The Leather man - E.L. Doctorow

E.L. Doctorow - January 6, 1931

I’ve written a lot about perspectives here. Mostly about my attempts at looking at my life and situations I find myself in from a different perspective.

E.L. Doctorow drops an interesting story that not only forces me to revisit a former home….and see it from heights…but he also manages to create a story that wiggles into the mind of Godwin and Ravenel.

I’ve written a couple of times here about my time in Negresti.

A week ago, a few photos surfaced on a particular social network site that allowed me to see a place that was once a major part of my life from a whole new perspective.

I always knew Negresti was a small town and I always considered whether to call it a village.

A little diversion first…

I questioned why I was sent to Negresti from the time I was told by my country director and my sector leader that they felt I was a perfect match for Negresti.

I remember stating in my placement interview that I would welcome being sent to a smaller town. The director took me up on that offer and sent me to the smallest town they could offer.

I’d like to think that they saw something in me that they felt would allow me to survive in such inhospitable conditions.

The side of me that likes to dwell on self-doubt caused me to think that I was sent there because the town was small, and I was being “sent away”.

I’ve come to realize that this thought was silly, and due to the results of my time there…I realize that I was sent there for the very reason the director wanted me there.

Talk about the ultimate perspective change – I was about to enter in the largest most influential shift in perspective that I have ever encountered.

Now, back to the photos.

Here are a few shots from a larger group of photos that surfaced showing Negresti from the air.

In the past, and during my time there, I was always able to envision Negresti from the air but these photos turn that vision into a reality.

In the photo below, I can see M’s apartment. It’s old, the roof is a mash of materials but the memories are safe under them.

I can also see the alley.

I can see the alley I walked down daily to enter the town to buy bread.

The same alley that I stumbled down countless nights after spending too many hours in one of the town’s MANY bars.

The same alley where I saw young boys torturing a kitten.

The same ally I saw a frozen cat lay for months in the winter.

The same alley that has a large trash receptacle which I set fire to after dumping my mouse urine covered wardrobe in.

The same alley I watched students walk down arm in arm on their way to meet me.

The ally was sort of an entrance to and an exit from my small reality in that town.

More on Entrances and Exits- In the photo below, I can see a very special street.

This street was my road to freedom. This was the road that was an entrance to, and an exit from, my large reality in that town and country.

I walked on this road sometimes as early as 2:30 to catch a connecting train to another city.

Negresti wasn’t on a main train line so the schedule wasn’t exactly tailored for easy exits.

I walked on this road in sub-zero temperatures…making my way towards the train station…already a little buzzed from the flask of cognac I had stuffed in my winter coat. The alcohol keeping me warm…warding off boredom and giving me a little fortitude to handle the situation I was inevitably going to encounter upon reaching the station and then later, aboard the train.

Sometimes as I walked this road early on early spring mornings, I smelled the sweetest air I’ve ever encountered. My heart expanded as I heard the world awaken around me. Chickens, cows and birds could be heard stirring in the yards lining the road. The dew…appearing in these early hours awakened the smells around me and in combination with the excitement of travel, bringing me close to tears.

My entrances and return to the town were memorable as well.

Sometimes when I returned, it would be so cold and dark, the town covered in thick fog, that you couldn’t make out the station from the train window.

Dread would descend upon me and I questioned my existence in this corner of the world.

Then there were times when I had been away for some time. I’d see the small station, hop off the train and see a familiar face along the road back to my room.

I’d be happy to be back.

After several months in the town, I had a longing to see the town from as many perspectives as I could.

Here is a photo I took of the town from the hills (hardly) that overlooked the town.

I had been having a particularly hard few days, and I need to get out of the town.

I think I drank a few beers, and threw a couple into my backpack along with my camera. I made it to the top of the hill in about an hour and a half.

I remember how peaceful it was up there. I heard cows and dogs barking in the distance.

I cried.

I worked over my life while I was up on that hill. The sun was setting and I followed it as it finally disappeared over the horizon.

I drank a beer or two. I pulled myself together and walked back down the hill.

I don’t remember the rest of that evening.

But the perspective on the town and my life in Negresti had changed from my little pep talk in combination with my time on that hill.

I slip into my memories of Negresti quite frequently during this time of the year. I think it has something to do with the temperature change and the light.

I settled into Negresti right around this time 12 years ago.

So…now…with the appearance of these photos, I can add a whole new perspective on the town and my time there.

Gail Godwin writes in her introduction:

“Who is this Slater, do you think?” I asked Shannon Ravenel on Sunday in February, when I had phoned her long distance to inquire about the eligibility of a story I wanted to include. Then we got around to discussing some of the other stories, which brought us to ‘The Leather man.”

“I’m not sure,” said Shannon, who speaks with those soft consonants that make me nostalgic for my Southern childhood. “But I think he and the other man are sort of a combination policemen and psychologists.”

We kept the wires humming between Woodstock and St. Louis a little longer, mulling over why this story had illuminated some problematic corner of existence for us and made us meditate on our condition as solitary souls living tenuously on a crowded earth, but inveterately curious about one another.

“Well, anyway,” Shannon concluded, “I really like that story.”

I still don’t know who Slater is, but I really like it too.

Searching and viewing a story from two perspectives…not finding an answer.

I’m still searching for answers in my life – I haven’t found all the answers and I doubt I ever will – but the exercise of perspective change sure makes it interesting.

Dog’s Lives – Michael Bishop

Michael Bishop - November 12, 1945

This is one of those stories that I run across and have a tough time reading and understanding. If you look through my past entries, you will see that there have been a few similar stories that have caused me to pause and reflect on this sort of problem and why they were so difficult for me.

From what I can tell, Bishop is a talented, prolific and loved writer.

I just don’t know.

I was in the right frame of mind…I wasn’t rushed, I was ready to read.

I just didn’t get it from the beginning, and couldn’t get into it throughout.

I just have to realize that every story can’t give me something – even if it is offering.

Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story - Russell Banks

Russell Banks - March 28, 1940

I have long conversations with myself pretty frequently. I’d say that a reoccurring conversation concerns how I treat other people.

What I say to them, how I respond to their requests from me, what I think of them…you know… things along those lines.

I feel pretty guilty most of the time about what I say to people. I feel that I don’t wait long enough for the thoughts I think to be fully processed and weighed, before they slip from my mouth and to the ears of the recipient. It’s a vicious cycle because after I say the words, the guilt creeps up on me almost immediately – or at least within an hour – time enough for me to review the conversation.

Words can hurt and sometimes I fail to recognize their power.

There have been several times in my life where I have uttered a word - a sentence and wished that I could suck the words back into my mouth.

That’s impossible though. Once they are out – it’s too late.

You can do all the back pedaling and apologizing and attempt to cover your verbal tracks – but nope, it’s too late.

The person who had your words thrown at them could possibly now hold quite a different opinion of you…and it’s doubtful that anything you do will ever change this newly formed opinion.

Do words kill as the narrator in this story felt they could?

Yes -

Just as actions can lead to a series of events – unintended events – the words you speak can carry through time and space causing ripples in the world that you never thought imaginable.

The Introduction and Contents of The Best American Short Stories 1985

Gail Godwin - June 18, 1937

As I struggled to finish the 1984 edition of The BASS, early one morning before opening the book, I shuffled over to my bookshelf and pulled out the 1985 edition in the hopes that the book would inspire me to finish the current one with a little more enthusiasm.

“Who the hell is Gail Godwin” I thought.

Not knowing this author/editor , I turned the book over to take a look and see who this “Godwin” selected for BASS 1985.

I was pretty pleased to see a few familiar names and I had faith that Ravenel wouldn’t let me down (I’ll excuse the Elkin selection).

I finish 1984 and the day arrives to pick up and begin 1985. All set to plunge headlong into the reading…yet the question remains –

“Who the hell is Gail Godwin”

I won’t bore you with repeating everything I discovered about her through various sites on the net. There are quite a few and they go into great detail on her personal and literary life ( very impressive).

I’ll say that she is very deserving of being the editor of this volume.

I spent a decent amount of time reading about Godwin, and folded in what I learned through reading other sources along with her introduction at the beginning of the anthology, and I am comfortable in saying that I think Godwin is going to deliver a collection of stories that will be some of the most pleasing to date.

How do I form this opinion?

Well, first, I think Gail is pretty frick’in cool.

I like her style of life…her outlook on humanity, her questioning and probing of the world.

She and I see a similar function of literature… and that draws me to her.

An example from her introduction:

…the motto of this collection might well be : “Tell me something I need to know – about art, about the world, about human behavior, about myself.”

See those last two words above? “About myself”

That’s what I am attempting to do with this whole “blog” exercise…it’s what I have been doing since 2008 (really only since 2009)…but I see a connection with Godwin just though her introduction.

She also writes : The paradox I have discovered, in writing and in reading the writing of others, is that the more you respect and focus on the singular and the strange, the more you become aware of the universal and the infinite.

That’s what I’m talking about!

I feel that Godwin is very self aware – someone who in 1985 was not absorbed in the person of “Gail Godwin”.

There are many pictures of Godwin to be found online. I decided to steal and place the below one on this site for this reason.

The photo was from 1959. She had just finished college and was about to strike out into the world. She is a beautiful young woman and it appears that she is very aware of the power that her beauty holds.

Now, I see that she is also portraying a stance that reflects the power of her intellect. She is ready to attack, to challenge, to disrupt, to disturb and finally to know… the world. (see her brow? It's in there!)

So Mrs. Godwin – let’s see what you’ve chosen for me. I trust you haven’t let me down.

Contents.

The Best American Short Stories 1985 Gail Godwin & Shannon Ravenel (Houghton Mifflin, 1985

Introduction Gail Godwin

1 Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story • Russell Banks •The Missouri Review, 1984

24 Dogs’ Lives • Michael Bishop • The Missouri Review v7 #2 ’84

44 -Emperor of the Air • Ethan Canin • Atlantic Monthly Dec ’84

58 -The Leather Man • E. L. Doctorow • The Paris Review, 1984

67- Roses • Margaret Edwards • The Virginia Quarterly Review, 1984

84 -Walking, Walking • Starkey Flythe • Northwest Review, 1984

96- The Sudden Trees • H. E. Francis • Prairie Schooner, 1984

116- You’ve Come a Long Way, Mickey Mouse • Bev Jafek • Columbia Magazine of Poetry and Prose, 1984

126- Clothing • John L’Heureux • Tendril, 1984

139 -The Piano Tuner • Peter Meinke • Atlantic Monthly Feb ’84

150- Fellow-Creatures • Wright Morris • New Yorker Dec 31 ’84

157 -Angela • Bharati Mukherjee • Mother Jones, 1984

168 -City of Boys • Beth Nugent • North American Review, 1984

183 -Raven’s Wing • Joyce Carol Oates • Esquire, 1984

192 -Instruments of Seduction • Norman Rush • The Paris Review, 1984

206 -Secrets • Deborah Seabrooke • The Virginia Quarterly Review, 1984

220- The Gittel • Marjorie Sandor • Georgia Review, 1984

235 -Lily • Jane Smiley • Atlantic Monthly Jul ’84

256- The Johnstown Polka • Sharon Sheehe Stark • West Branch, 1984

273- The Skater • Joy Williams • Esquire, 1984

The Best American Short Stories - 1985

So, here we are “The Best American Short Stories 1985”.

Let’s take a look at how this book landed in my collection. Back in August 2009, I requested several books for my birthday…the books that would fill out my collection of the BASS anthology.

The good folks over at Better World Books made it quite simple for me by having the four years I need to round things out.

A few quick clicks on the “purchase” button and the books were on their way. ’80 ’81 ’82 and 85 sent right to my mailbox.

They make it pretty easy by having such a massive collection. One of the things I like about BWB is that they sell former old books. Some people may have a problem with this but I happen to find it really special. The books have a little more character.

I like to take a look at what library they came from and then explore their former home.

BASS 1985 came from the “Saratoga Springs Public Library”. It look like it entered their collection in October of 1985. The book is in pretty good shape. The pages are a little yellowed but overall, it’s sturdy and looks like it will survive the next several months traveling with me to and from work. I have no idea how the book ended up at BWB. Perhaps it was donated by the library…or acquired in a bulk purchase by BWB.

I’d like to think that I will finish this volume quicker than 1984. I really don’t know what happened with that year…

Taking a look at some of the authors listed on the back, I find some familiar names-

Joyce Carol Oates

Sharon Sheehe Stark

Joy Williams

Jane Smiley

Wright Morris

It’s hard to tell how well this book did in circulation. The old due date card is missing from the pocket in the back of the book. I suppose that every library has its own reason for pulling a book from its collection. I think it’s safe to assume that the book spent at least 22 years on the shelves of the Public Library. That’s quite an impressive run.

Well, I’m happy someone decided to pull “1985” from the stacks and allow it to travel to me.

SSPL has a presence on Facebook and looking around their page, they are doing a fine job of utilizing that social networking service. The library building itself is beautiful…according to their webpage it was completed in 1995.

And with that – onto the reading of 1985.

The Best American Short Stories 1984 - Completed!

I’m letting out a deep sigh I as write this closing for “The Best American Short Stories 1984”.

I had such high hopes for myself when I started this anthology. I felt that I would attack it and read through it with all the gusto as say…the John Gardner edited anthology.

Perhaps I didn’t want to finish this collection. Honestly, the stories collected here by Updike were outstanding. Collected, I think I have enjoyed them the most of all the BASS I have read to this date.

Of course, I did wonderful job of throwing obstacles up in front of my progress.

I read Ian Frazier’s rather large book - “Travels in Siberia” (absolutely wonderful). And reading this book pushed me into my Russian phase which caused me to start this new blog -

http://sonandrussians.blogspot.com/

I’ve spent a good amount of time reading and writing about Tolstoy’s “Resurrection” as my first selection for that journal.

So, in closing, here is the breakdown for BASS 1984

It took -

2 months 29 days

or

12 weeks six days

or

90 days

or

64 week days

Which works out to

One story every 4.5 days.

Gender profile of the anthology - 12 men and 8 women.

Stories from representing certain magazines more than once. - 5 from The New Yorker, 2 from The Georgia review, 2 from The Greensboro Review.

Goodbye John Updike and thanks for some great reads.

Now…1985 is approaching quickly!

Caddies’ Day – Jeanne Schinto

Jeanne Schinto - December 19, 1951

“Dang!” I thought as I saw the title of this final short of BASS 1984.

“A frigg’in sports story…ugh…how I dislike sports stories…”

Well…a sports story I did not get.

It would be too easy for me to write an entry on my feelings concerning our cultures objectification of women…of girls and of youth.

It would be the easy way out, and honestly, the easy way looks pretty good considering the time it has taken me to get through this anthology. I’d simply like to write a couple of paragraphs of my thoughts covering the above and then consider what I would write about in my entry which would close out the BASS 1984.

But…

‘ol Mr. Updike has given me a nice treat in the form of a really good story by Jeanne Schinto. He’s not letting me go just yet.

Good for him.

Nice technique.

But the real credit of course goes to Schinto – It’s her story that provides the reader of the anthology with a fine ending as well as a few things to consider.

As with the other authors I read, I looked Schinto up. Turns out she is still a writer – a journalist. She has a Facebook page so I decided to shoot her a quick message.

She was kind enough to reply before the evening was through.

She wrote that “Caddies’ Day had been rejected by 27 magazines before Greensboro Review took it. She also included this little P.S. - “I see that you're upside down in your FB photo, just like the narrator of my story was, briefly!”

This little sentence added another position in my observation of the story.

Here is my FB photo.

I like the photo because it’s my subtle way of encouraging people who see it and inquire about it to look at the world from a different perspective.

I make a conscious effort daily in most encounters and situations that I find myself in – to position myself differently in order to see what could be hidden or if there is a message that I am missing by approaching things from the “normal” “upright” vantage point.

Was the narrator of this short hung upside down so that she could see the world as it was? Maybe…that could be one interpretation. I though think that for that instant she was hung upside down, she was simply placed in that position to “really” be made aware of her powerlessness.

The men could have continued with their teasing and touching…honestly, their fondling of this young girl – and that too would have conveyed the same message to her. She has no power in this world.

Why was this girl there? Did she venture so close to these men/boys to purposely be fondled? Was it her fault?

Today, in our culture, I think that young girls are being told it’s OK to walk down that path near the Caddies. It’s OK to let them touch you and hang you upside down. There is an excitement to flirt with them and the danger that accompanies the situation you are placing yourself in…you are empowered.

-Wrong-

It’s not safe to walk near the Caddies - it’s not OK to let them fondle you – to hang you upside down.

Sometimes clearer heads to not step in and stop the action. Sometimes things go too far.

I think our culture has done a great disservice to the young women in this country by objectifying them. Youth (very young) and beauty (not natural beauty) are worshipped.

We need to turn ourselves upside down and realize what we have done and are doing to our future. Although - at times I’m afraid it’s too late.