Fogbound in Avalon – Elizabeth McGrath

Elizabeth McGrath - ???

So here we are again with another great story, and all of my searching skills have failed to turn up anything on the author.

This was a surprisingly wonderful story. It was filled with such emotion, raw feelings and quite relatable.

I have found the past several stories that Calisher chose to be quite refreshing. We go from a male dominated collection from Elkin to this volume which is split nicely so far between the genders. I enjoy reading about women. Insights to the mysteries that they are can be divined from authors who choose to represent them in all of their complexities.

I enjoy attempting to “figure out’ women. It’s a challenge and a challenge that morphs in its structure from woman to woman. It is absolutely impossible in my opinion to lay a blanket set of characteristics across a woman. And, I feel this especially so in this day and age.

McGrath does a fine job of introducing us to the woman of the 1980s.

we are presented with a women, a mother who is lonely, depressed, overeducated, unfulfilled by her husband (which she chooses to leave) and generally depressed. (Is there some foreshadowing to Prozac Nation here?)

A character that has no problem polishing off half a bottle of booze, smoking a pack a day, kissing an old acquaintance in an airplane and generally making an attempt to figure out where she fits in this world...a bit too late.

She was probably forced into the position of wife/mother by her husband, a husband who later also struggled with his place in the world – and lack of direction – a realization that when it surfaces causes her to gain consciousness from the coma of her miserable life with him.

This story brought me back to a time in my life where I felt that I had no direction. I was fortune not to have baggage such as a family that could be damaged by any sudden movements I made. I was able to strike out on my own, change my reality and create one that suited me.

I too was “Fogbound”. But who isn’t in life at one point or another?

So, what happened to Elizabeth McGrath?

Did she see what the future held for her and decide that her best bet was to disappear?

The Future – Joseph McElroy

Joseph McElroy – 1930 –

It’s a tough subject to write about.

The relationship between a mother and a son.

It seems to me, much easier to write a bout the relationship between a father and a daughter or a father and a son – mostly I suppose because I think fathers are pretty cut and dry. The influence that a father has on his children is much more subtle and it is a powerful influence that they don’t even realize they are exerting. Problems and deviations from the norm that exist in a father can set the children up for all sorts of behavior – and further, it seems, that a father is a bit more reckless with his life inside of the family structure.

The mother’s influence is a more of “in your face” influence. It’s right out there in the open.

It seems that a mother (a high percentage of them) tend to fall into the traditional role that one would expect of them.

And I base this on what?

Well, nothing more than my own experience – so, one could say, that my observations are only a result of what I have lived with, and so they are not to be applied to all familial relationships.

Yes?

Correct!

I’ve written plenty here about my father and my relationship with him. I touched briefly on my relationship with my mother. I’m too lazy to link back to those posts. – Sorry –

My mother worked hard to raise my sister and me. She was left in a better position than other mothers during the 1980s after a divorce. We still had a roof over our heads, and my father paid child support until we were adults.

My mother and father (from a distance) raised two kids without any discipline problems.

Overall, we were good kids.

I had a good relationship with my mother. She set down the law, and I followed it.

I was lucky in most cases.

A mother, as she should have, accepted me in whatever form I came in. My phase where I wore combat boots and shaved my head was accepted. My phase where I had long-term girlfriends and evidence built that we were “serious” was accepted.

I didn’t do drugs, and I didn’t drink. I think she felt some relief in this and so my fence of freedoms was enlarged.

The only bumpy part of the road in our relationship was during my college years. She was accepting of my desires for freedom and independence. She didn’t hold on too tight. There was some questioning surrounding our communication during my time at Norwich, but while I was in Vermont, I was trying my hardest to develop into my own person.

Overall, she did a good job.

My problem though is that I rarely tell her this. I feel that I don’t need to tell her this, but it goes against my thoughts on praising people when they “do good”.

I take comfort in her knowing that she did a good job by looking at my life and the decisions that I have made and continue to make.

The life I am leading now, with all the successes and the happiness that is in my life, and I know that she has to feel some credit for this.

She’s a good mom, was a good mom and continues to be a good mom and I love her.

Shiloh – Bobbie Ann Mason

Bobbie Ann Mason – May 1, 1940

In Shiloh, I found a nice stepping stone to reflect on past relationships. I can include friendships in this as well, not to focus just upon “romantic” relationships that I have had.

There is a fine balance that we must all walk in life where personal development and growth lie ahead as a reward and detachment or loss lie behind us – or rather- to our side.

It is important to recognize this see-saw type of relationship we have with others and ourselves because if one side is too heavy, we risk so much.

It will be ten years this summer that M and I have been married. Early on in our marriage, she blamed me for being “selfish”.

I fought her on this label but I the end, upon refection, she was 99% right in its application.

I have learned to balance out what I enjoy doing in life to the time spent in our life “together”.

The reward to making compromises to a friend, wife or family member is usually worth it.

Both of us over the past ten years have sacrificed for each other. It’s called “being married”.

Why would we deny the other the happiness that would come from the pursuit of something we wish to work hard for?

She has come to understand the importance of me running for hours at a time – the therapy that it provides. She also understands how important reading and the collection of books is to me.

I recognize that she has to go against her better judgment sometimes, but when she does, it is a sacrifice that makes me happy.

The perspective that another can provide to you in your pursuit of your wants can be beneficial as well. Others keep us in check – they make sure that our dreams aren’t too lofty – or doomed to fail. They also can provide encouragement when we feel that our dreams are out of reach.

The Bookseller – Elizabeth Hardwick

Elizabeth Hardwick - July 27, 1916 – December 2, 2007

The last time I encountered Hardwick, I didn’t much care for her story. This time around, her writing fell a bit easier on me.

I’ve often thought about what it would be like to engage in book selling. I’ll admit, I don’t think I would do a good job at all in that profession. I would hate to part with the books. I’m sure that I would seek out books to fill my shelves, but I would place myself in an interesting position when it came to selling them.

Loaning books – I don’t even like doing that. I have been burned too many times by people who have “lost” the books that I lent them.

Calisher in her introduction, states that Hardwick’s story does the job of reminding us of literatures place in our world.

I really wonder what its place is today. The world has change so much in the years since Calisher made that observation and chose this story as a way to present her point.

I do not have a firm grasp (who really does) on where, as a society, literature fits into our world.

Because I read so much, because I focus so much on the literary world, my view is skewed.

I feel that not enough people are reading – I feel that back in the 80’s when Hardwick wrote this and Calisher included it, there was a little teetering towards where we are today. Calisher proves to be prophetic once again.

Are people buying books? Are people reading the books that they buy? Are books that are being published really worth publishing?

My history with books is one that I have touched on before in these writings so I needn’t repeat myself...but, my recent relationship with books has really taken on a new and interesting dimension since I started this project of learning and self discovery.

I have learned so many lessons and my perspective on the world has shifted due to some of what I have read. The stories have opened my eyes, allowed me to see people for who they really are – to cut through the noise of the world that we live in today through lessons that were written many years ago – which carry so much weight today.

I can’t stress how important this exercise is for me.

The Assembly – Mavis Gallant

The Assembly – Mavis Gallant

Mavis Gallant - August 11, 1922 -

So I touched briefly on Mavis in this post from The BASS 1980 – Here is the link to that post - if at all interested.

There has been so much written about what Gallant “captures” in her writing so I doubt that anything I say in the way of adding to that would mean much. I do think that she does a fine job of capturing a slice of the petty and self-centered-ness that exists in all of us though this little short story.

Personally, when I am involved in meetings where at times the meetings go off on tangents where individuals turn the focus to themselves. It’s a waste of time and serves no purpose in forwarding the agenda. Kinda like what happens in this story.

The Winter Father – Andre Dubus

Andre Dubus August 11, 1936 - February 24, 1999

I have to say, after six stories into this collection, I am very happy with the selections Calisher has made. This volume is much more pleasing to read than the previous.

This feeling comes through stronger after reading “The Winter Father”.

I don’t think I have read a story that has brought forth so many emotions in me before.

The strength of this writer is incredible.

This story hit way too close to home for me.

There were scenes in this story that made me feel as if Dubus was following me though my life during the early months of my parents divorce.

It’s a spooky coincidence of timing as well. My parents split up and my father headed north to Philly in the autumn of 1980. Dubus was probably writing this in 1980.

So, I’m going to fully take advantage of this blog now and use it for what I intended.

Release and education.

1980

My father headed up to Philly in the autumn of 1980 – He settled in a quiet suburb.

In Chestnut Hill, he rented in a small one room apartment – with a basement – which he converted into a small living area for my sister and I on our visits.

I remember the first visit to his new home vividly. Unlike in the story, where the father was able to drive and pick the brother and sister up, all within the same general geographic region, my parents lived farther apart.

My mother sister and I remained in Norfolk and dad moved to Philly. For the first trip, my parents felt that a short fast visit made by plane would be easiest on us all.

I was eight and my sister was five. We flew alone.

My mother was allowed to walk us onto the plane and sit with us, minutes before take off. Just as in the story, onlookers (other passengers and the stewardesses) were aware of what was going on and that we were the children of divorcees.

We cried a little, and in my mind, somehow, I knew that I had to be a bit stronger for my sister. I choked back tears.

We would land about 50 minutes later in Philly, we were the first off the plane, and our father was at the entrance to the gate to greeting us.

We spent the weekend making and eating food (just as in the story), went to movies (just as in the story) discussing our feelings about the divorce (just as in the story), eating in restaurants where waitresses also knew the situation (just as in the story) and strangely enough, (but on a different visit – we did a lot of sledding) – just as in the story.

When the weekend was over, (I think it was a holiday weekend – something like 4 or 5 days) – dad took us back to the airport and walked us onto the plane. Leaving him was much more emotional.

There was much more crying from both my sister and I – I cried a lot. A “hurt your heart” cry.

Just as in the story, Dad was the “good guy” for the time we spent with him. He didn’t have to discipline us verbally the way married parents did...or our mother did because we lived with her – he took us to fun places, and showed us new and interesting things. He did no wrong that weekend.

I don’t remember the flight home, or mom greeting us at the gate (I’m sure she did). I don’t remember her asking us about our time with Dad, but I’m sure she did.

I do remember going into my room and just staring out the window for a long time – just thinking.

I did a lot of that growing up. Just looking out of the window – in a trance – thinking.

It seems like an odd behavior for a child.

Perhaps not.

The 1980s

So, as the years went by, from age 8 to 18, my dad would make trips up and down Virginia’s Eastern Shore on Rt. 13 to pick my sister and I up, and then to return us home after our visit.

It was about a 5 hour trip for him, and he would leave early in the morning from Philly, and would sleep in his Datsun in front of our house until we woke and I would sneak out to greet him.

He probably only had a couple hours sleep but he was always happy to see us.

He would use our bathroom, drink something, maybe eat something, and we’d be on our way back north.

I became familiar with certain old houses, trees, bends in the road...corn fields along Rt. 13.

The trips north were always exciting, and the trips back down south as you rightly assume were depressing.

On the return trips, we’d hit the entrance to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel and usually start crying. At that point we’d only have about an hour left with dad.

Quick back and forth’s about “feelings” and “thoughts” would be exchanged.

-Conversations through the windshield- just as Dubus wrote.

Later that night, after the drop off, I’d be back at home again staring out my window.

2004

My father still lives in the Philadelphia region.

He and I decided to meet in Salisbury Maryland, at a hotel to “sort a few things out”.

Salisbury is the half way point for both of us on Rt. 13.

It was a cold February.

There were some signs that his memory was starting to slip a bit, and we (M and I) realized that if there was going to be any sort of meaningful discussion that it would have to be done soon.

We hadn’t confronted him yet about his memory...and he didn’t see it in himself yet.

After dinner in Ocean City, we returned back to the hotel (a Days Inn I believe) around 11.

Several bottles of Scotch were pulled from his trunk as I think we both knew that we need some defense against what was about to hit us emotionally as well as something to loosen up his responses and something to allow me to be bolder in my interrogation of him.

So, for about 3 hours, I laid into him about the divorce.

Why did it happen?

What were they thinking?

How did he feel?

How did mom feel?

Why?

why?

why?

We both cried.

It was necessary though – and I had a lot of questions answered.

We parted early Sunday morning – a bit hung-over from all the emotions – the Scotch didn’t dent either of us – we were seasoned drinkers then.

We agreed that meetings like this needed to happen more often. We quickly decided that we would meet again in several months for another father/son weekend.

We never did.

2009-

My father’s mind today isn’t what it was back in 2004.

He has trouble remembering events or conversations that occurred 10 minutes ago.

I mistakenly fell under the assumption that the “divorce” discussions were over.

My father has decided that since he is retired, he needs to do some cleaning. Last year on a trip up to visit him; he passed along a large box containing all of my sister’s and my artwork from our childhood.

He did a good thing as a father and kept it all.

He now felt that it would be best if he gave it to us for safekeeping.

Contained in that box of artwork were letters from my sister and I to our father after the divorce.

There were also letters from my mother to him after the divorce.

I don’t think I made it though 2 letters.

Today, those letters are hidden in our apartment. I asked M to hide them from me.

She asked if she could read them and I allowed her to.

After she read them, she cried and held me. She asked how we were able to turn out “normal”.

She was at a loss for words, for all of the raw emotion put forth in those letters by two young children who missed their father – and by a mother/wife that was in mourning for her failed marriage.

I have no idea if those letters were placed in that box intentionally or not. I don’t know if I’ll ever read those letters.

3 weeks ago-

Rt. 13 isn’t what it was back in the 1980s. I still recognize bends in the road, certain trees, broken down houses.

A majority of the trip is spent in silence. M enjoys sleeping on long car trips and the silence is welcome as I stare out of the windshield having conversations with myself.

The conversations is about my future as a husband and maybe someday, as a father.

I promise to myself never to do what my parents did. I promise to myself never to leave my wife – and never to leave my children.

I whisper those promises to M as she sleeps and I choke back tears on Rt. 13 as we travel north.

I’ll never be a Winter Father.