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.