Writing is a lot like constipation: always an ordeal, but the results are gratifying.
While this has been a good summer for hay and cattle, it's been particularly demanding of my time. So I value all the more the rare Sunday afternoon (like this) when I can sit in my office, mind uncluttered, and study.
Reading a passage by Machiavelli in exile on his farm, I feel in good company--if not presumptuously so:
January 21, '95
We were talking the other day about rituals. . . . This morning (Saturday) as I passed by Sidney's station just before seven and saw the lights on and Caroline and the boys inside, I thought, YES.
Sidney Smith was a Verden man, a good mechanic and local character who operated a filling station for years. His greatest joy sometimes seemed to be nothing more than bad jokes. I even laughed at one of his Rastus and Liza jokes, which offend me. Seriously irreverent, he also had a fully developed sense of community. I stopped by to talk business one time, and we had to hide in the back of the station so he wouldn't be seen doing business during the funeral of some local personage directly across the highway at the Baptist church. Sidney could be counted on to overhaul a motor, run gas out to a stranded car, or get a combine running during wheat harvest.
And Sidney's station was an integral part of the Verden social order. In the office or parlor (what do you call that little front room in a service station?) at any time of day you might find several country boys visiting, reading the paper, drinking coffee. This scene was especially tuned to the morning. Between 6:30 am (when Sidney and his wife Caroline opened) and 7:30 or 8:00, you could find the regular crew parked there. Local rancher Steve Winn, called it his office--one morning when I phoned him, his wife said, "Steve's not here, he's gone to the office." Buddy Winn, the school bus mechanic, was a morning fixture at Sidney's, as were Rick Willis and Eddie Flood. (Eddie would breakfast at Vivian's Café, then drive to Sidney's.)
When Sidney died of lung cancer last January, the community genuinely and collectively grieved. It was one of the biggest funerals I've been to in Verden. He died with his sense of humor intact. On the subject of pallbearers he said, "Preacher, I don't b'lieve there's six guys in Verden that don't have bad backs."
Caroline, Sidney's widow--who's only about your age, too young for widowhood--has been unable to sell the station. Dalton Abbott runs another station a block down the highway. Sidney's station is economic deadwood in a declining community like Verden. The wrenches still hang on the wall; the soda machine is still stocked and lighted; the place is exactly as it was a year ago, the day Sidney last closed up.
But something of an electrical charge ran through me one Saturday morning about ten months ago when I drove past the station about seven and saw the parlor lit up and Caroline and the boys drinking coffee. And when I drove by this morning and saw it again, I thought YES.
These are the rhythms that thrill me. I want to write as priest and prophet of the everyday. I see no less power in that lighted Saturday morning station than in, "Take, eat, this is My body which was given . . ."
One time I'd been baling alfalfa hay all night on a place just a 1/4 mile from the Washita River. I finished about 4 a.m. It was always a relief to shut down the roaring tractor and its exhaust fumes, to kill the garish offense of its headlights on the dark landscape, and to lose the baler's cloud of dust and its soul-numbing, rhythmic pounding din.
This particular night as I restored darkness and quiet to the world, I heard something unusual. From the direction of the river, down the dirt track through the trees, came the sound of a drumbeat and a chanting chorus. Indians. I couldn't see the fire or distinguish words. But there was a marked contrast between the two rhythms, the mechanical and the tribal. Although I couldn't participate in the river gathering, I took something from it nonetheless.
A symptom of modernism, said Virginia Woolf, has been storytelling's atrophy or irrelevance. Our century's experimentation with narrative has ranged from Joyce and Woolf through Oates and Barth, often seeming to produce haughty disdain toward the simple story. Ironically, at century's end, story is making a comeback. "A crucial assumption of modernism--that because narrative distorts reality it should be abandoned--has itself been abandoned" (Buford, 12). Narrative has emerged from its forty days in the wilderness and stands poised to take over the world--the world of literature anyway, the worlds of history, law, and medicine, and a small continent in science. We may not know why, but we crave stories.
1998 (from an unfinished profile)
"We don't have much here in Mangum, but we don't lack much either. About the only TV I watch is PBS--and the Discovery channel, which I can't get out here, but I used to get it at Marge's house in town." Marge was a widow and didn't drive. For years Joe drove her to church Sunday nights. But if the Discovery channel were playing something interesting, they'd watch that instead. Marge would say, "I can wait to go to church."
Joe's church-going was strictly on Marge's behalf. "She knew I couldn't stand it unless I was intoxicated, so she kept a bottle of Wild Turkey on hand. She'd pour me a bit, oh, near half full in a water glass, and then off we'd go to church.
"They used to sing two or three hymns to begin the service. And me and Marge--we'd sing like birds. I remember one night I looked around, and we was the only ones singing. We had a good time going to church. Marge was careful to keep that whiskey on hand for me--she'd say, 'Joe, you're nearly out of Turkey.'
"But Marge passed away, so I don't see the Discovery channel anymore."
All Right, Who's Responsible Here?
by CB Bassity 1996
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