Community Life – Lorrie Moore

 

In the early 2000's we took a trip to Vermont. Coincidently, it was almost ten years after the publication of this anthology, and as I pause and look back on that coincidence, I realize that time was so much shorter and closer back then. I'm so far from the 90s and early 2000s now related to progress on this reading adventure, but I'm so fortunate to be able to continue on it with my reading and thinking.

It was just the two of us, and there wasn't a purpose for our getaway – it was just that. We made our base camp at the offseason Killington resort hotel and explored the various attractions within 50 miles. Of course, Norwich was a highlight, and we had a wonderful time walking around the campus and spending some time with some old friends there. And as these stories and this project does, it allows me to drift back to visiting Ellin and reflect on her sudden death several years ago.

One afternoon, as we strolled through a typical Vermont small town, we happened into a small bookstore, and I picked up a collection of short stories. I was still a few years away from truly loving and appreciating the short story form, but the book's subject matter was more aligned with my interests at the time. It was a collection of stories all taking place in or about libraries.

At the time, I was considering making library work a more serious occupation than my work as a library clerk at the newspaper. Of course, library school was on the horizon, but my lack of interest in engaging in any additional schooling at that time was preventing me from moving forward.

Contained in this collection of short stories was the story that BASS 1992 brought forward, "Community Life." Here we are, reunited with this story in BASS 1992, read some 20 years after first coming across it.

Now, I struggle to recall if I read Community Life in the other collection. I would have remembered it since there is a Romanian aspect to it, and to put the icing on the cake, portions of the story occur in Vermont. So, we have libraries, a Romanian and Vermont. The closest I ever came to matches like that was Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" novel.

Given that I felt so close to the main character, Vermont and libraries, I think these story ingredients are what pulled me through it. There is a more profound message that Moore points out in the Author's notes contained at the back of the anthology, and I recognized those messages…but if it were not for my connection to "the three," I would have struggled through this story.

Let's be honest… I'm struggling through all of these stories anyway. I wrote the introduction to BASS 1992 back on February 20, 2020. It's now March 2022, and I still have nine stories to read and write about in this collection.

At this pace, I'll finish the book sometime in 2023?

I've read and listened to a lot of writing advice, and most of it encourages reading and writing to get better at writing.

I'm trying.

I run to get healthier and to be a better runner. I lift weights to get stronger and to be healthier.

I need to work on my reading and writing to be a better writer.

I'd also like to bring my writing about these stories back to what they once were. I invested much more research into the authors and a deeper analysis of the story. I'll work on doing that moving forward.

Unfortunately, as I make this effort, I see that the next Author is Alice Munro…one of my most challenging authors. 

Fortunately, this is the third time we've run into Lorrie Moore in this anthology, and it appears that I'll encounter her several more times as we move through the project – Moore has a total of seven stories included in the BASS.

 

JunHee - Marshall N. Klimasewiski

 

 

So much can be said in silence. I forget this, but when I'm reminded of it, its truth is familiar, and it stings because I work on living a listening life but too often fail in this effort. When considering the silence between two people, what isn't said can be dangerous – depending on the situation. I know and always push hard for openness in communication – again, in some instances – but yes, the power of silence, applied in the right environment, says so much more.

Citing the power of the short story again, and this anthology and this project, I doubt that I would've ever intentionally picked up a story about a Korean émigré woman. If I did, I doubt that I would have finished a longer story/novel about her and her life. Even if I ran across this story in the New Yorker, where it originally ran, I doubt that I would have turned all the pages to finish it. Which, to their glorious fault, stems from the fact that they publish too much good content.

But, because of this project, I am committed to reading these works of art and commenting on them (sometimes just rambling), but the learning comes from consumption and digestion of them. Sometimes, I read them, mull them over in my mind for a day, a week, a month, or more – and then, all the pieces fall into place, and their message appears to me, and I can write about what it has given me.

With JunHee, Klimasewiski allowed me into the mind of this young woman, to see the world through her eyes, her mind's eyes. To hear and not to hear her husband. To hear the harsh words spoken to her by her father across the miles. To hear her dead mother's words come to her at night in dreams. And finally, to experience her loss and her grieving. A good author can create a character, set them in a story, and formulate their setting so powerfully that it allows the reader to honestly experience the character's life.

 

As a distraction and to take a trip, I often browse the archives of The New Yorker and check out what they published alongside the story that I just read. JunHee ran in the January 14, 1991 edition of The New Yorker… I was starting my second semester as a freshman at Norwich. Glancing at the table of contents, two entries catch my attention. "Report from Moscow" by Robert Cullen and "Books" by my man…John Updike.

You'll have to bear with me as I fall down the hole of nostalgia and interest in the Soviet Union as I completely veer off writing about JunHee and switch over to writing about what was happening in Russia in December of 1990. 

In Jan. 1991, there was still a USSR, and Cullen wrote of western cigarettes still being used as currency. Soviet citizens still waited in long lines for basic food staples. Eduard Shevardnadze also resigned his position as Foreign Minister taking Gorbachev by surprise. Cullen's conversations with his acquaintances detailed that many had lost faith in Gorbachev and his campaign for "openness" and reforms, and they felt that the "revolution" Gorbachev launched five years before would soon reach its "Thermidor." 

I became restless with my studies and struggled to decide exactly what I wanted to focus upon. Events in Eastern Europe and the then Soviet Union captured my attention, and I began to explore shifting my major away from Economics and focusing on International Studies. Norwich also offered Russian as a modern language, and I decided that when classes started in August of 1991, I'd embark on a new course of study. 

Summer break in 1991 allowed me to unplug from the traumas of freshman year at Norwich, and when I returned in August, a new world was unfolding in the Soviet Union. Predictions from December of 1990 were correct. Events accelerated in August with the Coup, and by December of 1991, we see Gorbachev resigning and turning the launch codes over to Yeltsin. At the Kremlin, on the evening of December 25, the Soviet flag was lowered as the State Anthem of the Soviet Union was played for the last time and the Russian flag raised in its place. 

In the Fall of 1991, I can't recall my Russian professor's attitude or thoughts about events taking place over there during these events. We had a pretty decent-sized class, and I'm sure he was working hard to drive the basics of the language through our thick skulls.

 After returning from Christmas break, the USSR no longer existed, and I'm sure we had some discussions…but again, they seemed to be erased from my memory.  I recall that my fascination with the Russian culture and language continued to grow during this time. 

I was fortunate to experience this atmosphere of learning during these pivotal events.  

 

The Pugilist at Rest – Thom Jones

 

I encountered this story not knowing anything about the author or the story itself – the way I experience most of the stories in these anthologies. 

Discovering these types of stories is terrific – knowing they are great and then researching them and the author and developing a greater appreciation of the work. I'm intimidated now, writing about this story because I feel that this post will get a few more eyes on it because of its popularity. Not that I don't appreciate people reading what I write, but I think that what I'm writing about here really isn't what most people will be looking for when it comes to doing research on this story.

This bit of reflection brings me back around to the "why" of this blog. Since I started this writing back in 2008, this place has offered me a reliable location to get thoughts about life on record. I suppose it's also a bit of a recording for my children – a hope that someday they will take the time to learn a bit more about me after I'm gone. I'm confident that they'll be able to find these words and make another connection with me.

There's another thought – a connection. I've made a few connections in this space over time—some fascinating ones – relationships that have educated me and enlightened me. You know who you are, old friend – and I think of you often.

This is also a space where I can practice my writing without being "graded" on the writing. I can use the story as a jumping-off point and just write.

Again though, the eyes that'll be drawn to this post just because of the story…

Onward – this story…

This is another New Yorker story – honestly, though, I don't think it fits into the typical New Yorker mold for that period. In this piece by JCO – for the New Yorker, about Jones after his death, she details how this story landed on her desk at the Ontario Review – and how her husband at the time ultimately rejected it – (because of its length) and how Jones had submitted it to several publications – one was the New Yorker, that eventually published it. She acknowledges his good fortune for having it picked up there and the fact that a few more of his stories finally landed in that publication's pages again. We'll encounter him in the BASS anthology in later '90s collections.

Jones seemed like a writer's writer. When this story was picked up, he was in his 40's working as a janitor – granting him the chance to read several thousand books during that time. Earlier in his life, there was time spent at the Iowa Writer's Workshop – so between his reading and his workshop experience, he found the code for producing the perfect publishable short story. He also struggled with substance abuse – eventually overcoming it.

Yes, I do think that there is a code/formula for producing this type of story – of course, it has to land on the right desk at the right time, and the first reader of that story has to be in the right mood to ingest that story (hopefully they are focused enough – not distracted by their own lives) to drive it through to eventual publication.

Of course, you can fire and forget your submissions…hoping to hit that right combo. Was Jones one of the lucky ones? No – I don't think so – he did enough groundwork before setting off on his quest.

Of course, as it happens with these stories in this collection, he died recently – in 2016.

I enjoyed learning about this story because Jones wrote and created a reality that he never actually experienced – the mark of a true master. He took his own life experiences, friends, and family members' experiences – refined them through the knowledge gained by all his reading and developed this incredibly convincing fiction. Sometimes you can see through the fiction – not with Jones.

It was true fiction.

 

 

 

Emergency – Denis Johnson

All the leaves are now off the large tree in our backyard. When I first set up this home office back in August, the tree was filled with large dark green leaves. I would occasionally look up from the computer, resting my eyes and watch the leaves twist and turn in the late summer sun. 

Fall settled in, and the leaves remained a dark green, and I wondered daily when they’d begin their change. As the days passed, they eventually turned, and the change seemed to accelerate through November. 

The beginning of December brought out the best colors, and strong winds and rainstorms forced the leaves off the branches. Now, here we are in mid-December, and after yesterday’s rain, all the leaves seem to have been torn off the tree.

As fast as they disappeared, I’m sure I’ll think their return in spring is premature.

I value the opportunity to have this view of this tree at this point in my life.

View and perspective.

I loved this short story by Denis Johnson. Without physically ingesting any sort of conscious altering substance, I felt that my consciousness was on a bit of a trip while reading this story. This is, of course, what happens so many times when we read good fiction – we get lost in a character or scene, time melts away, we are transported to another realm – we become someone else.

Johnson does a beautiful job of altering my consciousness through this short story. I was taken out of my room, away from my window, looking out on the leafless tree, and joined the characters in their own chemically altered world. I suppose it should come as a surprise that Johnson was so skilled at relating an experience through a chemically altered state of mind. After reading bout him, it appears that he spent some time addicted to substances. Write what you know.

Perhaps it has to do with the simple way life and time moves. Still, it seems that with a greater frequency, more of the authors that I encounter in these anthologies pass away within a few years of reading them – or just a short time before I meet them. I first encountered Johnson back in 2015 when I read and wrote about his story Car-Crash while Hitchhiking. It was featured in the 1990 anthology of BASS. I remember the story well. I read it during one of my overnight shifts at the ODU library. I wrote about it soon after reading as I felt that what it stirred in me need to be recorded. Part of the reason why I enjoyed Johnson so much was the similarities in style that I saw between him, Carver and Updike. I went deeper into those in the earlier post. I feel the need now, more than then, for authors like Carver and Updike, and my reading of this anthology has suffered as I seek out stories by those two authors. Sorry for the little aside there. Anyway, between the time I first read him, and now, Denis Johnson passed away. Looks like it was in 2017. 

He was an incredible author. 

Perhaps if I read and wrote faster, these sorts of things will happen less often.

Same Place, Same Things – Tim Gautreaux

 

The leaves on the large tree outside of my window turn from green to yellow, red, and then brown, and today, without a wind, they seem to be falling faster than I’ve ever noticed. It’s beautiful and comforting knowing that summer has retreated, and we are moving well into a new season.

Pre-pandemic, I found myself at times, falling into a routine that could provide comfort one day and uneasiness the next. Wake up, run/exercise, shower, drive to work, work 9-5, come home, spend time with the family, watch a little TV, sleep – repeat. It was nice, but there was some staleness to it – especially the 9-5 portion of the day.

In February, I left my place of employment after a 20-year run. I settled into an interesting few weeks, where I searched for other jobs and had some down-time to relax and reflect on my next moves.

March arrived, and so did the national shut-down as everyone tried to figure out how to live in the new normal.

Summer sets in, and we develop a routine as a family to provide the boys with a sense of normalcy in the middle of this crisis. It was a pleasant routine – wake up without an alarm, run/exercise, eat breakfast together, head out for a walk together, sit outside for most of the day, eating, lounging by the pool in the backyard. The evening would come, we’d head out on another walk, have dinner together and perhaps go on a third walk. We ate a lot of watermelon and ice cream. Listened to music and goofed off. It was a great summer.

August arrives, and I started a new job. Wake up at 6:00, run/exercise, make breakfast, shower, but the time clock and the timeclock is punched when I sign into MS Teams at 8:00 in the morning. Spend a good part of the day in front of a computer working from home. I am fortunate. We are all able to be together during this time, and I think that one day when we’re old and reflecting on this time, we’ll have very fond memories of the time spent together.

I don’t know if I find routines comforting or not. I value the knowledge that there is the predictability of a routine, and I know it’s suitable for the boys. I do wonder, though, if there is a loss that I am experiencing without the unpredictability.

The main character in this short story finds himself going through a routine of fixing

farmer’s water pumps and his routine life take s a turn for the worse after an encounter with a lonely woman on a dusty farm.

Disruptions in my modern life seem to consist of car trouble, internet connectivity issues…that sort of thing. Pretty minor.

But what lies just below the surface of this thin reality of everyday life is the chaos of uncertainty that will poke through and cause quite the most unpleasant disruptions on rare occasions.

The chaos visited us in March…we’re still living through it.

What will happen the next time chaos pokes through our thin reality?

How will we react? How will it alter our lives?

 

Across the Bridge – Mavis Gallant

Across the Bridge is the ninth and final story by Mavis Gallant to be featured in the Best American series.

Gallant is a master storyteller.

There’s just one problem for me.

I don’t like her stories.

I believe I gave her a fair shot in my early treatment after my first exposure to her writing. But as I read more of her…I just found that she wasn’t to my tastes.

That’s about all I have to say about that.  

A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain – Robert Olen Butler

As these short stories allow us, and for a reader to fully take advantage of them, one must trust the author, suspend reality, surrender yourself and become someone else. 

A great author can take you out of your "body" and drop you into a character of their choosing. Of course, you have to play along, fully immerse yourself in the story, and not throw up any obstacles to the immersion. 

And what is terrific about this is that you can close the book and return to "your life" but still retain the life of that character if you feel the necessity.

The written story really is an incredible device – as is the mind that absorbs and translates the strange symbols printed on the pages.

Through this story that first appeared in the New England Review, Robert Olen Butler invites you to slip into the mind of an elderly Vietnamese man nearing death as he reflects upon his life, visiting departed relatives and acquaintances…even the restless ghost of Ho Chi Minh.

I've often wondered about my final days. Morbid? I don't think so. These thoughts allow me to refocus on my life's priorities – to live in the moment with the people I love. It also allows me to take stock of my life is/was and alter my course, if necessary. 

I also wonder if I'll be of sound mind at my time of death to even reflect as this character does. Will I have my memories? Will they torture me in my last minutes, or will I just simply fade away? What purpose would be served as I lay there, torturing myself with these thoughts?

Perhaps, when it is my time, there will be the option to customize your last days. To make sure that your last breaths are comfortable and that you are at peace. That would be wonderful. 

Silver Water – Amy Bloom

Silver Water first appeared in Story magazine. I once had a nice collection of Story magazines, and it pains me to write the word once in this sentence. 

I believe they were all “donated” to a local thrift store. I like to imagine that they were snatched up by another lover of the short story, but in reality, they probably sat on the shelf in the store and were dumped after not selling.

 I suppose they were only valuable to me, purchased from a used book store in downtown Norfolk in the mid 00’s with birthday money from my grandmother. I remember writing that down in the cover of one of the editions. 

They stood in formation on my bookshelf for several years, and I’d pull one out every so often, thumb through it, read a story and return it to its home.

Amy Bloom makes three appearances in The Best American anthology. Her first appearance was in 1991 with Love is Not a Pie. 

We will visit with Amy again in 2000. 

Love is Not a Pie is a beautiful story and compelled me to write one of my favorite posts that detailed a past spent with my father—the post that was made in April of 2017 – just a few short months before he died.

Silver Water tackles the too important issue of mental health and, more importantly, how a family copes with it when it strikes and completely cripples one of its members. I remember discussing schizophrenia with my father – he, of course, supervised a few of them over many years. I was baffled at how this disease could completely ravage a person – and their family.

Having a loved one suffer from such a debilitating mental illness is one of my greatest fears. Your mother, wife, son, or daughter could be completely “normal” one day…and then, the disease creeps in, grabs that portion of their brain, their soul – and takes them from you. It’s so heartbreaking. 

Once again, we are shown, life is suffering.

A Different Kind of Imperfection – Thomas Beller

"Nothing is bothering me. It’s just odd to be back. You know, like, when you go away and then you come back and it’s, like-"

A Different Kind of Imperfection was first published in The New Yorker, fittingly, is a New York story ( I wonder if there were short story writers that purposely wrote New York City stories in an attempt to get them in the New Yorker with the thought that they would actually get published there and then propelled into literary stardom…).

As I do with these stories, and especially with the stories published in the 90s, I travel back to those days and reflect on my life and draw parallels between the story and what I was going through then...and sometimes now. This one is very easy to do as it features a character that has returned home to NYC on a break from college. He lives with his single mother (father died when the boy was 10) and lazes about the house reading a book from his father’s collection, wondering what an underlined phrase means to the now deceased father, contemplating the lives of his younger parents and his father’s life as he learned that he had cancer and was dying.

I’m pretty sure I just summed up the story well enough - of course without getting too deep into the underlying meanings...etc. – it’s beautiful – several sentences are just straight-up art. 

Thomas Beller appears only once in the BASS anthology, but what an incredible writer he is - and incredibly faithful to NYC.

I have done this story a disservice though. This disservice is keeping with my track record on these stories, so it’s not entirely unfair to this story. 

I read this story earlier this year. Perhaps it was April…May or June. One should remember, though, what year it is…2020 in the year of the forever month of March. Having read the story so many months ago and now it is mid-September, yes, I re-read it…if you call speed reading it an actual read. 

I am once again playing catch-up with these stories. I’m about 5 stories into this anthology and have only posted about 2 before this one.

Life once again got in the way. I enjoyed the summer with the family without having a job. Summer began to fade, and I was fortunate enough to secure employment. School has started for the kids (virtual), and I am working from home too.

I am once again turning to this blog to provide some stability in what is a boat in churning seas. I am not threatened by the waters, I just need that stabilizing tool this blog provides.

This outlet, this blog has been here for me for the last 12 years, and I am happy to turn to it once again.

I remember returning home several times during university breaks. I had grown, and the distance between my mother and I had grown too. She so desperately wanted to know what was going on in my life, for me to open up, but that pleading, those requests shut me up tighter against her. I don’t suppose that many young men feel too inclined to open up fully to their mothers concerning their exploits when they are between 18 and 25. We were still boys though we like to believe we were men.

This story and the relationship the main character has with the memory of his father and his (living) mother allowed me to reexamine those trips home and my behavior back then. It’s sad to think about the way I acted – and I need to be realistic in thinking that my children could also not feel the need to share their lives with me no matter how much I wish them to.  

Lessons learned? Yes - once again, from the best teacher - these stories. 

Days of Heaven - Rick Bass

                                                

So happy to encounter Rick Bass along this journey once again. I was first introduced to him in 2012 with Cats And Students, Bubbles And Abysses. Looking back at that post, it seems that I enjoyed the story but had a bit of trouble fully understanding it. Meeting him again in 2017, through The Legend Of Pig-Eye was welcome and I really had a great time reading about the publication of the story and and thinking about the message. 

When I saw that Bass had a story in this collection, I was really looking forward to reading it - and more so after reading the first story in the collection that I wasn't especially fond of.

Days of Heaven is a beautiful story. Well, perhaps beautiful is the wrong word - but I can't seem to come up with another word right now that fits how I felt after reading it. 

I suppose what I enjoyed most about this story is that - well, it's a story. It didn't force me to seek something out within it (not that I don't mind the challenge). Bass simply, through his composition told a great story. 

A large part of what endears me to a story of course is how well I can relate to it - this seems obvious - right? 

I could see myself in another life, as a 20 something living as a caretaker in a cabin out west. I could see myself sharing the perspective of the main character, behaving like him and thinking of others, as he thinks of them. 

In the Contributor's Notes section at at the end of the collection, Bass writes quite a lot about the creation of this story and the multiple drafts and edits it went through with his editors (13, if I remember correctly).

In my spreadsheet of BASS authors, we will encounter Rick Bass again in 1996, 1999 and finally in 2001. 

I look forward to spending more time with him.

  

The Last Lovely City - Alice Adams

The last time we had the chance to spend some time with Alice Adams was a couple years ago when we were introduced to her as the editor for BASS 1991.  

I mentioned that she first appeared in The BASS in 1976 so I missed her by a couple of years as this project started with the 1978 collection. She is featured again with two stories after the guest editor spot in the BASS ’92 and ’96.

Adams appears first in the 1992 collection simply because of her last name. It seems that the editor and guest editor of these volumes have consistently agreed that the easiest way to order the stories is alphabetical by the authors last name - with the exception of BASS 1992 guest edited by John Gardner.

The Last Lovely City takes place along Stinson Beach California. With the incredible technology afforded to us in these times, I was able to visit the same beach town Alice did and decided to make as the setting for her story.

This story first appeared in The New Yorker in the March 11, 1991 issue. The U.S. had just finished active hostilities during Operation Desert Storm.

Personally, I felt that this story gave the anthology a bit of a rough takeoff. It's a story that still has the feel of the mid-1980s. I had to push myself through that time barrier to find a message that resonated with me - understanding that as with all of these stories, there is a very good chance that I would not find one.

And then, a simple paragraph tucked in towards the end made the connection.

"...the doctor finds that those giants from his dark and tangled past have quite suddenly receded: Delores and Tolliver have shrunk down to human size, the size of people accidentally encountered at a party. Such meeting can happen to anyone, easily, especially at a certain age."

I have reached the age - and have been the age to have the above happen on more than one occasion. The encounters cause quick butterflies to rise in your heart, quickening its beat and upon reflection hours later, perhaps at home after the meting, laying in bed reflecting, you realize how silly your mind was, building these people up from your past into "giants".

Time, once again has taught you a valuable lesson - a lesson that you will forget probably forget and replay several times more throughout your life.

Intermission

I'm pretty sure the algorithms synced across a few platforms to bring In the Land of Men to my attention - and just like that, I downloaded it last night, and I'm primed to start reading tonight. 

I'm excited about this book mainly because I think it'll offer some additional insight to the lit scene of the 90's. We've just breached the 90s in this BASS exploration project and BASS 1992 is the first time we encounter David Foster Wallace - a major part of Miller's book. Additionally, according to my spreadsheet, during her time at Esquire, Miller edited four authors that landed in The Best American Short Stories. 

I'll be sure to circle back around in a few days with my thoughts.