decrepitude. Got a friend--sort of a friend--in town who wants to live to 115. Can't stand the thought of not being here. Being here." He looked around and opened his arms wide. "Being here."
I looked out over the terrain. Hills covered by tall grass, a ranch with no fences, no cattle, no horses.
"No interest."
I'm still not sure how a man lives in a place like that for so long. Not needing some sharper sense of why he's getting up in the morning. Not losing his mind.
I wrote one thing he said in all caps in my notebook and underlined it twice: Don't confuse world-weariness with wisdom.
Rest in peace, Mr. Mann.
Lyman 2025
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