Most of you know that Don turned out about a book a year during his productive years. His schedule, which I have spent thirty years trying to emulate, was to get up at around six, have a cup of very strong coffee, and go back to his studio to write. I say “back” because he slept and wrote in the same 350 square-foot space. He would hammer away, get agitated, cross the courtyard to the kitchen for some more coffee or a visit with whoever happened to be around, and then go back to get agitated again. At twelve sharp he and Kathleen would be in Booth One at The Palace, Santa Fe’s iconic and, sadly, defunct gathering place on Burro Alley. There, each would have a vodka martini, Kay would likely order the special, and Don would order the prime rib. And another martini.

Early afternoon called for nap for everyone who was involved in lunch, though not all of us could take the time. Then Don would take his dog for a walk. He loved his dogs. Not plural in the sense of a pack, because he only had a dog at a time, sequentially. His favorite of all time was a black Lab named Shad who had the annoying habit of mauling doves and ducks and geese in the process of retrieving them.

At five sharp, a difficult hour for those of us trying to be productive citizens in the non-literary world, there would be drinks, cheese and crackers, and a very jolly time under the portal. There were often fun guests; Dick Stearn, Richard Bradford, Ragnar Ulfung, Sally Wagner, Jack Schaefer. . .

By six-thirty Don was back in the studio, dog at the foot of the bed, reading one of your books. He read a book a day, and then Kay, a former librarian, would catalog it and try to find space to compress it into the shelves.

Since this is not intended to be a biography, I will end with few clarifying notes and what I hope is a not-so-sloppy farewell.

Don and Kay had four kids: Hugo, the eldest, is a graphic artist now living in Sweden; Elise is now deceased and survived by her son Michael; Gordon, whereabouts unknown; and Vicky – living happily in northern California. Don spent his last years in Sweden, some of them aboard a re-outfitted military craft of some sort with Gordon, then with Hugo, and ultimately in a nursing home.

I don’t miss Don Hamilton, because I’ve missed him and thought fondly about him for nearly thirty years now; its just part of my life. And yes, in the occasional fit of nostalgia, I read “The Big Country” again.

With regards to all his fans,

Ed Crocker
eec@crockerltd.net

What made Hamilton so good was the subtlety of his characterizations. He could express more emotion in a few words than some could in several paragraphs. I was queried several years ago for recommendations for the Library of America’s American Noir collection, and I made a forceful case for the inclusion of Hamilton’s LINE OF FIRE. Although that collection has a lot of fine work in it, I’ve always thought LOA really missed the boat when they didn’t include a Hamilton story. He was a quintessential noir writer who has only rarely gotten the critical appreciation he deserved.

They had long, full lives, though, and their ultimate reward was in knowing how many people read their work and who kept coming back for over 50 years. In the long run, that might be about the best a writer can ask for.

As for your question about the unpublished Matt Helm novel, I answered it in a later post, http://mysteryfile.com/blog/?p=148. I was told a little more, but I’ve agreed that this is all I should say. But if it turns out to be Charles who finally gets it into print, there certainly couldn’t be a better man.

Interestingly, all were associated, in a sense, with Fawcett’s Gold Medal line. Prather and Hamilton, of course, wrote for Gold Medal, and the line itself was started in response to Spillane’s popularity in paperback.

It really feels like the passing of an era.

Any word on whether or not the last Helm novel, THE DOMINATORS, might be published?