Obit watch: January 20, 2020.

Edith Kunhardt Davis, author (mostly of children’s books). I hadn’t heard of her before the NYT published her obit, but this is a kind of sad story that’s worth noting here.

Her mother was Dorothy Kunhardt, who also wrote children’s books, most famously Pat the Bunny.

In a later memoir, “My Mother, the Bunny and Me” (2016), Edith recalled her eccentric childhood between the Depression and World War II and the creative household in which she grew up, with her mother’s literary friends, like Carl Sandburg and Isak Dinesen, coming and going. Dorothy Kunhardt wrote 43 children’s books before she died in 1979.

Some of her books were Pat spinoffs, but she wrote originals too.

Dorothy Kunhardt revered Abraham Lincoln, a passion she inherited from her father, Frederick Hill Meserve. Their house in Morristown was filled with Lincoln and Civil War memorabilia. Over the decades, Philip Kunhardt amassed one of America’s greatest private Lincoln collections, with about 73,000 items, including a snippet of Lincoln’s hair.
Five generations of the family have been absorbed by Lincoln, and many of its members, including Dorothy Kunhardt, wrote books about him. On a trip to Springfield, Ill., she bought lamps from the parlor where Lincoln was married and used them to light her own house. Little wonder that Edith eventually wrote her own account, a children’s book titled “Honest Abe” (1993).

The sad part is that Ms. Davis was an alcoholic until 1973, when she got sober and began writing in earnest. She had a son, Edward, while she was drinking:

And long after she had become sober, she was confronted with the possibility that her excessive drinking while she was pregnant had led to the death of her son when he was 27.
His death, from heart disease, in 1990 became the subject of Ms. Davis’s 1995 memoir, “I’ll Love You Forever, Anyway.” An account of her grief made all the more anguishing by her guilt, it stood in stark contrast to the cheerful children’s tales for which she was known.

“An important component of my particular story was the guilt that I carried because I was an alcoholic parent who lived in an era when doctors did not restrict drinking during pregnancy,” she wrote. “My fears that I might possibly have caused Neddy’s heart illness — and his dyslexia — through drinking while pregnant haunted me and complicated the mourning process.”

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