Living Alone – Robley Wilson Jr.

Robley Wilson Jr.

Born 1930 -

I really enjoyed this brief story. I was also happy to research Wilson and discover a bit about him. He had, and it seems that he continues to have, a wonderful writing life.

Wilson attended the 7^th Annual Literary Festival at ODU back in 1984. Well, I was 12 then. I suppose I could have read some of his work when I was 12 and attended the festival as a devoted fan, but I doubt that I would have taken away much.

He was the editor for The North American Review for 31 years. What a life that must have been. How I envy those who are able to live on reading and writing.

“Living Alone” and what it gave me.

I’ll line it up to what I was going through in 1979 and perhaps through this you will see why the story touched me and what it allowed me to reflect upon.

In 1979, I was 7 years old. Things in my little world were going quite well. I was in school, 2^nd, grade, my sister and I just survived a horrific bicycle accident and most of my memories from my life forward are starting to solidify themselves in my brain.

Concerning the accident.

My sister and I were sitting in a contraption called a “bugger”. It is a seat that attached to an adult bicycle that had 2 wheels and allowed the adult to pull the children. (Think Asian cart contraption) We were facing backwards...and without helmets...and the center of gravity was pretty high. This was a new offer to those aging hippies who loved to scoot around on their bikes - and despite the safety precautions my father took, it wasn’t safe enough. At a high rate of speed, he hit a speed bump exiting a parking lot and he flipped the bugger.

My sister and I were buckled in with a flimsy canvas strap and drug a nice distance on our heads. I think my sister got it worse than I did. Blood, crying, screaming...general chaos all around.

Writing about this at this age, has allowed me to reflect on how my parents must have felt, especially my father. He must have been terrified.

But, this story did not cause me to think about this accident, only the mention above caused the reflection which in turn lead to the need to write a bit more at length about it.

On to what the story did for me. Unknown to my sister and I, during this time 1979, my parents were quietly laying their plans for the divorce. It would be a few short months later that my folks would sit us down and explain to us that mommy and daddy still loved us, but not each other. Daddy would be leaving. Daddy would be living alone in Philadelphia.

– And there you have the connection.

I often wondered about my father and his life alone. This story shed some light into what it must have been like for him. He had no cat as did the main character of this story but a pair of birds. He lived in a small apartment in Chestnut Hill, commuted to Philly daily – even weekends- spent hours at his work, and did god knows what else.

I wondered who he spoke to alone in his little apartment. He didn’t have 2 kids there to entertain, a wife to nag him or to love him. He was alone.

As an innocent child, I felt sorry for this man, my father living alone. I don’t feel sorry for him now. I still have a lingering anger. An anger that emerged recently, as in the last couple of years, as the thought of a man leaving his two young children...for work.

And you know what, shit on them...all of them, those hippies...unable to work it out. Divorce was the “in” thing to do in the late 70’s early 80’s. Thanks a lot guys. You did a nice job on a good section of my generation.

I suppose I should be thankful for these stories, as they allow me to stumble through my history and face old ghosts. To be angry at my father. To see that I am a stronger and more compassionate man than he is. To love my wife and to stick by her come what may. To face the world and to accept the challenges.

Score 9 out of 10.

Seasons – Ruth McLaughlin

Born- unknown

Humm. Well, “Seasons” was Ruth McLaughlin’s first published story, and it looks as if she is one of those writers who chose to fly low and slow. Google Books turned up another story of hers that was published in a collection of women writers from Montana. There was also mention of her in another journal where “Seasons” was referenced.

“Seasons” was a pleasant read. Oates in her introduction describes the story as “delicate” and then “finally disturbing”. I don’t know if I would describe it as “disturbing” but there seemed to be something haunted about it. Perhaps I rushed through or was not in the right frame of mind during the reading...distracted.

There were a couple of scenes in the story that lent them to be interpreted as alluding to some sort of mental issues with the characters. I tend to enjoy stories that have to do with mental illness or if a character has “something” just not right in their mind.

When an author exposes a character that seems to be perfect and normal with subtle hints of something being off kilter psychologically – I enjoy that.

We’re all crazy anyway- right?

Score 7 out of 10.

Spelling– Alice Munro

Alice Munro – July 10, 1931

I don’t think any introduction is need of Alice Munro. Plenty of information online and plenty of reviews of her work...even reviews of this very story. Why should I add my review?

The story was fine on all accounts. It didn’t knock me off my feet. What it did do is what these stories are supposed to do – either educate, jump start the pursuit of a portion of knowledge or ignite a stream of reflection.

“Spelling” set me off on thinking about the lives of my parents as they grow older – specifically, how I will interact with them.

Was this the intention of Munro? Well, that’s the beauty of the short, the power to move minds.

Over the past 9 years, it seems that the change in my parents have become more evident. My father of course has ALZ. Early diagnosis. He lives in PA. so I rarely see him but when I do, the effects of the disease are pretty noticeable.

Concerning my mother, I see her weekly because we live in the same city. I think that I noticed the biggest change in her a couple of years after our return from Romania.

How will I deal with them when they are well into their senior years? Because of what ALZ does, I can only expect the worst for my dad. How will it impact my life, our lives?

Score 7 out of 10.

Falling off the Scaffold – Lyn Coffin

Lyn Coffin - November 12, 1943

I’ve had some trouble with some of the experimental prose that Oates has chosen to include in this volume and I suppose I should say there was trouble with the submissions Solotaroff made.

I think though that I would be correct in labeling “falling off the Scaffold” as a bit out of the ordinary for a short story...so would it qualify as experimental?

What is the definition of experimental in literature and who has the power to define it? Am I viewing this as experimental through the lens of 1979 or am I bringing my 2009 eyes into judging it? Tough to say.

I define it as experimental because this is my blog, my writing and me having a conversation with myself.

Coffin creates a world where a writer of poetry and short stories conducts a correspondence course with a writing instructor and delivers an interesting look into the relationship between artists. It was a short glimpse and one that I found myself feeling a bit uncomfortable reading at times because of the reactions that the two characters gave to each other concerning the poets work. I enjoyed reading a bit of poetry within the story as well as shorts contained within the short. I felt that the poet/short story character toyed with the professor. She was batting him around more than seeking his criticism and advice...and he seems to be of course, full of himself, not shaping and developing the author but stroking his own feathers.

Coffin offers writing consultancy services in the real world...interesting after reading this selection. I feel though that the insight that she could provide would be genuine.

What did “Falling off the Scaffold” give me?

I have trouble with criticism, and I think that when I finally break down and start writing “for real” this is what will provide me with the most anxiety. The criticism. I have trouble with editors and I have trouble seeing their eye as just an editor’s eye...I see them hacking and slicing and manipulating more than what is just created by me...I see them attacking and changing ME.

This is an incorrect assessment of what they do and I think though that one of the reasons why I am afraid to really write is because I fear the criticism.

I’ll find a way over this, and perhaps this whole exercise I am engaged in now is allowing me a bit of that.

Lyn Coffin. She has had and continues to have, and what seems to be a wonderful life. A successful poet in the past through today...and from what I understand, this is no small feat. I mean, being a poet is HARD. Do Americans read poetry? She has quite an online presence and even a Facebook page. This shouldn’t surprise me, as after researching Coffin, one can tell that she is quite a progressive woman.

This pushing of limits/boundaries made Coffin into what she is today. I respect her for this and I intend to write her and give her a big thumbs up on this fine work.

Score – 8 out of 10.