C.H. Lawler's Blog
March 10, 2020
Review of The Cactus League by Emily Nemens
A good book leaves you changed a little, and the insightful The Cactus League by Emily Nemens did just that for me. This book was a cross between a novel and an anthology of short stories, more of a trip to a museum than a roller coaster ride. There has been some criticism of the thin plot, but I found it very readable and the ending left me with a glimmer of hope for the main character and an opportunity for his redemption. I value that in a story.
The Cactus League is not a Disney tale full of peanuts and crackerjack, but a raw look at its dark side. You might not eat sausage if you saw how it was made, and the same might apply to watching baseball after seeing how it is made. Baseball is, at its heart, less of a game and more of a business.
Nevertheless, Nemen’s writing made me feel the cool, dry air and see the green grass and red rock mountains under the sunny Arizona sky. She writes not only with a solid command of baseball and its intricate facets but also an empathy for the characters who are trying to make a living playing it. Especially dear to me was the story of Greg Carver, a pitcher with a bad elbow who is struggling to remain relevant.
I enjoyed this initial offering from Emily Nemens and hope to be reading more from her in the future.
The Cactus League is not a Disney tale full of peanuts and crackerjack, but a raw look at its dark side. You might not eat sausage if you saw how it was made, and the same might apply to watching baseball after seeing how it is made. Baseball is, at its heart, less of a game and more of a business.
Nevertheless, Nemen’s writing made me feel the cool, dry air and see the green grass and red rock mountains under the sunny Arizona sky. She writes not only with a solid command of baseball and its intricate facets but also an empathy for the characters who are trying to make a living playing it. Especially dear to me was the story of Greg Carver, a pitcher with a bad elbow who is struggling to remain relevant.
I enjoyed this initial offering from Emily Nemens and hope to be reading more from her in the future.
March 1, 2020
Dogs
Writing a little today with my dog Duncan ("Mais-donc" I call him) on the couch with me. I wanted to share this now, though it is part of a future book.
"A dog does not care who you are, as long as you are kind to him, as long as you can share a meal with him, as long as you will share a long walk with him, or take shelter from the rain with him. He does not care if you are rich or poor or loved or hated by other men, he does not make you feel ashamed, nor does he care if you feel the shame of others. Dogs are pure love, and nothing else."
"A dog does not care who you are, as long as you are kind to him, as long as you can share a meal with him, as long as you will share a long walk with him, or take shelter from the rain with him. He does not care if you are rich or poor or loved or hated by other men, he does not make you feel ashamed, nor does he care if you feel the shame of others. Dogs are pure love, and nothing else."
March 11, 2018
Ordinary Grace
A good book is like an amusement park ride.
It should strap you in, take you for a ride, turn you upside down, shake you, and return you to where you started, changed a little. Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger is a book like that.
The story is set in the town of New Bremen, Minnesota in the summer of 1961. The narrator, Frank Drum, is thirteen, his brother Jake is ten. Together, they must face a horrific summer of loss, and watch both the relationship of their parents and the faith of their father, a Methodist minister, strained.
At one point, Frank says this about his father in the face of a horrible tragedy,
"Like the others they were curious, I'm sure, what this suffering man could possible say that was good about God."
and this about his mother,
"When my mother sang I almost believed in heaven. It wasn't just that she had a beautiful voice but also that she had a way of delivering a piece that pierced your heart. Oh when she sang she could make a fence post cry. When she sang she could make people laugh or dance or fall in love or go to war."
This book reminded me of a Midwestern version of a favorite of mine, Boys Life, by Robert McCammon, which is set in Alabama. The prose in Ordinary Grace was not as rich, but it was still an enjoyable read and well-worth the time.
Every book has at least one quote that speaks to me, I believe in Ordinary Grace that this was it:
"I didn't know what he was thinking but I was thinking that I wanted desperately to be someone better than I was."
This book was a good companion and gave me a little to consider.
C. H. Lawler is the author of three novels, The Saints of Lost Things, The Memory of Time, and Living Among the Dead.
February 24, 2018
Five Things about Traiteurs
Picture: "Doc Moses, Cajun Traiteur" by George Rodrigue
In Living Among the Dead, one of the principle characters is Honoré Mouton, a carpenter, and, more importantly, a traiteur, a healer.
Traiteurs have been around south Louisiana as long as Acadians have, a tradition passed down the same way as music and food. Here are five things about them.
1. Generally, the ability to heal, or treat, is passed down from one family member to another of the opposite sex. That is, mother to son, father to daughter.
2. A traiteur can't offer to heal you. You have to ask. In Living Among the Dead, the narrator wonders why Honoré doesn't offer to heal a certain person. The answer is, that person hasn't asked to be healed.
3. A traiteur can't be paid. Sure, you can give a gift of gratitude, but that's it. I would add that because the treatment is free, it's covered by most medical plans, but that would be sarcastic. True, but sarcastic.
4. You shouldn't even thank a traiteur. It's considered blasphemous. That's because...
5. Healing powers are considered a gift from God. For a traiteur to except thanks would be tantamount to saying you did it all by yourself.
In Living Among the Dead, this exchange occurs after one person is healed by a traiteur:
What do you say to someone when they save your life? Are they the same tired words you use when someone holds a door for you? Is it the same ancient phrase you might use when a Yankee soldier offers you half of the boiled beef from his tin plate and water from his canteen? I could think of no others at the time.
“Thank you,” I said.
The words felt foreign in my mouth, like rocks or cotton or marbles. They were words I was unaccustomed to saying, but I had to say them again. “Thank you.”
His smile fell, and he raised a finger. “You don’t never thank me for things like that,” he scolded. “It’s not me you should thank.” And he pointed to the sky.
In medical school, we were told that above all else, cure sometimes, care always. And that is what's at the heart of a healer.
February 18, 2018
The Affliction
I'm talking about self-righteousness here.
In The Memory of Time, Bridget Fenerty says, "If the government could figure out how to generate electricity from self-righteousness, well, then, they wouldn't be damming up the Tennessee."
And I would add to that, Miss Bridget, that if self-righteousness were a product, it would be shipped in railroad tank cars and barges and sold to the public in sizes ranging from fifty-five gallon drums to two liter family size to three ounce travel packets so you could take it on the road with you. But what am I saying? Most of us make our own self-righteousness from scratch.
If electricity could be generated from it, as Miss Fenerty suggested, we could end our need for fracking and our dependency on foreign oil. The supply would be inexhaustible.
"People want you to be something," Steinbeck wrote, "preferably what they are."
Yessir, believe so.
Our way is the best way. Our way is the only way. Our way is the right way. And don't tell me your opinion because if it's different from mine, it's wrong. How do I know? Because I'm right. The world will not be perfect until everyone in it is exactly like us.
Look around you. You'll see self-righteousness everywhere. It drips from our computer screens. It wafts out noxiously from the smokestacks of the twenty-four hour news channels (all makes and models).
Neither of two talking heads on a television split screen ever uttered the words, "You know, I never thought of it that way. I think you might be right." No, what they do instead is raise their voices, frequently trying to talk over each other. It becomes a pissing contest, something that my daddy might have defined as a competition in which nobody wins, but everybody gets wet.
The only antidote for self-righteousness is, of course, humility, which is taken off a spoon holding your nose against the unpleasant aftertaste.
But there I go, railing against self-righteousness while ironically indulging in it myself. This stuff really sticks to you.
C.H.Lawler is the author of The Saints of Lost Things, The Memory of Time, and Living Among the Dead. He is currently working on his fourth novel.
February 11, 2018
Make a Little Merry
"At last he put away the saw and took up his fiddle. 'Lent begins tomorrow,' he said. 'Let’s make us a little merry, for tomorrow is ashes.' A jug of new wine was brought out. It made its way around our camp where it was met with thirsty mouths that pulled and then were wiped on the backs of hands."
Those who have read Living Among the Dead know what will happen next. Things happen that will take one life and shape another forever.
But first, Honore Mouton says, let's make us a little merry, for tomorrow is ashes.
It's time for us to do things we normally wouldn't do, possibly with people we normally wouldn't do them with. It's time to put on the mismatched colors of purple, gold, and green. It's time to put on masks and pointed hats and chase chickens, receive painted coconuts, throw beads at gorillas. It's time to decorate floats with pink flamingos and satire and ride them through town.
It's time for foolishness, and, as anyone who's ever stepped in a voting booth in Louisiana knows, foolishness is one of the things we do best. It's time to whip out our craziness, give it a cocktail, and perch it up on a ladder in the neutral ground.
It's time to make us a little merry, for tomorrow is ashes.
I've heard a story that supposedly happened in Mamou or Church Point or somewhere out on the prairie. I say supposedly happened when what I really mean to say is certainly happened. Those who are familiar with Louisiana know that without a doubt this has happened hundreds if not thousands of times.
Here's what it was. A young man of fifteen or so was finally granted the privilege of riding with the men in the Courir de Mardi Gras. They spent all morning riding on horseback from house to house and drinking. Finally, around noon, the neophyte rider had passed out in the saddle, slumped forward on his mount and fast asleep. Dutifully, the procession made a short detour to bring him back to his mama. She came out into the front yard to collect her boy. As le capitan gave her the reins, he told her what would make many a Cajun mama proud.
"Madame," the capitan said, taking off his hat in a salute. "Mais, he was hell while he lasted."
And with that, let me wish you a Happy Mardi Gras. Make a little merry, for Wednesday is ashes.
C. H. Lawler is the author of Living Among the Dead, The Saints of Lost Things, and The Memory of TimeLiving Among the Dead. Follow the links to read an excerpt of each one.
February 3, 2018
A Blessing Somehow
"Getting old is humbling, becoming ancient, even more so. To see your body fall into a state of dilapidation, and, even worse, to feel it. To lose control of it, and then find there is nothing to lose control of. It’s a heaping dose of humility. And, while the road to heaven may be paved with good deeds, and the road to hell may be paved with good intentions, only this I know for sure: the road to peace is paved with humility."
These are the words of Pierre Carriere, written in 1925 as he nears the end of his long and eventful life. The peace he has craved, he has come to understand, is at the end of a road paved with humility.
Here is something I have discovered about humility. Whenever I run out of it, a loving God kindly sends me more. All this without me ever having to ask for it. God bless me.
Let's face it. We all like the idea of humility. For others, that is. And we all like the look of humility. On someone else, of course. But the road to peace, as Pierre Carriere says, is paved with it.
I've been fortunate enough to have my novels, The Saints of Lost Things, The Memory of Time, and Living Among the Dead receive some praise, and what amazes me is that most of it has come from people to whom I'm not related.
But there have been other times, when there is no praise and not even any criticism, and the lonely world of creating for no one except myself settles in with the sound of crickets. I suppose it is for my betterment. As writer Flannery O'Connor said, "I can, with one eye squinted, take it all as a blessing.”
It's a wonderful, glowing thing to have someone express that something you've created has touched them. It makes it worthwhile. In between these times, I wait patiently "with one eye squinted," for the day when and if notoriety may occur. Either way, I'll be writing. As long as there's one other person who wants to read it, I'll write it.
Last weekend I was in Washington D. C., a place where there is a statue of some heroic figure in every public square. Some are well-known, some are obscure. It set me thinking. Maybe one day there'll be a statue of me with a plaque on the base: Feller here, it would say, wrote some mighty fine stories. Made us laugh and cry and think and feel, sometimes.
And maybe one day a field trip of students will come and see me, old stone me or old bronze me, up on my pedestal looking out somewhere. I wonder if my legs will get tired. Maybe they should sculpt me sitting or lying down. The teacher (or maybe the star pupil selected for such an honor) will read the inscription, Feller here...
And then maybe a pigeon will land on my head with urgent business and remind me of the virtue of humility, to the childish guffaws of the schoolchildren and the suppressed snickers of the teachers who try to quiet them.
And with one stone or bronze eye squinted, I will have to take it as a blessing, somehow.
These are the words of Pierre Carriere, written in 1925 as he nears the end of his long and eventful life. The peace he has craved, he has come to understand, is at the end of a road paved with humility.
Here is something I have discovered about humility. Whenever I run out of it, a loving God kindly sends me more. All this without me ever having to ask for it. God bless me.
Let's face it. We all like the idea of humility. For others, that is. And we all like the look of humility. On someone else, of course. But the road to peace, as Pierre Carriere says, is paved with it.
I've been fortunate enough to have my novels, The Saints of Lost Things, The Memory of Time, and Living Among the Dead receive some praise, and what amazes me is that most of it has come from people to whom I'm not related.
But there have been other times, when there is no praise and not even any criticism, and the lonely world of creating for no one except myself settles in with the sound of crickets. I suppose it is for my betterment. As writer Flannery O'Connor said, "I can, with one eye squinted, take it all as a blessing.”
It's a wonderful, glowing thing to have someone express that something you've created has touched them. It makes it worthwhile. In between these times, I wait patiently "with one eye squinted," for the day when and if notoriety may occur. Either way, I'll be writing. As long as there's one other person who wants to read it, I'll write it.
Last weekend I was in Washington D. C., a place where there is a statue of some heroic figure in every public square. Some are well-known, some are obscure. It set me thinking. Maybe one day there'll be a statue of me with a plaque on the base: Feller here, it would say, wrote some mighty fine stories. Made us laugh and cry and think and feel, sometimes.
And maybe one day a field trip of students will come and see me, old stone me or old bronze me, up on my pedestal looking out somewhere. I wonder if my legs will get tired. Maybe they should sculpt me sitting or lying down. The teacher (or maybe the star pupil selected for such an honor) will read the inscription, Feller here...
And then maybe a pigeon will land on my head with urgent business and remind me of the virtue of humility, to the childish guffaws of the schoolchildren and the suppressed snickers of the teachers who try to quiet them.
And with one stone or bronze eye squinted, I will have to take it as a blessing, somehow.
January 28, 2018
Washington Mardi Gras
'Washington D.C. Mardi Gras: where fake royalty comes to meet fake royalty."
-Sen. Russel Long
Yes, there is such a thing as Washington DC Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras, right here in Washingtone D uh C, as Joseph Lemurier calls it in The Memory of Time, a place where power is persuasion, and persuasion is power.
It was held again this weekend, as it always is, a few weeks ahead of traditional Mardi Gras. It all began in the 1940's, when Louisiana's Congressional delegation banded together with other homesick Louisiana ex-patriots in the capital to hold the first one. And the tradition continued this year.
It's a chance for we Louisianans to put aside partisanship and showcase our culture and our foolishness and our joy, to each other and to the world and to whoever else might be interested.
On Thursday night, Catherine and I attended King Todd Graves' masquerade ball. The band Better Than Ezra played and then Flo Rida followed. By then, though, it was after midnight and Cinderella's carriage (me) was threatening to turn back into a pumpkin, and so we Ubered back to our hotel. Our driver asked us what was going on in the auditorium across from the Smithsonian.
"A masquerade party," I said, "of Louisianans."
That was all I could say. I couldn't explain the rest, the crowns and sashes of the Sugar Cane and Shrimp & Petroleum and Breaux Bridge Crawfish queens and all the other queens and princesses and the music and the dancing and the pretty girls of all ages and the handsome men of all ages who attended them and the acrobats in leotards and on stilts and the jugglers and the food and the drink and the culture. I mean, how do you explain that in a ten minute car ride when it's after midnight and you are on the verge of turning back into a pumpkin?
The next day, Friday, there was a tradition called Krewe practice, which begins with a Bloody Mary reception. Krewe practice generally involves this formula: the senior lieutenants are introduced, then the Congressional delegation, and then instructions are given. One of the senior lieutenants comes to the podium.
"Here are your detailed marching instructions for the ball Saturday night," he says as he produces a paper from his pocket and unfolds it.
We all wait. There is a heavy pause
Then he simply says, "Follow the man ahead of you." He folds up his paper and puts it in his pocket. We all laugh. The Storyville Stompers play, which signals that Krewe practice is over.
On Friday night, the dinner dance was held. Our queens and princesses were presented, radiant, lovely, sparkling. Then dinner was served. After dinner, the Bayou Boys from Lafayette played and everyone danced. And then there he was.
Rep. Steve Scalise. He came hobbling up onto the stage with the Bayou Boys, and each member of the band stopped playing long enough to hug him and exchange fist-bumps with him. They put a washboard on him and gave him the spoons to play it. And the music continued on, with an accordion making it sound like ours.
A lot of people on the dance floor raised cellphones to take pictures of Rep. Scalise, who smiled a strong smile and played the washboard as the music blared and everyone, I mean everyone, danced. There he was, on stage with a washboard, playing our music.
Steve Scalise, who was shot while he was practicing for a bipartisan event, a baseball game, by someone who abhorred his politics. Steve Scalise, our revenant, someone who returns from the dead. After all, after Katrina and BP and floods and budget shortfalls and everything else, we Louisianans see so much of ourselves in him.
Sometimes I agree with Steve's politics and sometimes I don't. I try not to agree with someone else's politics all the time. I am not a robot. We were not made to be robots.
But at D.C. Mardi Gras, setting aside differences is the whole point. We may not hold the same political viewpoints, but tonight we are more alike than different.
And it occurs to me that our state and our country are not a flag or a president or a governor or any of that. Our state, and our country, are each other and the things that bind us together, not the things that separate us.
At the end of the night, we marched out in a second line, the tuba of the Storyville Stompers honking it all forward. Then, to the music of snare drums and trombones and trumpets, it also occurred to me that Louisianans did not invent Mardi Gras. We just perfected it.
Saturday night was the grand finale, the parade inside the Washington Hilton. My daughter's boyfriend (a fine young man whom she met here two years ago-whole different story) and I volunteered to be placard carriers for two of the queens. My queen was a stunning young lady from Breaux Bridge, who only got more stunning as I talked with her. Hers was an easy, friendly grace. So it frequently is for Louisiana women.
I wore a costume and mask as I held her sign and walked ahead of her into the bright lights of the ballroom. Then, we the Krewe paraded and threw beads and trinkets and baubles to the crowd dressed in tuxedos and evening dresses.
We left the ballroom and changed back into our tuxedos and returned, unmasked, to dance until well after midnight. All ages were dancing with all ages to music with an accordion in it, and a few pretty girls were dancing barefoot on a dance floor strewn with stray beads and confetti, and at least one pretty girl was wearing a washboard.
In short, nothing unusual. For us.
This Sunday morning, we will rise and collect our things and go home with sore heads, ringing ears, dry mouths.
And full hearts.
-Sen. Russel Long
Yes, there is such a thing as Washington DC Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras, right here in Washingtone D uh C, as Joseph Lemurier calls it in The Memory of Time, a place where power is persuasion, and persuasion is power.
It was held again this weekend, as it always is, a few weeks ahead of traditional Mardi Gras. It all began in the 1940's, when Louisiana's Congressional delegation banded together with other homesick Louisiana ex-patriots in the capital to hold the first one. And the tradition continued this year.
It's a chance for we Louisianans to put aside partisanship and showcase our culture and our foolishness and our joy, to each other and to the world and to whoever else might be interested.
On Thursday night, Catherine and I attended King Todd Graves' masquerade ball. The band Better Than Ezra played and then Flo Rida followed. By then, though, it was after midnight and Cinderella's carriage (me) was threatening to turn back into a pumpkin, and so we Ubered back to our hotel. Our driver asked us what was going on in the auditorium across from the Smithsonian.
"A masquerade party," I said, "of Louisianans."
That was all I could say. I couldn't explain the rest, the crowns and sashes of the Sugar Cane and Shrimp & Petroleum and Breaux Bridge Crawfish queens and all the other queens and princesses and the music and the dancing and the pretty girls of all ages and the handsome men of all ages who attended them and the acrobats in leotards and on stilts and the jugglers and the food and the drink and the culture. I mean, how do you explain that in a ten minute car ride when it's after midnight and you are on the verge of turning back into a pumpkin?
The next day, Friday, there was a tradition called Krewe practice, which begins with a Bloody Mary reception. Krewe practice generally involves this formula: the senior lieutenants are introduced, then the Congressional delegation, and then instructions are given. One of the senior lieutenants comes to the podium.
"Here are your detailed marching instructions for the ball Saturday night," he says as he produces a paper from his pocket and unfolds it.
We all wait. There is a heavy pause
Then he simply says, "Follow the man ahead of you." He folds up his paper and puts it in his pocket. We all laugh. The Storyville Stompers play, which signals that Krewe practice is over.
On Friday night, the dinner dance was held. Our queens and princesses were presented, radiant, lovely, sparkling. Then dinner was served. After dinner, the Bayou Boys from Lafayette played and everyone danced. And then there he was.
Rep. Steve Scalise. He came hobbling up onto the stage with the Bayou Boys, and each member of the band stopped playing long enough to hug him and exchange fist-bumps with him. They put a washboard on him and gave him the spoons to play it. And the music continued on, with an accordion making it sound like ours.
A lot of people on the dance floor raised cellphones to take pictures of Rep. Scalise, who smiled a strong smile and played the washboard as the music blared and everyone, I mean everyone, danced. There he was, on stage with a washboard, playing our music.
Steve Scalise, who was shot while he was practicing for a bipartisan event, a baseball game, by someone who abhorred his politics. Steve Scalise, our revenant, someone who returns from the dead. After all, after Katrina and BP and floods and budget shortfalls and everything else, we Louisianans see so much of ourselves in him.
Sometimes I agree with Steve's politics and sometimes I don't. I try not to agree with someone else's politics all the time. I am not a robot. We were not made to be robots.
But at D.C. Mardi Gras, setting aside differences is the whole point. We may not hold the same political viewpoints, but tonight we are more alike than different.
And it occurs to me that our state and our country are not a flag or a president or a governor or any of that. Our state, and our country, are each other and the things that bind us together, not the things that separate us.
At the end of the night, we marched out in a second line, the tuba of the Storyville Stompers honking it all forward. Then, to the music of snare drums and trombones and trumpets, it also occurred to me that Louisianans did not invent Mardi Gras. We just perfected it.
Saturday night was the grand finale, the parade inside the Washington Hilton. My daughter's boyfriend (a fine young man whom she met here two years ago-whole different story) and I volunteered to be placard carriers for two of the queens. My queen was a stunning young lady from Breaux Bridge, who only got more stunning as I talked with her. Hers was an easy, friendly grace. So it frequently is for Louisiana women.
I wore a costume and mask as I held her sign and walked ahead of her into the bright lights of the ballroom. Then, we the Krewe paraded and threw beads and trinkets and baubles to the crowd dressed in tuxedos and evening dresses.
We left the ballroom and changed back into our tuxedos and returned, unmasked, to dance until well after midnight. All ages were dancing with all ages to music with an accordion in it, and a few pretty girls were dancing barefoot on a dance floor strewn with stray beads and confetti, and at least one pretty girl was wearing a washboard.
In short, nothing unusual. For us.
This Sunday morning, we will rise and collect our things and go home with sore heads, ringing ears, dry mouths.
And full hearts.
January 20, 2018
The Beloved Infidel
"I saw all too clearly that my father-not a mythic hero, not a superman, but just a good man-was a solitary traveler in the wilderness of anguish."
-Robert McCammon, Boy's Life
For Christmas, my son Tom gave me a book of poetry by Lionel Santiago Vega, a poet from Puerto Rico. The book's dedication struck me: "To my mother, who taught me how to cry when it's necessary, and to my father, who taught me how to be a man when crying isn't enough."
My first book, The Saints of Lost Things, is dedicated to my parents: "For my daddy, the boy who grew to be the man who saw that the emperor had no clothes and could not keep silent about it, and for my mama, the woman who loved him."
Most of my characters are not really based on anyone in particular, but I will tell you this, the character of Simon Carrick, Pete Carrick's daddy in Living Among the Dead, has a whole lot of my daddy in him. Simon Carrick is a naysayer, a malcontent, a tree-shaker, a hive-swatter, something that this country used to have a lot of. Now, however, most of us jump on a party's bandwagon and ride around in it, posing and posturing to each other and to those on the side of the road. Nobody really weighs an issue anymore and takes an unpopular stand. We go far left or far right to our camps and we stay there, cowering with people who think like us. We are becoming less a nation of fearless eagles and more a nation of blind geese. But that's not what this blog post is about, really. It's about my daddy.
I've seen a picture of a park bench posted on social media with the question, "If you could sit on this bench for five minutes and talk to someone, who would it be?"
No question, it would be my daddy. But it could only be five minutes, because by six minutes, we would be arguing. But so it is sometimes for fathers and sons. [Somewhere, I think my daddy just chuckled.]
I would sit there on that park bench and enjoy my daddy's sense of humor. My daddy, who sent Catherine and me some money before we got married and in the note that accompanied it, jokingly said that there was still time for me to escape to Mexico. My daddy, who, whenever we had a cold snap, used to say, "better bring in that brass monkey." My daddy, who, when asked what religion he was, would always say he was a frisbeeterian. We frisbeeterians believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof, and nobody can get it down, he would say.
My daddy was a union electrician, International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local #194. Only recently did I learn from my uncle, his brother, that in the 1960's when a union meeting in Shreveport was taking on a tone of racial ugliness, my daddy stood up and proclaimed, "I cannot believe that you all would treat our black brothers this way." He was never voted most popular, nor did he yearn to be.
When I bought my first car, a 1974 Plymouth Duster, I proudly showed it to him, and he was proud of me for buying it with my own money. Until he saw the front bumper with the Confederate flag license plate placed there by the previous owner.
"Take that thing off, son," he said. "A war's never been fought for a sorrier cause." Words spoken by my daddy, the great-grandson of Confederate veteran A. J. Lawler, who had lost two brothers in the War.
And that friends, a war's never been fought for a sorrier cause, is a quote that has found it's way into Living Among the Dead, a sentiment held by Pete Carrick's daddy, Simon Carrick. Another exchange that has the markings of my daddy is this one in which Pete Carrick's Aunt Cora comes to visit each Sunday, only to find Pete and his daddy working:
And this, when Pete decides to go off to war with the Confederate Army:
When you are a malcontent, your life is heavier than most other people's, and sometimes you find that you just can't carry it anymore. It's the loneliness that makes it so heavy. And so you have to set your life down and walk away from it. And that's what my daddy did. The world was too imperfect for him. He finally found it to be unlivable.
My daddy, my beloved infidel.
So I hope Daddy's soul is at rest in heaven or the cosmos or recycled into another soul. Or maybe up on a roof somewhere, basking in the sun while a gentle breeze tickles the leaves and they shimmy in the bright sunlight.
To say I understand him better now would be right on the money.
To see a picture of my daddy and pictures that reflect the characters and places in my novels, visit my Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/chlawlerstor...
-Robert McCammon, Boy's Life
For Christmas, my son Tom gave me a book of poetry by Lionel Santiago Vega, a poet from Puerto Rico. The book's dedication struck me: "To my mother, who taught me how to cry when it's necessary, and to my father, who taught me how to be a man when crying isn't enough."
My first book, The Saints of Lost Things, is dedicated to my parents: "For my daddy, the boy who grew to be the man who saw that the emperor had no clothes and could not keep silent about it, and for my mama, the woman who loved him."
Most of my characters are not really based on anyone in particular, but I will tell you this, the character of Simon Carrick, Pete Carrick's daddy in Living Among the Dead, has a whole lot of my daddy in him. Simon Carrick is a naysayer, a malcontent, a tree-shaker, a hive-swatter, something that this country used to have a lot of. Now, however, most of us jump on a party's bandwagon and ride around in it, posing and posturing to each other and to those on the side of the road. Nobody really weighs an issue anymore and takes an unpopular stand. We go far left or far right to our camps and we stay there, cowering with people who think like us. We are becoming less a nation of fearless eagles and more a nation of blind geese. But that's not what this blog post is about, really. It's about my daddy.
I've seen a picture of a park bench posted on social media with the question, "If you could sit on this bench for five minutes and talk to someone, who would it be?"
No question, it would be my daddy. But it could only be five minutes, because by six minutes, we would be arguing. But so it is sometimes for fathers and sons. [Somewhere, I think my daddy just chuckled.]
I would sit there on that park bench and enjoy my daddy's sense of humor. My daddy, who sent Catherine and me some money before we got married and in the note that accompanied it, jokingly said that there was still time for me to escape to Mexico. My daddy, who, whenever we had a cold snap, used to say, "better bring in that brass monkey." My daddy, who, when asked what religion he was, would always say he was a frisbeeterian. We frisbeeterians believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof, and nobody can get it down, he would say.
My daddy was a union electrician, International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local #194. Only recently did I learn from my uncle, his brother, that in the 1960's when a union meeting in Shreveport was taking on a tone of racial ugliness, my daddy stood up and proclaimed, "I cannot believe that you all would treat our black brothers this way." He was never voted most popular, nor did he yearn to be.
When I bought my first car, a 1974 Plymouth Duster, I proudly showed it to him, and he was proud of me for buying it with my own money. Until he saw the front bumper with the Confederate flag license plate placed there by the previous owner.
"Take that thing off, son," he said. "A war's never been fought for a sorrier cause." Words spoken by my daddy, the great-grandson of Confederate veteran A. J. Lawler, who had lost two brothers in the War.
And that friends, a war's never been fought for a sorrier cause, is a quote that has found it's way into Living Among the Dead, a sentiment held by Pete Carrick's daddy, Simon Carrick. Another exchange that has the markings of my daddy is this one in which Pete Carrick's Aunt Cora comes to visit each Sunday, only to find Pete and his daddy working:
“Working on the Sabbath again?” Aunt Cora would ask my father as she alighted from the carriage she had driven up the five miles from her house.
“Why not?” Daddy would say. “Got to eat on the Sabbath, too, don’t a man?”
She always let it go. She had argued the point before but had gotten nowhere, since in the end, Daddy had refused to recognize the authority of the Bible, Aunt Cora’s trump card. (“Written by men who didn’t wear drawers,” he would say.)
And this, when Pete decides to go off to war with the Confederate Army:
When war broke out, Daddy couldn’t understand how I would want to join up and leave what he considered a twisted little patch of paradise out in the woods, a colony of lucrative rancidness where a man could pause from his work, produce himself out of his trousers and urinate without ever having to so much as step behind a tree, a free and easy lifestyle. Perhaps he didn’t think there was anything better out there in the world. More likely, I understand, now that I’m a father, he knew I would never come back.
“Mark my words, son,” he said as he straightened up from his work, putting one hand on his hip while the other pulled the stub of a cigar from his teeth, “At the end of this thing, if there ever is an end, it won’t be one side or t’other that wins. It’ll be the man what sells the guns to ‘em both. He’ll be the winner.”
He stood there with a scudder in his hand, holding it limply at his side. I stood there with a sack drawn up on a stick over my shoulder. Neither of us said anything. Neither of us looked at the other. To have told him that I was proud of him would have been a lie. To have told him that I loved him would have been closer to the truth but just plain odd and not in keeping with how we conversed.
So I just said goodbye, turning from him and the smell of his cigar and the yellow-brown stench of the tanning yard, turning to the rocky red earth and the orange cinders of the Mt. Lebanon-Athens Road as it ascended a little rise of a hill. When I got to the top of it, I turned around. He was a small figure on the edge of the road in front of our place, looking back at me with his hands on his hips. I waited for him to acknowledge me, a wave, perhaps, but he hastily put his cigar to his mouth and turned back to his work. I wonder now if he felt I had betrayed him.
When you are a malcontent, your life is heavier than most other people's, and sometimes you find that you just can't carry it anymore. It's the loneliness that makes it so heavy. And so you have to set your life down and walk away from it. And that's what my daddy did. The world was too imperfect for him. He finally found it to be unlivable.
My daddy, my beloved infidel.
So I hope Daddy's soul is at rest in heaven or the cosmos or recycled into another soul. Or maybe up on a roof somewhere, basking in the sun while a gentle breeze tickles the leaves and they shimmy in the bright sunlight.
To say I understand him better now would be right on the money.
To see a picture of my daddy and pictures that reflect the characters and places in my novels, visit my Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/chlawlerstor...
January 12, 2018
They Are Us
This is an excerpt from the newest book, Living Among the Dead. The scene involves a group of traveling carpenters in south Lousiana in 1865. Their foreman, Honoré Mouton, is a traiteur, a Cajun folk healer. The speaker is one of his crew, a man known at the time as Pierre Carrick.
It's been said, and attributed to C. S. Lewis, that we don't have souls, but rather we are souls and we simply have bodies. How would the world, or our particular part of it, change if we saw ourselves and others as souls rather than bodies or faces?
"We stopped at a small farmstead and put up a barn for a man. It took us about a week or so, and afterward the man and his family celebrated with us. The family had a small horde of children, all seemingly born nine months and ten minutes apart, but one of them, something had happened to him. I think it was something from birth, but I didn’t ask and anyway, my French wasn’t that good. But the little fellow was enamored with Honoré, sitting in close to him as Honoré sat on a haybale and fiddled, tapping his boot in time to the shuffling of dancers and the music. The little fellow had a misshapen head and odd looking eyes and low ears. His parents tried to pull him away, that poor, ruined boy, so as not to distract Honoré from his music. But Honoré stopped-in the middle of the song- and told them to leave him there, that they were enjoying each other’s company and that he was no trouble. Honoré played until the little boy’s eyes slackened with sleep and his little body slumped against him. Honoré’s violon squealed and crooned, and the boy was oblivious.
When the dance was over, he picked up the child’s limp, slumbering body.
“Pauvre bête [poor thing],” he said, and he kissed the boy on his forehead before giving him over to his mother.
The mother gathered the boy, whose name was Alcee, I believe, but that is no matter now, and she took him in the house and put him in the bed with his siblings. Honoré was putting away his violon. The little boy distressed me. He did.
Can you change him? I thought, but I changed my question. “Can he be changed?” I asked Honoré.
“Not everything must be changed, Pierre. Sometimes things are like they are in hope that the world, or at least a small part of it, will change. In the meantime, this poor boy here is a soul just like you and me. And our souls don’t toil or spin. They got no color, sont pas homme, sont pas femme [they're not male, they're not female]. But make no mistake. They are us. They are more us than we are us.”
It's been said, and attributed to C. S. Lewis, that we don't have souls, but rather we are souls and we simply have bodies. How would the world, or our particular part of it, change if we saw ourselves and others as souls rather than bodies or faces?
