Customs of the Country - Madison Smartt Bell

I’ve written in several posts on how lucky I have been in my life to not have been exposed to some of the more unpleasant aspects of humanity. It’s easy to watch the news, read a newspaper (people still do that right?) or scan an article online to realize what that our lives on this planet, as short as they are, can be crammed full of violence, hatred, anguish, love and passion all intertwined in a mixed up glob of feelings…confusing and damaging. Once again, literature allows me to live a life that I’ve never lived. A life of abuse, loss, mistakes, addiction, sorrow, hate, dependence and rejection.


It’s through literature that we learn of those who live this sort of life every day… and we learn, hopefully, to be empathetic towards others…knowing that they could be living a life similar to a character you just read about as you reclined in your easy-chair.

Customs of the Country is such a sharp story. I think the language pulled me in – and Bell did a wonderful job of developing the characters. Violence is an incredible thing. Knowing that violence moved our species forward out of the desert, the jungle, the trees, I wonder when and if there was a time that compassion, or holding another human prevailed over striking them down.

I would like to think that in all the human relationships that exist on this planet that holding another rather than hitting another surpasses the violent act.

Sadly I have my doubts.

Too many wake in the morning to a slap rather than a gentle hug or kiss. Perhaps it’s not even a slap but just the lack of any sort of recognition of their existence. Perhaps it’s a hurtful word or two (which could hurt as much as or leave deeper scars) that is uttered rather than a pleasant good morning.

And my heart hurts as I look at people and wonder, as they placed their feet on the floor to stand and take their first steps of the day, did they wish that they never woke? Were they happy to be alive?

 

Fenstad’s Mother – Charles Baxter

I thought over these past several months that perhaps I had dried up.

That there possibly couldn’t be any more thoughts generated by these stories.

Of course, that is impossible, and I soon realized that I just lost my creative drive a bit.

Lost the groove. There needed to be a pause. Not like I was writing furiously, or really writing at all, but there needed to be a space for fermentation.

Here I am early in the morning – struggling through my overnight shift at the university, lack of sleep making me a little loopy – presenting you with a disjointed essay that will cover everything from my guit on being a bad son to me being scared shitless about having that little Alzheimer’s defect swirling around in my DNA.

I have thought a lot about this story. I have written several drafts of this little essay…all of which have somehow become” lost”. My subconscious has allowed me to forget which email account or which drive I stored them on – only for me to find them one day and quickly delete them knowing that they were not the right version – that this version, the one that I will post is exactly the one that time has dictated to be placed here.

At this point in my writing of this essay, I feel that I should mention something about my mother. This story was pushing it on me but I refused to see it. I don’t want to get into remembrances of my mother because I don’t think that this is what I am supposed to write about.

Simply, I think this story is telling me that I’m not spending enough time with my mother. That I am not providing her with the support she needs now.

I am slowing becoming more aware of time and the amount of time, and not just our time but the time of our loved ones on this earth.

I have become more aware of this over the past few months through my father’s slow death from Alzheimer’s and the physical change in my mother as she takes care of her husband who is in his 90s also suffering from dementia and well from the fact that he’s in his 90s!

With my mother, I see a woman in her late 60s being sucked into an age well beyond her years due to the emotional and physical stresses of caring for her husband. And I’ve been a poor son, living 1 mile away from her house, and going sometimes a full week without even texting her. I am so fortunate to have a wife who will step in for my failings and have a communication stream with my mother that absorbs some of the hurt that I know my mom must feel knowing her son is so close but so far.

This is nothing new though.

I have a note from her written some years ago, I can’t remember exactly; perhaps it was in the 90s, where she pleaded with me to let me let her into my life a little. I was stubborn, and I honestly can’t recall if my behavior towards her changed after that letter but I have a feeling it didn’t.

Now as a father, I can’t imagine the day that may arise that I too will have to write a note to my son asking him to allow me into his life once again.

When my step-mother was in her 30s and she decided to marry my father did she ever imagine that she’d be in the position she is in now? Did my sister and I ever think that our father would be re-entering our lives the way he now? As a man who can’t walk from one room to the next and know why he walked into that room?

My mother who in her early 40s, just over a year after my father left, would she have ever imagined that she would be in the position that she is in now? Would my mother who can’t walk out of the house for more than 2 minutes ever think that she would be charged with feeding her husband, helping him walk from one room to the next, calling the rescue squad after he’s fallen out of the bed, spending an hour cleaning the bathroom after not making it there in time for him to use the toilet?

The disease that has gripped these two men, my father and my step father is dragging down 13 others with it. And I have so much more I’d like to say about this…and will but not in this entry.

I sit a mile from my mother’s house and can’t make it over there for 5 minutes to say hello. That is simply unacceptable.

It’s hard being a father but I think it’s more difficult being a mother. And I think it’s even more difficult to be a mother to a son.

I’m middle aged now and I need to stop acting as I did when I was younger. Middle age. And to further heighten the necessity for me to get my shit together, if early onset Alzheimer’s hits me…well, I have about 20 good years left before I begin my slide. Twenty years will pass in the blink of an eye. And what will I have to show for it?

Daily, I need to recognize those around me and know their value and to appreciate them for what they give me. Perhaps through that recognition I can give a little to them in return – a feeling of worth that they didn’t expect…a bright spot in a dark day – we pass through this space only once.

So, quite a bit has come from me sitting on this story. A new level of guilt has taken up firm residence on my shoulders – perhaps I can ease that weight a bit by actually calling mom every-so-often.

For weeks, I have carried around The Best American Short Stories 1989. Weeks combined into months. As I have experienced with previous volumes, the time a book spends in my bag only increases its weight on my back.


In my head.

The book, purchased from Thrift Books, Amazon or Better World Books, I can’t seem to remember, still holds its bright orange cover but has suffered from sun exposure along its spine. The sun washed away the bright orange and a dusty tan now is mismatched against the front and back covers.

Out what window did this book look for so long?

What sun passed over it each day?

Where was it plucked from before being stuffed into a padded envelope and rushed to my waiting hands…only to spend more time on a shelf…and then, finally pulled from its spot several weeks ago…”Finally, it’s my turn! He has picked me! Let me do my best to remain strong and to deliver my contents as I was designed!”

And then my new companion finds himself riding on my back…day after day….week after week…with each opening of my bag, he sees my eyes glance at him only to have a hand grasp a fellow traveler. Perhaps a New Yorker…Swann’s Way or the journal.

I have done the book a disservice by carrying it along with others. The book’s companions have left crease marks along the faded spine and large indentations into the top pages, and adding final insult to injury, it appears that tea, which is also a daily traveler in my bag has leaked and placed a couple of nice brown stains with the liquid further compounding the damage by dissolving the strength of the paper as pressure from another book dug into the tightly pressed pages.

Now, finally, he sits on the desk beside me. Lifted from his space- dreams that perhaps, this could be it! Time to deliver!

His purpose to be fulfilled.

“How long will he spend with me?” What will he think of my stories?” What will become of me when the last page is turned?”

“24 long years of waiting… and now…how long will he hold me?”

Here we are: the 1989 Best American Short Stories. If my history plays out the same as it has with previous volumes, this book should be with me for several more months.

1989 was a big year for me. I was not yet 18 and entering my final year of high school. I had not reached the halfway point of the age that I am now, never imagining that I would be so old. I thought I knew everything then and of course only realizing within the last few years that my true education began…yesterday. Memories of that year really don’t mark it as one that deserves any sort of special mention.

My circle of friends started to fracture as I we unconsciously (perhaps?) prepared for our separation in a few months. We seemed to know that a long goodbye would be easier. We would all attend different schools in different states only to compare experiences during the holiday breaks. I had a steady girlfriend but continued to seek a return of the love from the one that still held my heart.

In a few short months, I would be tossed into the world…but not really. I would be sheltered but not by the protection I had been afforded for the previous 18 years of my life. College would envelope me in its warm embrace – holding off reality for a few more years.



I feel a pushing and a pulling by these volumes now. It will be a huge step when I finish this volume and move into the 1990s. I will be crossing from one of my lives into the next. 1998 and 2000 will also be big years. As will 2010 – all of which I will address in their introductions.

Margaret Atwood is the editor for the 1989 volume of BASS. I was a bit intimidated at the thought of writing some sort of introduction about her considering her density. I realized only in writing the lines above that I needn’t worry so much about her and that I should push forward into reading and thinking about the stories she selected for me. Her introduction, “Reading Blind”, didn’t hold me in a way that I feel it necessary to waste your time in reading my writing about it.

Her last line did state one point of what I am doing in this reading and writing exercise.

“From listening to the stories of others, we can learn to tell our own.”

Perfect.

Who or What to blame this time?  I have to have something to turn to for my slack-ass reading.

Shit look at how long it took me to read this volume. 

6 months 13 days

or

28 weeks

or

196 days

or

0.54 years

I have to figure that it's a record.

20 stories

That works out to one story read and written about every 9.8 days.

11 stories by men – 9 by women authors.

ONLY 3 from The New Yorker! – The Atlantic is represented the same number of times.

In terms of motivation, I will say that I was not at all motivated to read the stories in this collection. 

I can easily lean on Helprin and say that his distaste for the minimalist turned me off...I can blame my work schedule...

There is no one to blame though - just me. 

There really is only one thing to do.  Keep reading.  1989 is up.

Helping - Robert Stone

It's tough out there. Life is tough.

I wonder if there is anyone who lives there life without a struggle of some sort.

Sure, our struggles are relative to our existence and I think that my struggles/problems/issues/challenges are nothing compared to those faced by someone someplace else.

It's almost embarrassing to even think of my life and associate the word tough with it.

But - it's all relative.

I am so very lucky in my life.

I have a job (two actually) that I enjoy.

I have a wife that loves me.

I have a beautiful wonderful son. We have plenty of food to eat. We are all healthy -physically and emotionally.

I do not sit in a cubicle, in a job that I detest.

I do not have coworkers that I loathe.

I do not suffer from PTSD or substance abuse.

I do not self-medicate through food or drink.

I do not fight with my wife.

I am not envious of my neighbors.



I am so fortunate.



I read the news, and it seems that people are so troubled - that they are so unhappy.

There seems to be millions in our society that are challenged with problems that make their lives so difficult. They hate their job, they fight with their spouse, their children are in trouble, they wrestle with mental illness (their own or another's), their finances are shot, they struggle with substances - they want to be better than the Jones'.



There are petty little things that we (M and I) would like to change in our life (house vs. apartment), no student loans...and some stability in my parent's lives. But honestly…this is nothing.

This story – Helping, it’s about love and need and companionship – I have all those and more –

Victoria - Hilding Johnson

I'll turn once again to my thoughts on me and writing - and yes, they are still thoughts and they are just that – nothing more.

Perhaps I'm a volcano and I'll erupt - or one day, I'll get hit on the head, and my world will tilt just enough to get me to actually write something - meaningful.

Hilding Johnson, in her contributor's notes, reminds the reader that an author has the luxury of creating a world through their writing...sometimes a world that they have never physically visited.

I've been doing a lot of world creating and it's remained in my head - there have been efforts in the past to get them on paper but that perfect stone has not fallen from the sky causing those worlds to be transferred to paper.

I am afraid at times that the stone will be too big and crush me under its weight. It needs to be just the right size - and come at just the right time.

Could I possibly set up any more barriers for myself?

Still Life- Marjorie Sandor

I still find pleasure in flipping through old photo albums.

The yellow tinted photos of the 70s, the overly color saturated photos of the 80s and the glossy deep rich photos of the 90s. The near perfect processed hard copy photos of the digitally manipulated shots that I tuned before sending off to the drugstore – existent - but a noticeable smaller collection as most live in hard drives.

The photo albums that W will be able to glance through will be so different that what his mother and I once thumbed through in our younger years.

In my albums, no doubt, he will find old hard copy photos of M and I dutifully ordered by our parents many years ago swiped from their albums to fill our own. He will be able to look back through old photos of M and I – and recreate our lives in his mind before he was born.

He'll be able to see us before our marriage, before we met each other, before I left home and traveled to that town in southeastern Europe He'll be able to fill in the gaps with his imagination and over time piece together stories from the stories we tell him...someday relying on his own memory of our fractured memories.

He will see himself in my baby pictures, as a boy of 2. He'll see me as a scared and awkward boy of 10, and then a teenager struggling with teenage problems. He'll see me in photos with girls that aren't his mother. He'll see me with friends that he'll never meet. He’ll see me with my parents - grandparents that he may recognize in their physical form but who are something different in who they present themselves as today. He'll see me in a uniform. He'll see me with a beard and long hair. He'll see me in distant countries, with strange looking people. He'll see me living in his mother's village...but in photos without her.

And then he'll begin to see her appear in my photos. He'll see us as friends, co-workers and then the shots of our marriage. Celebrations with a family so far away.

He'll see two young people boarding an airplane looking brave, hiding their fears and insecurities about their future together. He'll see their lives develop together over the years, trips with family and friends...and then with the turn of a page, he'll appear.

If he finds his mother’s small book of photos, flipping through the pages, he’ll see his eyes in his mother's eyes as she stands in her little "young pioneer's" kindergarten uniform. Photos of her playing with her two brothers. Black and white images not taken not in the 40s...but the 80s...poor Romania.

He'll see her as a student with friends and boys that aren't his father. He'll see her happy at family gatherings and at dances. And then he'll see the two books become one as he begins to recognize images from my photo albums.



I have seen a few...5 or 6 at the most, photos of my mother and father when they were young. I don't ever remember seeing photos of them starting school, attending dances, graduating from high school or college. There are a couple of the two of them before I was born...but the real photos start flooding into the pages of albums once I arrived. As a child, I viewed the photos, I placed myself at the center of my focus. I've since shifted that focus to what surrounds me in those photos in an effort to understand the two of them a bit more.

Their relationship intrigues me and I have a long term assignment to learn from it. I no longer trust either of their memories - obviously not my father’s due to his disease, but my mother's memory has started to shift towards invention. She also has tainted her memories with those leaning towards only the good aspects of their time together - forgiving him for what he did, and not holding him accountable for the life he gave us after he left.



I will teach W to look at these photos without placing himself our M or me in the center of the focus. I'll ask him to look at our surroundings - the pictures on the walls, the leaves on the trees, the food on the tables. I'll ask him if he thinks that the people in the photos were happy when the photos were taken. Were they wearing false masks? What does he think is really going on in the photo - does the photo represent that instant accurately?

I'll do this to stimulate his imagination and to fill in the holes of our history. I'll tell him stories of those photos and give him details of my life, our life before and after they were taken.

It will be a wonderful experience for him to see our lives as individuals...so far apart...joined...and told in a story that he'll soon tire of hearing...but one that he'll repeat one day.

And he'll also look at his life someday, collected in photos...almost a photo a day - and not see the changes that one can only recognize in photos taken at monthly intervals- will he notice the changes?