The passing of a great writer ...

For his many fans, Jon Hassler’s name will forever be linked to the mythical village of Staggerford, or the stalwart Agatha McGee, the heroine of many of his works of fiction. I’ve read a few of Hassler’s books so I’m familiar with old Agatha. And, I know enough about the man to know Staggerford is loosely based on Hassler’s boyhood home of Plainview, Minnesota, the same town where the Jon Hassler Theatre has staged a half dozen productions every year since opening in 2002.

Also in Plainview, housed in the Hassler boyhood home, is the Rural America Writer’s Center, a place where writers like me can commune with others to work on the craft and learn from those who are more advanced.

Hassler, who died today from Parkinson’s Disease, wasn’t as well known as Garrison Keillor, perhaps. But in my opinion, he did more to help and inspire local writers than any other Minnesota author. Hassler was shy and introspective, yet focused. One must be focused to create the body of work he did. One must make sacrifices too, and Hassler understood this. His first marriage failed because of his devotion to his craft.

I met Jon Hassler once on an extraordinary autumn day: September 11, 2001. I met his wife, Gretchen, too. I had gone to their house in South Minneapolis to take the author’s portrait for an upcoming magazine feature we were producing. The sky was crystalline blue that day. It was nearly 80 degrees and the blue canopy, devoid of typical airline traffic, was eerily quiet.

It was an odd day to be sure. Gretchen was torn between television coverage and a phone that was ringing off the hook; it was family calling. All of them, trying to make sense of what was going on out east. Hassler was polite and patient as I framed some shots of him in the kitchen and then in the backyard. Neither of us spoke much about the attacks; I don’t think either of us understood what had happened, how the world was about to change. Forever.

I have, framed in my office, the portrait of Hassler that I took that day. It takes on special meaning on this day of his death.

Hassler never wrote about skyscrapers or terrorists. He wrote about small towns. He created characters who were flawed and deeply human. He wrote simply. Most of his characters were simple, good people trying to get along in the world, in a simple world, a small town world. A world, I hope, which still exists.