The Stokes sanctuary has permanently closed. One of life’s saddest axioms was fulfilled last Saturday when my friend Dorothea Stokes, freshly turned ninety years old, died. In lengthy marriages, the widowed spouse seldom seems to survive more than a year after the first partner dies. Irv Stokes, one of the brilliant scientific minds of the preceding generation, died a year ago January, several years after a stroke stilled his body but did not dare to intrude on his extraordinary mind. Early in World War II, in his first years out of college, Mr. Stokes was a crucial contributor to the discovery of radar, which played a commanding role in America’s defeat of its enemies. In the years that I knew the family, Mrs. Stokes, a noted math instructor, seemed content to serve as the No. 2 fiddle in their mellifluous arrangement. She spoke as little as he spoke greatly. For reasons of tradition, I suppose, only once or twice did she join the years of discussions between Mr. Stokes and me. As if traveling on cat’s paws, she was scurrying through their pleasantly carpeted home, answering his latest call. What her husband wanted or needed dictated her next tasks. My libation of choice was orange juice, and a filled tall glass always was at my right hand.
