Charles Spencer, Jr.

with clouds and mist

in a brief moment a hundred scenes

brought to fulfillment (Matsuo Bashō)

Charles Spencer died on Friday, October 2nd, the day after my parents’ 38th anniversary. He died of synovial sarcoma, a rare and not well understood form of cancer.

Charles was born in 1952 in Middletown, Ohio. He worked in small newspapers and universities in West Virginia and Maryland as an editor and writer. Prior to retirement, he worked for American University (though my father was no career man; he was an artist).

Charles was understated, devoted to his writing and dignified in this devotion. He was also self-deprecating, with a tendency toward dry wit and playacting. My father was gentle of spirit, ready with a joke to allay the pressures of the day. He was a student by nature, curious and constant. His writing—all the eloquent vulnerability and passionate interest in humanity evident therein—will continue, I hope, to uplift many others.

Charles leaves behind (never by choice) my mother, Cathy Spencer, and me, his daughter, Emily Spencer, with whom he formed an intimate trio. He leaves behind his plans to move to New York to live near his sister, Kathy Spencer-Licht, as well as Kathy herself, whose sharp writer spirit and intellect mark her so clearly as his kin. He leaves his brother, Jeff Spencer, musician and protector, whose creativity and personal strength do the same. He leaves behind his mother, Geraldine Daly, whose devotion to books may well have been the impetus for his own, and whose devotion to God is resonant with my father’s interest in deep metaphysical truth. He leaves behind dear friends and relatives, whose lives will be worse without him. He leaves behind cruelly unfinished books, among which one was to be his masterwork.