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Nate Briggs's Blog - Posts Tagged "novel"
Sunday Literary Life: April 2
This month’s featured short novel is “Alfie” – subtitled “A Born Again Romance” because much of it discusses the tribal norms of Bible people inside a Bible church: referred to as “born again” because they are not considered to be "saved" until after full immersion baptism as children or young adults.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
Sunday Literary Life: April 9
Sunday Literary Life – April 9
The disclaimer at the beginning of Alfie states that any resemblance to known reality is coincidental – but that is not quite true. The characters do not duplicate anyone in the known world, but Jonah's church is my church. Or, more accurately, it stands in for all the churches I knew growing up. It does not represent ALL Bible churches, since any kind of broader generalization is dangerous. But I know what I know about the congregations I was forced to attend and the theological views described in Alfie are a true and faithful report of those places.
They were all “Full Bible”. All independent. Many with unpaid clergy. All tiny (sometimes my father found himself preaching to less than 10 people). And all tribal in the sense that everyone was assumed to be in agreement. But often, while everyone agreed what the Scriptures SAID – there was occasionally disagreement on what the Scriptures MEANT.
Once the “burning rubber of error” grew too strong (Garrison Keillor’s phrase) there could be Schism – and the subdividing of Bible congregations is so common I felt compelled to offer a short description, along with the implications for a teenage boy expected to marry “within the tribe”:
“By the time he turned seventeen — a high school senior, accomplished self-gratifier, and secret agnostic — Jonah was still being dragged to services five times a week, and was feeling well and truly trapped at the same time the Church of the Last Word faced the most deeply-felt crisis in its short history. It was, itself, a schismatic church. A splinter group which had broken off from the Uptown Church of Christ back in the 1960s.
“Now — after years of Scriptural sniping, a running battle in which Bible verses were lobbed back and forth like grenades — four families split off from the Last Word to form the Church of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) — clumsily renovating an old convenience store: where they met to pray and frailly sing while sitting on folding chairs.
“The thunderheads of disagreement had been building for some time. But, when the split came, it was all over in a couple of weeks…There was no turning aside. The “splitters” split, and left only about 120 people to carry on the Gospel work in Jonah’s building: people not only being asked to attend frequent services, but also to work as volunteers: cleaning and maintaining the place without pay.
“The Splitters Splitting hit Jonah particularly hard, because it was assumed — from the time he was a child — that, like most children of strictly religious orders, he would choose a wife from his own tribe. He couldn’t look forward to any kind of happiness in the Afterlife if he didn’t. His “brothers and sisters in Christ” were certain that — after the savage battle of Armageddon — members in good standing in the Church of the Last Word would be the only ones welcomed into the arms of Jesus, since only their understanding of the Bible was totally complete and correct. Everyone else on the entire planet, all of whom were “misbelievers”, would be cast into the lake of fire — and that would be that.
“Heaven would be very cozy: populated by only about a hundred people, and — if Jonah wanted to be numbered among the Saved — he would have to choose a wife from the young women who were left after the reckless Splitters of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) had broken away.
“Earlier in his teen years, Jonah had assumed that he might have six, or seven, options if he was somehow forced to marry within his church. Now, on the verge of graduating from high school, his options had been reduced to just two…the Phlipp sisters were Bible aristocracy. You could tell by the obscurity of their Bible-derived names: Huldah (from the Second Book of Kings), Makeda (from the Second Book of Chronicles), and Apphia (from the book of Philemon).
“Although Biblically satisfying, the names were not very practical for day to day use, so — by accident or by practice — they had been distilled down to Huldie, Mackie, and Alfie. All were young women of impeccable righteousness: although it was generally agreed that it was Alfie who had the edge in looks, and personality.
“Unlike her sisters, who were very heavy across the waist, she could be said to have an actual figure. No matter how Biblically she dressed, it was also hard for her to hide the fact that she probably had very photogenic breasts.
“But now she was married, leaving Jonah to be mated with one of the others if he couldn’t manage to get out of town.”
The disclaimer at the beginning of Alfie states that any resemblance to known reality is coincidental – but that is not quite true. The characters do not duplicate anyone in the known world, but Jonah's church is my church. Or, more accurately, it stands in for all the churches I knew growing up. It does not represent ALL Bible churches, since any kind of broader generalization is dangerous. But I know what I know about the congregations I was forced to attend and the theological views described in Alfie are a true and faithful report of those places.
They were all “Full Bible”. All independent. Many with unpaid clergy. All tiny (sometimes my father found himself preaching to less than 10 people). And all tribal in the sense that everyone was assumed to be in agreement. But often, while everyone agreed what the Scriptures SAID – there was occasionally disagreement on what the Scriptures MEANT.
Once the “burning rubber of error” grew too strong (Garrison Keillor’s phrase) there could be Schism – and the subdividing of Bible congregations is so common I felt compelled to offer a short description, along with the implications for a teenage boy expected to marry “within the tribe”:
“By the time he turned seventeen — a high school senior, accomplished self-gratifier, and secret agnostic — Jonah was still being dragged to services five times a week, and was feeling well and truly trapped at the same time the Church of the Last Word faced the most deeply-felt crisis in its short history. It was, itself, a schismatic church. A splinter group which had broken off from the Uptown Church of Christ back in the 1960s.
“Now — after years of Scriptural sniping, a running battle in which Bible verses were lobbed back and forth like grenades — four families split off from the Last Word to form the Church of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) — clumsily renovating an old convenience store: where they met to pray and frailly sing while sitting on folding chairs.
“The thunderheads of disagreement had been building for some time. But, when the split came, it was all over in a couple of weeks…There was no turning aside. The “splitters” split, and left only about 120 people to carry on the Gospel work in Jonah’s building: people not only being asked to attend frequent services, but also to work as volunteers: cleaning and maintaining the place without pay.
“The Splitters Splitting hit Jonah particularly hard, because it was assumed — from the time he was a child — that, like most children of strictly religious orders, he would choose a wife from his own tribe. He couldn’t look forward to any kind of happiness in the Afterlife if he didn’t. His “brothers and sisters in Christ” were certain that — after the savage battle of Armageddon — members in good standing in the Church of the Last Word would be the only ones welcomed into the arms of Jesus, since only their understanding of the Bible was totally complete and correct. Everyone else on the entire planet, all of whom were “misbelievers”, would be cast into the lake of fire — and that would be that.
“Heaven would be very cozy: populated by only about a hundred people, and — if Jonah wanted to be numbered among the Saved — he would have to choose a wife from the young women who were left after the reckless Splitters of the Last Word (Reformed and Non-Instrumental) had broken away.
“Earlier in his teen years, Jonah had assumed that he might have six, or seven, options if he was somehow forced to marry within his church. Now, on the verge of graduating from high school, his options had been reduced to just two…the Phlipp sisters were Bible aristocracy. You could tell by the obscurity of their Bible-derived names: Huldah (from the Second Book of Kings), Makeda (from the Second Book of Chronicles), and Apphia (from the book of Philemon).
“Although Biblically satisfying, the names were not very practical for day to day use, so — by accident or by practice — they had been distilled down to Huldie, Mackie, and Alfie. All were young women of impeccable righteousness: although it was generally agreed that it was Alfie who had the edge in looks, and personality.
“Unlike her sisters, who were very heavy across the waist, she could be said to have an actual figure. No matter how Biblically she dressed, it was also hard for her to hide the fact that she probably had very photogenic breasts.
“But now she was married, leaving Jonah to be mated with one of the others if he couldn’t manage to get out of town.”
Sunday Literary Life: April 23
One of the big scenes I had in mind for Alfie was crisp, yet funny, yet emotionally charged conversation somewhere in a big discount store. Not Walmart, of course. Who could think about Romance in a place like that? It’s bright – it’s cutthroat – it’s penny pinching. It’s mildly disgusting. And you don’t find yourself among a good class of people.
Target seemed more of a contender. Lower lighting. Less acreage. More a sense that you’re shopping. And less a sense that you’re being turned upside and shaken to get all the money out of your pockets.
My inevitable conclusion was that my star-crossed lovers should have their decisive meeting at Target.
With that in mind, I decided to give my local store a call to get some valuable background*:
Her: ‘This is Target Customer Service, how may I direct your call?’
Me: ‘I wanted to ask about crying in your store.’
Her: ‘What? Excuse me?’
Me: ‘What happens if someone is crying in your store? I’m thinking in one of the changing rooms.’
Her: ‘You mean: someone is crying now? In this store? In the changing room?’
Me: ‘No. Just as a general policy. What if two people are in one of the changing rooms—’
Her: ‘We don’t really encourage—’
Me: ‘—a man and a woman—‘
Her: ‘—probably illegal—‘
Me: ‘—and one of them is crying. You know: really wailing away. Not so you can hear it all over the store. But let’s say half the store.’
Her: ‘What half of the store? What are you trying to tell me? Is there something going on in the store? Do they have a gun? Do you have a gun?’
Me: ‘No — there’s no crisis—’
Her: ‘Then why are you talking about this? Are you in our store?’
Me: ‘No — just calling from home.’
Her: ‘How do you know there’s someone crying in the store if you aren’t here?’
Me: ‘I don’t think there is anyone crying in the store. This is all hypothetical.’
Her: ‘So something to do with drugs?’
Me: ‘Not hypodermic. Just imagining. Just thinking about how that might happen.’
Her: ‘Why would that ever happen?’
Me: ‘Because someone would see someone and want to say something to them — and then the other person wouldn’t want to hear it — and so she would go into the dressing room—’
Her: ‘Why not run out of the store?’
Me: ‘She’s not thinking straight.’
Her: ‘Well…obviously. So they’re not having sex. Or are they?’
Me: ‘No — they’re just talking.’
Her: ‘And why is she crying?’
Me: ‘Just because.’
Her: ‘And he doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘No. Nothing like that.’
Her: ‘And she doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘Neither of them has a gun. He’s just come back to town to tell her that he’s always loved her, and he wants to marry her.’
Her: ‘And she’s crying about that?’
Me: ‘In the dressing room.’
Her: ‘They couldn’t go out to the parking lot, like normal people?’
Me: ‘The dressing room is where it’s happening, in my mind.
Her: ‘In your mind?
Me: ‘But would you let that happen?’
Her: ‘That’s the manager’s job. It’s not my job.’
Me: ‘But you wouldn’t call the cops?’
Her: ‘It takes them forever to get here. Probably not, if there weren’t any guns around.’
Me: ‘How long would you let them stay in there?’
Her: ‘The cops?’
Me: ‘The people talking.’
Her: ‘Not very long.’
Me: ‘How about if one of them gave you fifty bucks not to care that much?’
Her: ‘I could not care more for a hundred bucks?’
Me: ‘How much would you not care for a hundred bucks?’
Her: ‘Til they were done.’
Me: ‘OK. That’s helpful. Thanks for your time.’
Her: ‘Thank you for calling Target! But talk to someone else next time!’
Target seemed more of a contender. Lower lighting. Less acreage. More a sense that you’re shopping. And less a sense that you’re being turned upside and shaken to get all the money out of your pockets.
My inevitable conclusion was that my star-crossed lovers should have their decisive meeting at Target.
With that in mind, I decided to give my local store a call to get some valuable background*:
Her: ‘This is Target Customer Service, how may I direct your call?’
Me: ‘I wanted to ask about crying in your store.’
Her: ‘What? Excuse me?’
Me: ‘What happens if someone is crying in your store? I’m thinking in one of the changing rooms.’
Her: ‘You mean: someone is crying now? In this store? In the changing room?’
Me: ‘No. Just as a general policy. What if two people are in one of the changing rooms—’
Her: ‘We don’t really encourage—’
Me: ‘—a man and a woman—‘
Her: ‘—probably illegal—‘
Me: ‘—and one of them is crying. You know: really wailing away. Not so you can hear it all over the store. But let’s say half the store.’
Her: ‘What half of the store? What are you trying to tell me? Is there something going on in the store? Do they have a gun? Do you have a gun?’
Me: ‘No — there’s no crisis—’
Her: ‘Then why are you talking about this? Are you in our store?’
Me: ‘No — just calling from home.’
Her: ‘How do you know there’s someone crying in the store if you aren’t here?’
Me: ‘I don’t think there is anyone crying in the store. This is all hypothetical.’
Her: ‘So something to do with drugs?’
Me: ‘Not hypodermic. Just imagining. Just thinking about how that might happen.’
Her: ‘Why would that ever happen?’
Me: ‘Because someone would see someone and want to say something to them — and then the other person wouldn’t want to hear it — and so she would go into the dressing room—’
Her: ‘Why not run out of the store?’
Me: ‘She’s not thinking straight.’
Her: ‘Well…obviously. So they’re not having sex. Or are they?’
Me: ‘No — they’re just talking.’
Her: ‘And why is she crying?’
Me: ‘Just because.’
Her: ‘And he doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘No. Nothing like that.’
Her: ‘And she doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘Neither of them has a gun. He’s just come back to town to tell her that he’s always loved her, and he wants to marry her.’
Her: ‘And she’s crying about that?’
Me: ‘In the dressing room.’
Her: ‘They couldn’t go out to the parking lot, like normal people?’
Me: ‘The dressing room is where it’s happening, in my mind.
Her: ‘In your mind?
Me: ‘But would you let that happen?’
Her: ‘That’s the manager’s job. It’s not my job.’
Me: ‘But you wouldn’t call the cops?’
Her: ‘It takes them forever to get here. Probably not, if there weren’t any guns around.’
Me: ‘How long would you let them stay in there?’
Her: ‘The cops?’
Me: ‘The people talking.’
Her: ‘Not very long.’
Me: ‘How about if one of them gave you fifty bucks not to care that much?’
Her: ‘I could not care more for a hundred bucks?’
Me: ‘How much would you not care for a hundred bucks?’
Her: ‘Til they were done.’
Me: ‘OK. That’s helpful. Thanks for your time.’
Her: ‘Thank you for calling Target! But talk to someone else next time!’
Sunday Literary Life: April 30
Between one thing and another, it’s been a couple of weeks away. My apologies.
Most of my life has been spent in landscapes where water has been an urgent concern. Austere settings that not only agreed with the austere declarations of Full Bible theology — but which echoed the reported austerity of the Holy Land itself. The harsh roads that Jesus traveled as he offered his teachings to strangers he met along the way.
When something is scarce you tend to remember it. So water has marked out unique, significant places in my life. Understandable that bodies of water would start introducing themselves into different narratives — whether I’ve gone to the trouble of inviting them or not.
Out on the Plains, water is generally visible from a distance. One of my favorite fictional characters, Rebecca Weatherhead, remarks on one of her first impressions of the so-called Bible Belt:
“Trees (mostly cottonwoods) in that landscape follow the watercourses. But a group of tress to the right, or the left, of the road ahead almost always marks a town….”
Where I come from, trees mean a river. Trees mean a town. But trees can also mean a lake: usually man-made. Water backing up behind a dam. WPA possibly. Or CCC. Lakes established under Eisenhower, or Roosevelt: generally surrounded by trees — creating the kind of screen that Jonah finds convenient when he’s trying to think of a hidden place where he and Alfie can meet after their first sexual encounter in the Sunday School classroom at church.
Alfie wants to make sure that she's going to bear a child. She has to have a baby for her plan to make any sense. So: she needs another session. But, in a small town, amateur detectives are everywhere — not the least bit shy about starting rumors that then spread at the speed of light.
People who are doing what Jonah and Alfie are doing have to find a place to hide and there — not far from town — in a natural chalice of earth, is tiny Lake Lucy: almost abandoned by everyone because silt has brought the water level up to the point where power boating is more trouble than it’s worth. People with boats to show and water skiers to pull have migrated over to much larger, and deeper Lake Elsinore.
As I wrote along with this narrative, Lake Lucy pushed its way in to become almost a character. A hidden place: analogous to hidden emotions. A secret world resting in local geography: echoing the secret world of sexual intimacy. And — with its lavish setting of foliage and well-watered Nature — an echo of Eden itself for lovers steeped in the Bible, and the origin story of Adam and Eve.
When Jonah comes back to this place, after completing all the elements of his education at University, he’s overwhelmed at first:
“Jonah took her outstretched hand and they walked out on a deck that presented Lake Lucy as attractively as he’d ever seen any natural body of water: the small basin created by the irrigation dam filled to the brim with spring rain, all the trees around the perimeter of the lake in full leaf, a light wind brushing ripples across the water….”
He’s seeing an oasis. Not only of water. But of emotion. If a quiet pool of water is not restful and re-assuring, then I’m not sure why we go to the trouble of creating so many of them. We generally anticipate good things when we arrive at water out of the beige world of dust, dead grass, and dry earth. We anticipate relief. Freedom from care. And maybe some good news.
For Jonah, Lake Lucy is the place where life-changing things happen. Good and bad. A place where everything begins for him, you could say. So: only natural that the little island in the little lake would be both the end of the narrative — and the beginning of another one.
Most of my life has been spent in landscapes where water has been an urgent concern. Austere settings that not only agreed with the austere declarations of Full Bible theology — but which echoed the reported austerity of the Holy Land itself. The harsh roads that Jesus traveled as he offered his teachings to strangers he met along the way.
When something is scarce you tend to remember it. So water has marked out unique, significant places in my life. Understandable that bodies of water would start introducing themselves into different narratives — whether I’ve gone to the trouble of inviting them or not.
Out on the Plains, water is generally visible from a distance. One of my favorite fictional characters, Rebecca Weatherhead, remarks on one of her first impressions of the so-called Bible Belt:
“Trees (mostly cottonwoods) in that landscape follow the watercourses. But a group of tress to the right, or the left, of the road ahead almost always marks a town….”
Where I come from, trees mean a river. Trees mean a town. But trees can also mean a lake: usually man-made. Water backing up behind a dam. WPA possibly. Or CCC. Lakes established under Eisenhower, or Roosevelt: generally surrounded by trees — creating the kind of screen that Jonah finds convenient when he’s trying to think of a hidden place where he and Alfie can meet after their first sexual encounter in the Sunday School classroom at church.
Alfie wants to make sure that she's going to bear a child. She has to have a baby for her plan to make any sense. So: she needs another session. But, in a small town, amateur detectives are everywhere — not the least bit shy about starting rumors that then spread at the speed of light.
People who are doing what Jonah and Alfie are doing have to find a place to hide and there — not far from town — in a natural chalice of earth, is tiny Lake Lucy: almost abandoned by everyone because silt has brought the water level up to the point where power boating is more trouble than it’s worth. People with boats to show and water skiers to pull have migrated over to much larger, and deeper Lake Elsinore.
As I wrote along with this narrative, Lake Lucy pushed its way in to become almost a character. A hidden place: analogous to hidden emotions. A secret world resting in local geography: echoing the secret world of sexual intimacy. And — with its lavish setting of foliage and well-watered Nature — an echo of Eden itself for lovers steeped in the Bible, and the origin story of Adam and Eve.
When Jonah comes back to this place, after completing all the elements of his education at University, he’s overwhelmed at first:
“Jonah took her outstretched hand and they walked out on a deck that presented Lake Lucy as attractively as he’d ever seen any natural body of water: the small basin created by the irrigation dam filled to the brim with spring rain, all the trees around the perimeter of the lake in full leaf, a light wind brushing ripples across the water….”
He’s seeing an oasis. Not only of water. But of emotion. If a quiet pool of water is not restful and re-assuring, then I’m not sure why we go to the trouble of creating so many of them. We generally anticipate good things when we arrive at water out of the beige world of dust, dead grass, and dry earth. We anticipate relief. Freedom from care. And maybe some good news.
For Jonah, Lake Lucy is the place where life-changing things happen. Good and bad. A place where everything begins for him, you could say. So: only natural that the little island in the little lake would be both the end of the narrative — and the beginning of another one.
Sunday Literary Life: May 7
This month I am pleased to be shining some light on a new Amazon Single - “Right Sizing” - which is too short to be a novel, but too long to be a short story. Forty-something years working in the corporate bubble have given me lots of stories. But I wanted to start with this one: Duncan Duste - formerly shooting star of a Fortune 500 company - now using his expensive education in the Ivy League to guide him in making coffee at a corner Pump’n’Dump convenience store.
Duncan, sadly, committed the corporate sin of telling the truth in the wrong place at the wrong time. As described here:
“Bib’s TeamChat happened at the same time every week. Every week: three hours of incoherent rambling, mumbled self-pity, blatant character assassination and snide finger pointing. Sound and fury: reliably signifying nothing.
“Always three hours at least. Sometimes pushed out to three-and-a-half, or four.
“No one permitted to leave unless it was a medical emergency. Rumor had it that Bib had a bag strapped somewhere, and she could go indefinitely. But everyone else had a bladder, and — as soon as the meeting on this fateful day came to a close — Duncan and his friends had rushed straight for the men’s room: bursting through the swinging door with crisp enthusiasm.
“Later, the other two would argue that Duncan had only himself to blame for cutting corners. The first one to the porcelain, it had been his responsibility to do the groucho walk along the back stalls: checking for shoes visible under the doors.
“He was in there with friends. But you couldn’t assume everyone in the facility was friendly.
“Duncan had been working on his fresh, new one-liner all during the team meeting — and here was a big, echoing space to introduce it: ‘Now we have proof that turds rise to the top around here! How is that cunt keeping her job? Any other company: she’d be standing in the cafeteria line with a hairnet and a ladle. Here it’s an office with a view and six weeks’ vacation!’
“The expected chuckles of echoed appreciation didn’t come. Instead: sincere alarm.
“Duncan’s quip might be funny. Or it might not. Everything depended on who else heard him say it.
“Bracken Acker, who thought he might have a bladder infection, still took the time to go along the line of inscrutable stalls — bent almost double — walking as softly as he could.
“At the next to last, he hit pay dirt. Looking back at his friends, he’d waved his hands in the air, and screamed “Shit! Shit!” without making any noise at all.
“Patel and Acker recognized the crisis, and understood what Duncan had to do.
”Yet, even with long convenience store graveyards to think it over, Duncan wasn’t sure why he’d made no attempt at damage control. He may have wanted to be delightfully different from his friends. Maybe he’d been sick and tired of being one of Bib’s “little guys”. Maybe lazy. Or maybe believing too much in the charity of the Human Spirit.
“But Bracken Acker hadn’t shared any of those feelings. He’d rushed up, and put a coffee scented whisper in Duncan’s ear: ‘Say you were talking about someone else! Say it wasn’t about Bib!’
“‘Jesus! Who else would I be talking about?’
Acker had hissed through his teeth: ‘Anybody! Anybody! Quick!’”
Duncan, sadly, committed the corporate sin of telling the truth in the wrong place at the wrong time. As described here:
“Bib’s TeamChat happened at the same time every week. Every week: three hours of incoherent rambling, mumbled self-pity, blatant character assassination and snide finger pointing. Sound and fury: reliably signifying nothing.
“Always three hours at least. Sometimes pushed out to three-and-a-half, or four.
“No one permitted to leave unless it was a medical emergency. Rumor had it that Bib had a bag strapped somewhere, and she could go indefinitely. But everyone else had a bladder, and — as soon as the meeting on this fateful day came to a close — Duncan and his friends had rushed straight for the men’s room: bursting through the swinging door with crisp enthusiasm.
“Later, the other two would argue that Duncan had only himself to blame for cutting corners. The first one to the porcelain, it had been his responsibility to do the groucho walk along the back stalls: checking for shoes visible under the doors.
“He was in there with friends. But you couldn’t assume everyone in the facility was friendly.
“Duncan had been working on his fresh, new one-liner all during the team meeting — and here was a big, echoing space to introduce it: ‘Now we have proof that turds rise to the top around here! How is that cunt keeping her job? Any other company: she’d be standing in the cafeteria line with a hairnet and a ladle. Here it’s an office with a view and six weeks’ vacation!’
“The expected chuckles of echoed appreciation didn’t come. Instead: sincere alarm.
“Duncan’s quip might be funny. Or it might not. Everything depended on who else heard him say it.
“Bracken Acker, who thought he might have a bladder infection, still took the time to go along the line of inscrutable stalls — bent almost double — walking as softly as he could.
“At the next to last, he hit pay dirt. Looking back at his friends, he’d waved his hands in the air, and screamed “Shit! Shit!” without making any noise at all.
“Patel and Acker recognized the crisis, and understood what Duncan had to do.
”Yet, even with long convenience store graveyards to think it over, Duncan wasn’t sure why he’d made no attempt at damage control. He may have wanted to be delightfully different from his friends. Maybe he’d been sick and tired of being one of Bib’s “little guys”. Maybe lazy. Or maybe believing too much in the charity of the Human Spirit.
“But Bracken Acker hadn’t shared any of those feelings. He’d rushed up, and put a coffee scented whisper in Duncan’s ear: ‘Say you were talking about someone else! Say it wasn’t about Bib!’
“‘Jesus! Who else would I be talking about?’
Acker had hissed through his teeth: ‘Anybody! Anybody! Quick!’”
Sunday Literary Life: May 21
Sunday Literary Life: May 21
During my blue-collar life I had a colleague who gushed brightly about his time on the “graveyard” shift – in this case, 9PM-6AM: “So few people working that time of night, it’s almost like a family! And all that free time! You go home, sleep for a couple of hours, and then have almost the whole day!”
Perhaps a case of making lemonade out of lemons. When a day shift became available he snapped it right up: reminding all of us that the late-late shift had been destroying his social life.
So much for "family".
Returning this week to Duncan Duste, and his fall from grace after his initial success in a Fortune 500 job, he finds himself in the position of beginning again on the late-late shift. Described in this way:
“After six months of sending out beautifully crafted résumé packets that went into HR file cabinets, never to be seen again, Duncan had wearily accepted Patel’s offer of paid employment at the Pump’n’Dump. It was the graveyard shift, and Patel had been candid: ‘The rest of my family either can’t stay awake all night, or they’re scared shitless.’
“Duncan had spent the first few weeks both sleepy, and scared. But now he was used to it: the “simple life” he’d been thinking about when his life was more complicated.
“Don’t open the register.” “Don’t leave the counter.” “Keep an eye on the closed circuit monitors.” “Call 911 if there’s trouble...don’t be a hero.” “Keep track of anything you eat from stock...but coffee is free, help yourself.”
“The simple life.
“No question about that.
“As the official clock on the wall circled around toward two on the night of Bib Kornpest’s retirement, Duncan did walk away from the counter, momentarily, to observe a woman at one of the pumps. He knew there had to be a story behind her journey out into the night dressed in just a pink “baby doll” nightie and fuzzy slippers — her hair a rat’s nest of curls—and what he fervently hoped was an unlit cigarette in her mouth.
“Startled by seeing someone inside the store looking at her, the woman turned away self-consciously, and maybe didn’t buy as much fuel as she was planning. It was cold outside, she was cold, and showing a lot of skin. After just a couple of bucks, she crammed the nozzle back into the pump, and scampered back into the car.
“The nozzle fell out of the pump as she was leaving the driveway, and Duncan violated all of his basic instructions by trotting out to put it where it belonged.
“He hoped there wouldn’t be a lot of trouble about it. But he couldn’t just leave it lying there.
“Then he hurried back to the barstool near the cigarettes — the spot where he spent most of his time—where he noticed that Bib’s memoir was waiting for him.”
My own memories of the graveyard tend to support the strangeness of trying to be alert when everyone else is trying to be just the opposite. The dreamlike quality of that hollow silent part of the night – when eccentric things happen with so few people awake to see them happen.
During my blue-collar life I had a colleague who gushed brightly about his time on the “graveyard” shift – in this case, 9PM-6AM: “So few people working that time of night, it’s almost like a family! And all that free time! You go home, sleep for a couple of hours, and then have almost the whole day!”
Perhaps a case of making lemonade out of lemons. When a day shift became available he snapped it right up: reminding all of us that the late-late shift had been destroying his social life.
So much for "family".
Returning this week to Duncan Duste, and his fall from grace after his initial success in a Fortune 500 job, he finds himself in the position of beginning again on the late-late shift. Described in this way:
“After six months of sending out beautifully crafted résumé packets that went into HR file cabinets, never to be seen again, Duncan had wearily accepted Patel’s offer of paid employment at the Pump’n’Dump. It was the graveyard shift, and Patel had been candid: ‘The rest of my family either can’t stay awake all night, or they’re scared shitless.’
“Duncan had spent the first few weeks both sleepy, and scared. But now he was used to it: the “simple life” he’d been thinking about when his life was more complicated.
“Don’t open the register.” “Don’t leave the counter.” “Keep an eye on the closed circuit monitors.” “Call 911 if there’s trouble...don’t be a hero.” “Keep track of anything you eat from stock...but coffee is free, help yourself.”
“The simple life.
“No question about that.
“As the official clock on the wall circled around toward two on the night of Bib Kornpest’s retirement, Duncan did walk away from the counter, momentarily, to observe a woman at one of the pumps. He knew there had to be a story behind her journey out into the night dressed in just a pink “baby doll” nightie and fuzzy slippers — her hair a rat’s nest of curls—and what he fervently hoped was an unlit cigarette in her mouth.
“Startled by seeing someone inside the store looking at her, the woman turned away self-consciously, and maybe didn’t buy as much fuel as she was planning. It was cold outside, she was cold, and showing a lot of skin. After just a couple of bucks, she crammed the nozzle back into the pump, and scampered back into the car.
“The nozzle fell out of the pump as she was leaving the driveway, and Duncan violated all of his basic instructions by trotting out to put it where it belonged.
“He hoped there wouldn’t be a lot of trouble about it. But he couldn’t just leave it lying there.
“Then he hurried back to the barstool near the cigarettes — the spot where he spent most of his time—where he noticed that Bib’s memoir was waiting for him.”
My own memories of the graveyard tend to support the strangeness of trying to be alert when everyone else is trying to be just the opposite. The dreamlike quality of that hollow silent part of the night – when eccentric things happen with so few people awake to see them happen.
Sunday Literary Life: June 4
Knowing what I know now, it should have been beyond alarming when my father decided to sell a house almost paid for, in a town that was neither better nor worse than any other town, to move out to a small village: with no one but my father believing that our relocation was anything other than an epic error in judgment.
I spent over a year in that place – waiting for my very young life to be jump started by...something – experiencing the village in all kinds of weather. But the permanent picture I hold in my head is that of a low, Flanders sky in a late autumn day drained of all color – navigating the muddy unpaved streets - walking to the post office to get the mail. The pivot of my day for most of that time.
Naturally, that time – composed mostly of confused misery – was with me when I began this novel – "Relentless Angels" – putting the narrator of that book, Rebecca Weatherhead, in a very similar place. A village called Utopia. As she introduces it:
“After about 20 minutes, the telltale trees appeared, Uncle Danny slowed down to make the turn, and we knew by the crunch of the gravel under the tires that we were in town. A village home to 214 Caucasians, mostly of Scandinavian descent. With about the same number of dogs and cats. And vermin past counting.
“Even after so much time has passed between then and now, I think I’m safe in assuming that nothing there has changed. Utopia was, and always will be, a grid of four blocks to north-south and three blocks east-west. A tiny collection of unpaved streets lying right next to the highway. Twelve miles from Elsinore, the nearest town of any larger size. A short length of asphalt marks the “central business district”. Otherwise, only dirt. No sidewalks anywhere. No landscaping. No statues. No fountains. And no monuments to anyone.
“In the Central Business District the town halfheartedly supported a café and a general store: with that store being the nearest source of gasoline, diesel, and packaged beer. Those enterprises just limped along: trying to make ends meet. The truly prosperous part of Main Street was a tavern: the Six Shooter. Known to almost everyone locally as the “Shooter”.
“The other storefront — at the west end of the village — had closed down, due to lack of business, even though it had the best location: at the very edge of State Highway 98. The last visible stop for gasoline before Elsinore. At the time of my arrival, that building was unoccupied: weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement, the windows filled with plywood.
“I don’t mention this building lightly. It does become important later on.
“At the time they took me in, my Aunt and Uncle had been Utopian for seven years. In the fashion of a medieval farmer Uncle Danny lived right at the edge of the village, within sight of most of his land. And he rode out each day to meet the gods of agriculture while Aunt Billie ruled the household.
“Their residential arrangement soon struck me as absurd: since it gave them the disadvantages of both town and country life. There was something of the isolation of the farm about where they were. A house at the very end of the street, at the very edge of town, in a town remote from everything. But they also lived their lives under the constant, unblinking gaze of neighbors. Across the street. And right next door.
"Small town people — with nothing better to do than keep an eye on each other.”
To her credit, Rebecca responds to her unpromising situation with some energy and some humor. Less to her credit: Utopia is also where she begins her occasional practice as a stone-cold killer.
But more on this later, as "Relentless Angels" – the Great American Novel revisited - is our featured book for this month.
I spent over a year in that place – waiting for my very young life to be jump started by...something – experiencing the village in all kinds of weather. But the permanent picture I hold in my head is that of a low, Flanders sky in a late autumn day drained of all color – navigating the muddy unpaved streets - walking to the post office to get the mail. The pivot of my day for most of that time.
Naturally, that time – composed mostly of confused misery – was with me when I began this novel – "Relentless Angels" – putting the narrator of that book, Rebecca Weatherhead, in a very similar place. A village called Utopia. As she introduces it:
“After about 20 minutes, the telltale trees appeared, Uncle Danny slowed down to make the turn, and we knew by the crunch of the gravel under the tires that we were in town. A village home to 214 Caucasians, mostly of Scandinavian descent. With about the same number of dogs and cats. And vermin past counting.
“Even after so much time has passed between then and now, I think I’m safe in assuming that nothing there has changed. Utopia was, and always will be, a grid of four blocks to north-south and three blocks east-west. A tiny collection of unpaved streets lying right next to the highway. Twelve miles from Elsinore, the nearest town of any larger size. A short length of asphalt marks the “central business district”. Otherwise, only dirt. No sidewalks anywhere. No landscaping. No statues. No fountains. And no monuments to anyone.
“In the Central Business District the town halfheartedly supported a café and a general store: with that store being the nearest source of gasoline, diesel, and packaged beer. Those enterprises just limped along: trying to make ends meet. The truly prosperous part of Main Street was a tavern: the Six Shooter. Known to almost everyone locally as the “Shooter”.
“The other storefront — at the west end of the village — had closed down, due to lack of business, even though it had the best location: at the very edge of State Highway 98. The last visible stop for gasoline before Elsinore. At the time of my arrival, that building was unoccupied: weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement, the windows filled with plywood.
“I don’t mention this building lightly. It does become important later on.
“At the time they took me in, my Aunt and Uncle had been Utopian for seven years. In the fashion of a medieval farmer Uncle Danny lived right at the edge of the village, within sight of most of his land. And he rode out each day to meet the gods of agriculture while Aunt Billie ruled the household.
“Their residential arrangement soon struck me as absurd: since it gave them the disadvantages of both town and country life. There was something of the isolation of the farm about where they were. A house at the very end of the street, at the very edge of town, in a town remote from everything. But they also lived their lives under the constant, unblinking gaze of neighbors. Across the street. And right next door.
"Small town people — with nothing better to do than keep an eye on each other.”
To her credit, Rebecca responds to her unpromising situation with some energy and some humor. Less to her credit: Utopia is also where she begins her occasional practice as a stone-cold killer.
But more on this later, as "Relentless Angels" – the Great American Novel revisited - is our featured book for this month.
Whispered Imagination - Jul 2
And now a few words about Elsinore, Oklahoma – with a particular nod to our folks in the Major Media who only interrupt the in-flight move to gaze at the American Heartland from 30,000 feet.
Like Lake Wobegon, Yoknapatawpha County, or Brigadoon, you won’t find Elsinore on any map. No telephone directory shows it. No Google mapping cars have ever found it.
Not invented though. Stitched together. Quilting squares of memory from the tiny town where I grew up, the village where we were exiled for a time, the city where I went away to college, and fragments of so many people whose attitudes, and conversation, and schemes I remember.
Elsinore is proudly rural – which suggests a brief mention of what might be called our Two Americas Problem. Even though this issue gets some media attention, it doesn’t seem to be the right kind of attention. Because the split we are experiencing, the vehemence and barking we hear every day, is a matter of Time – Past versus Future. A matter of Age – Old versus Young. And a matter of Place – Rural versus Urban.
Within the last two days, I have heard the phrases “depopulated America” and “knuckledragger Amerca” used as equivalents. The good people who still reside in the Heartland might label themselves “ignored America”.
They didn’t want to be ignored before – and they don’t want to be ignored now. They don’t want their states to be thought of as natural grasslands where buffalo can be released to wander free again, now that so many people have gone.
The Heartland feels that America is losing its heart. Losing its way. Losing focus. Losing its heritage — and its priorities.
The Heartland was once very young. And now is becoming very old. It is not just the “brain drain” of the best and brightest. It is the absence of children, and grandchildren, as older people find themselves in the company of the Unworthy - the Worthy children having left, never to return. Small town America is filled with people who settled for what was there at home - and they're not a very inspiring bunch.
They are caught up, of course, in the epic movement of people all over the world – the inexorable movement from farms to the city. One of the foundational characteristics of the 21st Century: the countryside emptying out while the cities fill up. But rural people don’t really concern themselves about trends in global population. They would love to feel a little less left behind – a little less marginalized. At the same time, they’re not particularly interested in the challenges of Modern Times.
That’s part of the charm. Small Town America is not the site of challenges. Not the theatre of ambition. The operative phrase is "used to". Place where things used to happen. Where people used to live. (https://medium.com/@TheFurryMarxist/w...).
But even in the tiny sparks of light you can see from 30,000 feet there are people living, loving, working, hoping, and (sometimes) losing hope.
As much as any street in Brooklyn, any slum in Calcutta, any apartment house in Paris, Elsinore shows people living as they have always lived. My people of Elsinore might wonder if the Heartland will ever be relevant to the larger nation again, but – in the meantime – they have things to do.
Like figuring out how to gt their hands on their husbands' life insurance. (More on this later).
Like Lake Wobegon, Yoknapatawpha County, or Brigadoon, you won’t find Elsinore on any map. No telephone directory shows it. No Google mapping cars have ever found it.
Not invented though. Stitched together. Quilting squares of memory from the tiny town where I grew up, the village where we were exiled for a time, the city where I went away to college, and fragments of so many people whose attitudes, and conversation, and schemes I remember.
Elsinore is proudly rural – which suggests a brief mention of what might be called our Two Americas Problem. Even though this issue gets some media attention, it doesn’t seem to be the right kind of attention. Because the split we are experiencing, the vehemence and barking we hear every day, is a matter of Time – Past versus Future. A matter of Age – Old versus Young. And a matter of Place – Rural versus Urban.
Within the last two days, I have heard the phrases “depopulated America” and “knuckledragger Amerca” used as equivalents. The good people who still reside in the Heartland might label themselves “ignored America”.
They didn’t want to be ignored before – and they don’t want to be ignored now. They don’t want their states to be thought of as natural grasslands where buffalo can be released to wander free again, now that so many people have gone.
The Heartland feels that America is losing its heart. Losing its way. Losing focus. Losing its heritage — and its priorities.
The Heartland was once very young. And now is becoming very old. It is not just the “brain drain” of the best and brightest. It is the absence of children, and grandchildren, as older people find themselves in the company of the Unworthy - the Worthy children having left, never to return. Small town America is filled with people who settled for what was there at home - and they're not a very inspiring bunch.
They are caught up, of course, in the epic movement of people all over the world – the inexorable movement from farms to the city. One of the foundational characteristics of the 21st Century: the countryside emptying out while the cities fill up. But rural people don’t really concern themselves about trends in global population. They would love to feel a little less left behind – a little less marginalized. At the same time, they’re not particularly interested in the challenges of Modern Times.
That’s part of the charm. Small Town America is not the site of challenges. Not the theatre of ambition. The operative phrase is "used to". Place where things used to happen. Where people used to live. (https://medium.com/@TheFurryMarxist/w...).
But even in the tiny sparks of light you can see from 30,000 feet there are people living, loving, working, hoping, and (sometimes) losing hope.
As much as any street in Brooklyn, any slum in Calcutta, any apartment house in Paris, Elsinore shows people living as they have always lived. My people of Elsinore might wonder if the Heartland will ever be relevant to the larger nation again, but – in the meantime – they have things to do.
Like figuring out how to gt their hands on their husbands' life insurance. (More on this later).
