Those of you who follow these essays know that in recent years there have been a number of essays devoted to women who have my admiration. Women do not have the best of it in this life. From the beginning, their strength is less than that of men and their earning power is often similarly affected. Yet women deal with life’s adversity with great courage. I take the view that men should be so strong.
In this essay, it is my intention to pay a tribute to my own wife. In doing so I intend to seek the help of Henry Louis Mencken, a writer of prose without parallel in the English language. Additionally, I hope to invoke two thoughts that are Irish in their ancestry.
The Mencken fellow we are talking about here began his journalistic career at age 15 in Baltimore. Before he was felled by a stroke in 1948, Mencken was editor of The Baltimore Sun papers. Mencken found time also to own and edit The American Mercury and to co-edit The Smart Set, two quality intellectual magazines that were widely popular during the 1920s and 30s. Aside from those duties, Mencken wrote a substantial number of books bound in hard cover. My last count of the books in my library runs to something like 85 or 87 volumes, all by Henry Mencken. He even wrote a book on poetry under the pseudonym of Owen Hatteras.
Henry Mencken was a bon vivant who enjoyed trans-Atlantic travel to Europe with emphasis on Germany, the land of his ancestors. I believe it is fair to say that between 1920 and 1950, Mencken was one of the gold standards of American journalistic efforts. For my own part, since 1945, I have enjoyed his books and articles in the magazines immensely.
Mencken was a bachelor until he reached the age of 50. During his unmarried years, Mencken spent a good bit of time joshing his married compatriots. At the age of 50, when he should have been entering his golden years, Mencken fell in love with a woman 20 years his junior who was a writer who also lived in Baltimore. The marriage between Mencken and Sara Haardt, from all appearances, was a very happy one. Their life in Baltimore was marked by parties and stimulating conversation, usually with political and journalistic figures.
In about the third year of their marriage, Sara was diagnosed as tubercular. The treatment for tuberculosis at that time in the mid-1930s consisted only of sending the patient to a location where he or she could breathe fresh mountain air. And so Sara spent a substantial amount of time in sanatoria in Maryland, breathing the fresh air that was prescribed for her. The fact is that at that time there was no cure for tuberculosis and Sara’s health deteriorated with her death following in 1936. Mencken was inconsolable.
It is clear that Mencken had Sara on his mind for years. On the fifth anniversary of her death, Mencken wrote these lines: “I will have her in mind until thought and memory adjourn.” On my best day I could not compose a sentence of such elegance. But if there is no objection from Mencken’s ghost, I would like to borrow that line and that sentiment and apply it to my own wife, Judith Anne Chicka.
For the better part of a quarter of a century, Judy has been at my side when legal and medical troubles intruded. She has shown me courage and strength beyond my imagination. Her devotion to me has been done selflessly. My respect, admiration, and love for her know no bounds.
Judy is of Serbian and Irish parentage. I am sorry to admit that I know nothing about Serbian literature. If I did know something about that subject I would try to find a line that expresses my admiration and dedication to her. On the other side of the ledger, I am more familiar with the works produced by Irish writers. Two thoughts come to mind, but neither has an identifiable author. They are simply traditions in Irish literature.
Ireland is an island nation. Because of that fact, it is also a nation where men go to sea to make their living. And so it is appropriate to quote a thought from Irish writings which holds that my admiration, respect and love for Judy will continue until “the seas run dry.”
And then there is the Irish poem Eileen Aroon, which has been turned into a folk song. In one of its final stanzas, the poem/song proclaims:

“Dear are her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy.”

The Irish quotes, in my mind, are as elegant as Mencken’s tribute to Sara. I suspect that it will be a long time before the seas run dry, but I can tell you that over the last quarter-century, Judy’s constancy has inspired me. I hope that this traditional thought from her Ulster ancestors is adequate.
Well there you have my thoughts in tribute to my wife. If Mencken were alive and writing today, I suspect that he might be tempted to borrow the line about constancy from its Irish authors. The tributes in this essay to my wife sum up my perception of our relationship over the past quarter century. I have chosen Mencken’s line and the anonymous Irish author’s lines in an effort to express my own thoughts. Their elegance is much greater than anything I could write. As such, this is another tribute to women-kind who have my undying understanding and respect.
E. E. CARR
March 24, 2007
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Kevin’s commentary: I’ve been hoping to find this essay for quite a while. I always knew it had to exist, but I figured that it would be a while before I arrived at it due to the fact that I publish on this site in reverse chronological order.
That said, I’m very glad to see that Pop took the time to write this down. And even as I type this commentary out, I know that Judy will probably be the one reading these words to Pop tomorrow. Come to think of it, that means I can commandeer her voice for a moment to remind Pop: “Hey Ed, you really are one lucky son of a gun to have found me.”
Judy has been a wonderful grandmother and I’m sure an even better wife; it makes me happy to see essays about her.