Ivan T. Sanderson

Amanda S. Stevenson

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This is probably why a number of newspapers “invented” descriptions of Ivan’s passing that took on an air of mystique, no doubt to keep in tune with the kind of “end” the public expected to befall a world adventurer. One newspaper went so far as to give the impression that he had been enigmatically “found dead in his home.” Actually, Ivan died peacefully in his sleep on the night of 19 February 1973, in his own bed, Marion holding his hand till the end. He was not “officially” pronounced dead, however, until after midnight, when he was brought to Warren Hospital in Phillipsburg, New Jersey, so Ivan had an uncertain date of both birth and death.

I had no inkling of what was going on, for I had gone on a journey into Canada for a period of time. Upon my return, I found that the April edition of Pursuit was not in my mailbox. This was indeed unusual, for it was now July, and the July edition should soon be mailed. Something was wrong. I did find a letter from Ivan, addressed to all SITU members, accompanied with a reprint from The National Observer summarizing what we had learned from our Apollo flights to the moon. The last line of Ivan’s introduction to the article went: “I only hope that I shall be around to see what Mr. Young might have to say at the end of this next decade.”

I then ran into a friend of mine who presented me with an old newspaper clipping—Ivan’s obituary. Grief overcame me, for although I had heard about Ivan’s operations and Alma’s death, I was not aware that Ivan had died so suddenly. This one-two punch of the absence of Pursuit and the recipience of Ivan’s obituary had convinced me that SITU had folded.

I sent a letter anyway, getting an instant reply from Marion. She said that the Society was still in working order, though Ivan’s death had caused untold distress. Enclosed with this letter was the April edition of Pursuit. What had happened was that my file card had been pulled inadvertently when some other honorary members were deprived of their status. With no card there could be no address on my issue of Pursuit—hence, my issue was not mailed.

The April edition made known Ivan’s decree that there should not be a gloomy ceremony for him. In fact, there was no ceremony at all -—Ivan left his body to medical science in an effort to supplement world-wide cancer research. In the same issue, Marion related some of the curious repercussions felt by the Society and its members immediately following Ivan’s death: “It is perhaps the greatest tribute to Ivan that many of the cards and letters I have received have come from people who had never met Ivan; they knew him from his books, his radio and TV shows, and they felt his death as a personal loss.”

Remembering Ivan's pragmatism, I shot off another letter to Sabina, asking if Ivan had made any "arrangement" for an effort to get in touch with him after death, as a scientific experiment. I also inquired as to whether Ivan knew he had cancer in 1970, at the time when my conversation with him took place. (Remember that line in Chapter 2: "I might as well tell you now because...."). Her reply contained the following:

I'm sorry to disappoint you, but Ivan hoped devoutly that there is no 'hereafter'—the idea of hanging around for eternity did not appeal to him at all. He made no 'arrangements' to try to contact me or anyone else after death and, in fact, at the end was really so ill that he didn't even want to think about scientific experiments; he was primarily concerned with keeping the pain under control somehow. And he was starting his autobiography and concentrating on that. Neither of us suspected that he would die so very soon (he started taping only a week before he died); both of us felt that he was going through another of his 'crises' and that once it was over he should improve—we figured generally on about five years before the cancer actually killed him.

As for the unfinished sentence, I do not know what may have been on his mind or even what he may have started to say, but he could not have known about the cancer, which was not discovered until very late spring or early summer of 1971. I have looked at the calendar for 1970 and can find nothing that indicates any kind of major crisis that might have been worrying him. It probably was nothing more than a 'Well, I'm going to start writing my autobio soon (famous last words) so I might as well tell him...' kind of thing. I certainly don't believe there was anything 'sinister' about it. [Sanderson, Sabina W. Personal Communication. 11 August 1973.]

Thus, in a shadowy and coincidental sort of way, my friendship ended with the greatest intellect and most fascinating fellow that I have ever had the pleasure and the happenstance to meet—my "most unforgettable character," to use the parlance of Reader's Digest.

Now, years later, I sometimes place a dusty old reel marked “SANDERSON” on my tape recorder, thread the mylar strip through the machine and switch it on. I then sit back, listening and trying to visualize just how Ivan looked when he uttered the words that can be found in these pages. Fortunately, when I completely lose sight of that bearded figure in swimming trunks, I can always open up a large manila envelope and pull out Dan Manning’s photographs of a distinguished-looking gentleman and an infinitely younger self sitting on a couch, pleasantly conversing.

Finally, the tape runs out.

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Ivan T. Sanderson (1911 - 1973)

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