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Date: Thu, 27 Apr 1995 08:51:55 EDT
From: Brad Grissom <BGRISSOM@UKCC.UKY.EDU>
Subject: Sketches toward a WHTUOTR
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L <WORDS-L@UGA.BITNET>
Marcia and Brad are back from their journey. She flies back to
Pennsylvania this afternoon. When I get my act together, I hope to post some
notes and reflections on the journey. For the convenience of those of
you who wish to delete or killfile, these notes will appear under the
sequential rubric "In the Lobby." That title is a tribute to the great
Southerner James Agee and refers to a couple of magic hours in the
Peabody Hotel, where Marcia and I sat collecting our thoughts while
waiting for repairs to the Rosenkavalier (our vehicle). We nursed our
beers and scribbled furiously while all the sights and sounds of the
trip were fresh. Marcia was under headphones listening to The Mamas
and the Papas; my musical background was schmalzy player piano and
the quacking of the Peabody ducks.
Proud to have gone, proud to be back,
brad
Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 10:00:47 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby I
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
We covered 2,028 miles (see sketch map below) with an average fuel
consumption of 32.9 mpg. The Rosenkavalier required a new tailpipe
assembly in Memphis -- normal vehicle maintenance which allowed us
a few more hours in The Bluff City, brilliant in late-April glory.
FTFs with Words-L personnel occurred in Lexington (ggs, Hannum, and
lurker Mark Ingram), Starkville (Natalie and Bernard), New Orleans
(Richard Scheidt). Notable by their absence were JAG (that damned
elusive pimpernel) and Marty (too late on our return for rendezvous).
-----------------> Lexington
/
/ |
/ |
/ |
Memphis Tupelo
|
Amory
|
|
| Starkville
Jackson <--------------- | | | | new orleans <-----------------------> Pascagoula
Overall rating of Marcia and Brad's INTERNET Adventure (on a scale
of 1 to 10, with 10 the highest): 8.5
Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 11:30:16 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby II
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
HOW IT ALL STARTED. There's this fellow in Sweden whose posts I have
read with interest for several years. I have even talked on the phone
with him once, have audiocassettes of him reading poetry (in Swedish
and English), and once skimmed his dissertation. He sent me a message
wondering if I might be willing to look after his newlywed wife for a
few days. No problem, replied I. Been thinking about taking a late
spring vacation anyway, points south, some new territory for me. Soon
I begin receiving email messages from one Marcia Elizabeth Booser, of
Allegheny College, in Pennsylvania (booserm@alleg.edu). They are
tentative yet forceful, with notes on her musical tastes, dietary needs,
lack of tolerance for tobacco. Arrival and departure dates by air
are set. I get one too many reminders to be sure to meet her at the
airport, which I do in good order, at 1:30 on Wednesday the 19th.
We are to be in more or less constant contact for the next 192 hours.
MARCIA AND BRAD BOND. Somewhere in there we become good pals. Hard
to pinpoint when exactly, but definitely by the time she wades in the
Gulf of Mexico, on Sunday afternoon, because shortly thereafter we have
our first spat. But many mutual accommodations have already been made.
I have the advantage of reminding her of her husband, and then not
reminding her of her husband. Marcia is arresting in aspect: tall and
Nordic, shorn blonde hair, a pierced nose whose ornamentation can set the
tone of a day. (In fact, I come to be oblivious of it.) The famous
shoulder tattoos are hidden by most of the garments she wears. In her
personality she is fearfully intense: schoolgirl gigglish one moment,
raucous profane the next, then so somber withdrawn it scares you. Ah,
the poet has said it better:
...bright and beautiful, in her love
and joy and desire, in her pain and hurt and despair.
She also turns rednecked heads in truck stops, let me tell you.
TORKEL'S PRESENCE. He is never very far. This is not just a matter
of all-hours email exchanges and transatlantic calls, which are plentiful.
(Marcia's voice in her two languages is a lesson for me: the cooing
lilting sound of her Swedish makes me feel like I'm at a Bergman movie,
except THERE ARE NO SUBTITLES.) Torkel presides, and it's not the Torkel
of Words-L; it's a real-world Torkel, still only imagined by me, but in
shocking hunks and colors. In the stacks of the UKy library, Marcia and I
hunt for his -Provability and Truth-. The computer warns us it is LOST
before we climb the stairs. Memory tells me I'm the one who declared it
lost, and sure enough, there is a hole on the shelf where it should be.
"Lost books have a way of returning," I tell Marcia in my most stacks-
weary librarian's voice, knowing that Wittgensteinia almost never comes
back.
BRAD'S DRINKING. I went 12 weeks alcohol-free, and got a perfect
blood chemistry report on the eve of Marcia's arrival. I will use her
visit to see what kind of relationship I can have with my beloved beer.
The jury is still out. One day I overdo (Beale Street in Memphis it
was), but basically I am never the sodden Brad of pre-1st quarter '95.
The ones I have taste very, very good, but there is a sickening
familiarity after the fourth one of the day, no matter how well spaced
the first three have been. I suspect the outlook is neither as rosy
as I would like it to be nor as fatal-glass-of-beerish as I feared.
Collective clinical experience seems to point to total abstinence as
the best path for me. Lord, what a bummer. Marcia acts as my watchdog
on the road, carefully monitoring my consumption, sometimes even taking
the last swallow from my glass. No, no, I protest, but she is too
quick for me. I confess I even sneaked one or two when I felt I could
get away with it, but, guess what, I bet she knew all about it. She's
a pretty smart gal.
(to be cont'd)
Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 11:59:01 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby III
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
THE NERD NOTEBOOK. That's what she calls it. Torkel apparently has one
too. Mine is a cheap spiral-bound composition book, which I started on
Xmas vacation last in Mississippi. It contains random scribblings,
preliminary tax figurings, some Tennesse genealogical notes for Nancy
Harwood. I hung on to it throughout tax season, and since there are
so many blank pages left (mine is a simple tax life), it seems natural
to take it along for the trip. When she becomes aware of its existence,
she insists on borrowing it daily and participating in epistolary mode.
I resist at first -- it's *my* notebook, dammit -- but learn, over the
course of our week together, to surrender it to her. Yes! I even answer
her letters, because she pouts if I don't. Ha ha, I have the last word
in it, and I am the permanent archivist. But what a strange and unBradlike
book it has become! I am mining it for these notes.
Date: Sat, 29 Apr 1995 11:44:31 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby IV
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
DIEGESIS (die-EE-guh-sis). Gilbert furnished me with one of my personal
Spring Vacation themes--something to do with layers of storytelling. Miss
Marcia has told her tale in a rather wonderful way (I must say, I cannot
recognize all the features of the Brad presented there, but he is a
somewhat plausible character); now I will trundle along with the progressive
unfolding of mine.
Over dinner at the Irish Springhouse, Gib favored us with the short
version of his paper on "Hermeticism, Diegesis, and the Narrator as
Archivist in Galdos' -La estafeta romantica-", a project whose ideas
have germinated over a considerable period of time and, in their own
progressive unfolding, marked Gib's ascent to the highest chair in
the NCSU Senate. One of the ideas is that there is no narration in
the Estafeta--it's just a series of letters, after all--and yet there
is--done by the archivist who subtly arranges the letters and gives them
headings.
As I understand the diegetic puzzle, there is the world out there,
the richly quotidian lumps called Shuqualak, Lumberton, or Yazoo City
(to name three places I wanted to stop at, but didn't); there is the
fictional world in which a tale takes place (with tight or loose ways
in which Shuqualak can be controlled); and then there is the world of the
narrator, who can be a naive participant or an omniscient observer or
anything in between. Add multiple narrators, and you have a fine
stew indeed!
The five of us around the dinner table, for example. Major Ingram
was unusually quiet, but I can vouch for his great stories, like the
one about the use of firecrackers to control tentworms. John Hannum
was telling a story about going to the races with Gib: the telling was
so perfect that he apparently felt no need to follow through with the
actual going to. Marcia furnished the magic moment, already faithfully
recorded by Gilbert, of getting his goat about sexual innuendo. There
I was, wondering whether to chew those poached oysters or swallow them
whole. And Gib was at the head of the table, responding to our questions
with tales of his humble west Texas origins and the secrets of podium
success. (He really is a master, precisely because he works hard at it.)
Country club? Not quite. Give him a spiffy hat and he would be quite
at home in the Lafayette Club or in one of those boxes at Keeneland
with his name engraved on the owner's nameplate. Yep, old-money
Lexington, that's how I would characterize his look that night. His
own table at the Coach House perhaps.
ObBeerComment: Our first encounter with Gib on Thursday was a meeting
at Marikka's Bierstube (nicely coordinated by Yours Truly, thank you).
Ken Miller should already have received a souvenir beer list signed
by the three of us. I went back yesterday to relive the experience
and ordered a Hue City, of all things, brewed by the Perfume River in
the Republic of Vietnam. Mother of Pearl!
Date: Mon, 1 May 1995 06:39:49 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby VI
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
JACKSONIAN DEMOCRACY. The name resonates throughout the South (elsewhere
too, I guess)--Jackson, TN; Jackson, MS; Jackson County, whose seat is
smelly, shipbuilding Pascagoula; and the famous centerpiece of the
Vieux Carre, where we met Richard. Old Hickory tips his hat to the ages
there. Richard is tour guide nonpareil, and begins his education of us
by noting that the statue's inscription -- something like "The Union must
never be sundered and shall be preserved" -- was added by Civil War
occupier Gen. Ben Butler as a taunt to the local citizenry.
Marcia and I had set out to collect "Proud to be" insignia on the road.
I have only three items: "Proud parent of a U.S. Marine"; "Proud bird,
no chicken" (of an American eagle); and "N.O.: Proud to call it
home". The last one sums up Richard Scheidt for me. He chose New
Orleans as his home, has educated himself about it, prizes its exotic
features, and has firm convictions about its civic missteps. He
walked us around the Quarter for several hours, pointing out the links
with Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, P.G.T. Beauregard, et al. His
comments have a "it is said that ... but we are at least sure that" quali-
fication about them that is most appealing, a candid nod to ambiguity
and the mists of history.
Richard and his lovely mate Brenda live in the Quarter, where we are
taken for a preprandial rest after seeing their first home, opposite
the Market. Yes, there really is an "Earl the Iguana", a fearsome
creature over four feet long who flicks an all-too-human tongue and
bobs his head to signal disapproval. Yes, I was a sissy about Earl.
You will understand when you see the photographic record of Marcia
rolling around the floor with him and stroking his dewlap.
We hit Giovanni's, Richard's default watering hole, where we had
a Dixie (Richard won my heart when he informed that a Dixie shouldn't
count against my daily tally) and Abita on tap. (Watch for this one
in your area.) Supper was at Maspero's, not to be confused with
Maspero's Slave Exchange--traditional Monday red beans and rice for
our hosts, hearty muffalettas for Marcia and me.
It was a rare day weatherwise in New Orleans, crisp and bright.
There was no particular reason to hurry our coffee at du Monde, and,
indeed, if the road hadn't beckoned, I wouldn't have minded checking
out the amateur female wrestling down on Bourbon Street....
Date: Mon, 1 May 1995 21:10:11 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby VII
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
DIALECTAL INTERLUDE. Marcia tried to talk Southern a few times, not
without success. One of the successful attempts reminds me of a little
story. This probably won't transfer well to text, but I'll try it
anyway. We were leaning over the fence meeting the neighbors, Miss
Nancy and her two darling daughters Casey and Chelsea and the dog Pixie.
An exchange of pleasantries. Marcia's nose ornament that day was a
golden disk, in the shape of a flower if I remember correctly. Young
Chelsea is about six, already advanced linguistically to the point where
she consciously imitates her parents' sayings. Beguiled by Marcia's
jewelry, she asked in all innocence, "Why do you have a sticker on your
nose?" Her mother patiently explained, "That's not a sticker, Chelsea.
Marcia has her nose pierced, just like Mommy's ears." The child
responded with the phrase I have heard so often from Nancy, "Oh, Lord!"
For the rest of the trip, whenever appropriate, a moment of mirth or
a comic setback, Marcia and I would look at each other and exclaim,
sometimes even in unison, "Oh, Lord!"
You have to imagine it drawn out a syllable or two, and played with
a little bit, but still authentic. Marcia has it down pat.
Date: Sat, 6 May 1995 00:04:04 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby VIII
Comments: To: words-l@uga.cc.uga.edu
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
PET HEGEMONY. This post is for Bernard, in honor of those in his
racial-ethnic-cultural cohort who lack Internet access.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
KAY AND CARROLL'S DOGS. (Amory)
House dogs. Inky-Poo (dec. 3/95)
Tinker (the evil chihuahua; at ca 6 yrs, the de jure
matriarch of the clan, but tell that to the yard
dogs and they'll laugh in your face)
Monkey (not yet fully established in the bed of Kay and
Carroll, but getting there, because of pity-
inspiring dentition and the usual ass-licking
behavioral quirks; this dog hates me, and I hate
her back)
Garage dogs. (Big) Red (the de facto matriarch, a vaguely Pekinese heart-
warmer who has borne the following as well as --
so it is suspected -- Monkey)
Gooser
Casper (It is said that head-of-household
Chipper Carroll lies down and talks them to
Little Monkey sleep most every night)
Compound-protecting, put-'em-up-at-night dogs.
Hobo
Legs (Protection only in the sense that they are
Blackie practiced yappers and fearsome in aspect; all
Maggie of them rescued from mistreatment and sordid
Moses futures and accordingly veterinarianized)
Lightnin'
Hershey
Silver (This one shows stranger-loving potential. She
and I share a predawn downpour on the 22nd,
watching the grass grow from the porch)
KAY'S CATS. Chief (Needless to say, these are survivalist felines;
Blackie they also have marriage-bed privileges, if they wish)
__________________________________________________________________________
MELANIE AND BILL'S DOGS. (Pascagoula)
Winnie (house Dachshund, pampered beyond tolerance)
The Mud Sprites
Nate (after Gen. Forrest, a fightin' retriever)
Gus (after Augustus McCray of Lonesome Dove, a lovable dummy)
Lucy (after Erwin Rommel's wife, association unknown)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MISS PATRICIA'S DOG. (Memphis)
Marcia, do you remember? Bonnie was her name, another Humane Society
salvage job. She came out of nowhere to join us in the sewing/computer
room during the middle of the flutist reception. A fine Midtown-Memphis
dog, named Bonnie because someone else named their matched pair Bonnie
and Clyde. An elegant Memphis intellectual lady with a plain brown dog?
This will all be explained in the "Miss Patricia" chapter of these notes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
BRAD, FAYE, AND LEROY'S DOG. (Lexington)
Little Black Sambo (aka Torpedo, Sambino di Toropedzie, Sam, Bub, Bubba)
Best of show! Miniature poodle. Is Marcia's pal for her three
nights in Lexington, even turns in before she does to warm up the
bed for her. Foul canine breath the only point-losing characteristic.
(Could this be an indicator of some deeper physiological problem?)
Date: Sun, 7 May 1995 08:57:07 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby IX
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
PROUD TO BE FROM THE FIRST TVA CITY. The Center of My Universe is the
180 or so miles that the Natchez Trace Parkway meanders gracefully from
south of Nashville to the Visitor Center at Tupelo, bisecting my
physiographic homeland. To get there from my frontier outpost in
Lexington, Marcia and I must negotiate the pretty knobs of the Bluegrass
Parkway to Elizabethtown (where George Custer was posted briefly after
the War), then the continuous wall of trucks on I-65 through Nashville's
freeway hell, and finally the local roads around Franklin, site of one
of John Bell Hood's suicidal 1864 assaults against an unbeatable enemy.
(Forgot to ask Richard about Hood's postwar years in N.O.!)
We eat in Franklin, at Herbert's, a traditional stop for my family and
the first of three pulled-pork pit BBQ lunches for Marcia on this trip.
I now realize that no homecooked meals, that hallmark of Southern
hospitality, were served to Marcia during her visit -- just roadfood
and restaurant fare. Marcia is not impressed with the signed photo-
graphs of country-music royalty on the walls. Taking a different
route, we would have seen some of their palatial spreads in exurban
Nashville--just as well we didn't.
I don't know a wild plum from a dogwood, but they are blooming in
managed but uncultivated profusion on the late-April day chosen for our
journey. (We have perfect skies, but rain would have been just as
beautiful.) Management is what this National Park Service installation
is all about -- the controlled preservation and arrangement of nature,
prehistory, and history, presented in an irresistible package. (A new
book by Simon Schama, -Landscape and Memory-, apparently hammers home
this theme.) The first thing that strikes you as you enter the parkway
at its present northern terminus is what a technological achievement it
all is, for there before you is a soaring 300-foot bridge. Within a
year the park-minded motorist will travel the two-lane above it unaware
of its arching understructure (unless the engineers have planned some
self-referential vista of it from the curving unfinished road up ahead).
You need such bridges because this is the rim-and-basin country of
Middle Tennessee, what a net acquaintance of mine who hails from here
calls "The Dimple of the Universe." The first pulloff we make (out of
literally scores to choose from) is at mile marker 423.9, the Tennessee
Valley Divide, a ridge separating the watersheds of the Tennessee and
the Cumberland rivers; also the 18th-century boundary of the United
States and the Chickasaw Nation. The Harpeth River Valley stretches
to the north, the Duck River Valley to the south.
The second pulloff is to exit the Trace in search of gasoline, for in my
zeal to find a package of that new Jack Daniels 1866 Amber Lager in its
trial market area, I had forgotten that I usually refuel in Franklin.
No matter -- Marcia gets to see a bit of Dimple backcountry, the Maury
County towns of Fly and Santa Fe. But for the Potts Grocery, we might
have had to drive all the way into Columbia, home of President James K.
Polk.
We pass many of the "stands" that used to service 19th-century travelers;
e.g., Grinder's Inn, where Meriwether Lewis died in mysterious circum-
stances in 1809, and Sheboss Place. Marcia is a Sheboss, I tell her;
we both like the sound of that.
Stopping at Fall Hollow (392.5), we descend along with the water and, at
the bottom, Marcia takes her waterfall shower. I have been painted as a
disapproving Enemy of Spontaneity in this matter, but really, I missed
the magic moment by looking for the snake Marcia had spotted. Then I
was worried about climbing back up out of that hollow. Hey, although
nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in
the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains
behind. Know what I mean?
Ah, the names so richly associative for me as we roll on down the
Strasse, to the accompaniment of Bette Midler and Swedish pop stars! The
community of Linden, on the Buffalo River, where I lived when JFK was
assassinated and the Civil Rights Act was passed. Hohenwald, a German
settlement, incongruous in these backwoods. Collinwood, just about the
only town you can see from the roadway, a good place to pee or snack.
The landscape has become almost marshy bottomland as we near the state
line for a 30-mile pinch of north Alabama. We can smell the Tennessee
well before we reach it.
No mighty river has been more tamed than this one, and Marcia lives
on a Great Lake and is moving to the Baltic Sea, so there shouldn't be
any sublimity for either of us as we cross it. Yet it feels primordial,
and on this day the water is lapping petulantly. We are as close as we
will get on this trip to a little place downriver called Pittsburg
Landing. Many Aprils ago, in the fields around the meeting place Shiloh
Church, there was a powerful bloodletting over some political propositions.
I have often said I would like to be buried there, with my unknown kinsmen,
but, no, my resting place lies farther south, in ground more recently
hallowed.
Finally, Mississippi. Iuka, once known for its waters, is nearby. And
the highest spot in the state of Mississippi, an 800-foot bump. I point
out to Marcia that we are in so-called "hill country", and whine that
it's hard to be proud of what passes for hills around here, as the
land stretches out flat and arable around us. We cross the Tennessee-
Tombigbee Waterway, a project of the Corps of Engineers that gives
this region a navigable outlet to the sea. (Yes, Natalie, STOP THE
TENN-TOM! SAVE THE WHATEVER-IT-WAS!) We will cross this channel several
more times in our travels between Tupelo and Amory, so Marcia and I
begin a ritual ("You look to the right, I'll check the left") search
for barge traffic. In all my years of traveling this road, I've yet
to see a barge, and the record holds.
Our final pulloff is at the Pharr Mounds (286.7), where we have a bite
to eat and a good heart-to-heart, for Marcia has been entertaining
thoughts quite different from mine, it appears. At the end of it, I
give her a big hug, for Torkel has told me she is affectionately
physical. The backdrop is eight Indian mounds in the middle distance,
created in the early years of the first millennium. World without end!
The sun has continued its advance unmindful of our dawdling. We exit to
Tupelo on Highway 78, the road that Elvis left these parts by. A scoot
down Main Street and then on to Amory, where a Pizza Hut awaits us.
A trip that normally takes seven to eight hours has consumed eleven.
But our first day on the road has been a happy one.
=Fire ants can inflict painful bites; do not disturb their
mounds. =Poison ivy grows everywhere; avoid any contact with
its leaves. Heed the old adage: "Leaflets three; let it be."
=Copperheads, cottonmouths, and rattlesnakes live in the
three-state area through which the parkway passes. Be alert
when walking.
--from the NPS guide to the Trace
Date: Mon, 15 May 1995 23:14:07 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby X
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
"TAG DES BIERES". Am 23. April 1516 wurde von Herzog Wilhelm IV aus
Bayern das beruehmte "Reinheitsgebot" fuer Bier erlassen -- eine Vor-
schrift, an der bis heute mit Stolz festgehalten wird. Sie besagt,
dass das alkoholhaltige Volksgetraenk nur aus Wasser, Gerste, Hopfen,
und Hefe gebraut werden darf. Andere Stoffe, etwa Suessmittel oder
Reis, sind nicht statthaft. An diesem ehrwuerdigen Feiertag habe
ich leider nur zwei Budweisers (bei Natalie) und ein Red Dog (auf
dem Wege nach Hattiesburg) getrunken.
As Travel Director, I had the goal of maximum flexibility within a
matrix of givens. On this holiday, what drives Marcia and me is an
imperative from niece Melanie to arrive as soon as possible at the Coast,
so we hit the road early, with resolve (once she is rousted from her
bed, the slumbersome one). All the skies are gray, and it's my turn on
the tape deck, so I choose the music from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With
Me. Somewhat familiar roads to Starkville, since I have been there
for Cronings and Goatroasts in recent memory. I do fine, until in
Sans Souci City itself I find myself unable to locate the famous South
Nash Street. A Bible-toting Yankee on his way to Sunday worship points
out the true path -- God bless you, sir!
Is The Goddess appeased with our offerings of Necco wafers and fine
chocolates? Only time will tell. (You can try the chocolates yourself,
in the privacy of your own cubicle or den: write to Pulako's Candies,
2530 Parade Street, Erie, PA 16503. Tell them Forrest Gump recommended
their confections to you. "Life is like a box of chocolates: you never
know what you're gonna get.")
I leave the gals alone to get acquainted while I check my email and place
a call to my newly discovered (via the net) second cousin, only once
removed. Her name is Daisy, if you can believe it, and I relish leaving
an answering-machine message addressed to a Miss Daisy. Natalie's coffee
and pastries are mmmm-good, but Bernard seems nervous and distracted to me.
Rolling on down to the sea. This is new territory for me; what can I say
about it? Meridian, home of the Singing Brakeman Jimmie Rodgers (is that
right?) and (maybe) Mahalia Jackson. The Piney Woods start around
Hattiesburg, moss-laden oaks a little farther south. Camp Shelby, Army
surplus stores. The Gulf Coast Highway, no. 49, divided all the way to
Gulfport, with a wide vegetated center strip. We have the road more or
less to ourselves.
I came here one summer when I was 12 or 13, to the Gulfshores Baptist
Assembly. In addition to singing the praises of the Lord, I bought a
book entitled "What Every Boy Should Know about Sex" and even peeked at
the girl's version, also in the bookstore. It was that time of the life
cycle when every day brought fresh Revelation.
Pascagoula has had a minor squall just before we arrive; water stands
in the streets and yards. Bill and Melanie take us to the ocean, and
Marcia wets herself in it. Bill points out that Zachary Taylor, H. W.
Longfellow, "world-famous artist" Walter Anderson, and Senate Majority
Whip Trent Lott all have summered here, but I am retrospectively
skeptical, since he also later claims that The Band and The Nitty
Gritty Dirt Band are one and the same. Abuilding in the Ingalls
shipyard is a fearsome Israeli warship, under tight security.
Was I a little peevish and short with Marcia at the shore? Yes,
perhaps I was. It's not that I've forgotten how to live, min
{lskling, it's more that I JUST NEVER GOT THE KNACK OF IT.
Melanie is suffering from a bad sinus infection, so is exempt from
summary evaluation here. (I will mention to Torkel that she has
just celebrated her 30th birthday, and that even a doting uncle must
reflect that all that pizza has begun to take its, er, toll.) Bill
is the surprise for me. Know how you kinda take your kin by marriage
for granted? Here he is in his element, Lord of the Manor and so
forth. It pleases me that Marcia finds him attractive and clever,
because, well, he is exactly that, a man of parts.
We go to Biloxi, for supper at the Grand Casino, one of the gambling
enterprises that is giving Mississippi an economic boomlet. (The
other contributor, surprisingly enough, is King Cotton, selling for over
a $1 a pound for the first time since the Civil War. Farmers are rushing
to reconvert to cotton, and there are ominous predictions of the inevitable
bust.) I feed the slot machines a couple of dollars, chastising myself for
not asking Gilbert, back in Lexington, to school me in his system. Coffee
and beignets at Mary Mahoney's, at a tempo even less hurried than will
be the case in New Orleans.
BOOKS I DID NOT READ. I brought along a couple of grocery baggers. William
Gass's -The Tunnel-, a novel that cost me a bundle and is pretty much
impenetrable, at least on vacation. And the official biography of the
Frenchman Georges Perec, who in some weird way reminds me of Tony Harminc.
Equally impenetrable. Bad choices, Brad.
ONE MELANIE STORY. It is Monday morning; Marcia and I are readying ourselves
to do New Orleans. Melanie has the day off (Confederate Memorial Day), but
is still puny and will not accompany us. Instead she has decided to cook for
Bill. She sits on the kitchen floor, absorbed in recipes. Looking up, she
asks, in all earnestness, "Y'all, what is salad oil?" Marcia fields the
question, with equally earnest grace.
Date: Tue, 16 May 1995 13:40:00 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby XI
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
THE SOUNDTRACK. Available on the Marcia's Moments label. She compiles
it after the fact and ships it to me. A faithful transcript of some of
the musical highlights of our trip, with several added tunes. Commentary
and translation as well, in her beautiful script. She has entitled it
"Sunday Night Relief" (Sonntagabendserleichterung), referring to one of
our discussions. I believe my favorite selection on there -- don't think
the less of me -- is Bette Midler's farewell to Johnny Carson, "One for
My Baby, and One More for the Road."
I miss her voice, or rather her many voices. The expository one (God,
how she must tire of explaining why she's moving to Sweden), the laughing
one, the teasing-Brad one. Today is her travel day, flying out of
Pittsburgh about 6pm. I got in my farewell call last night to Erie. It
occurs to me that just because she's moving to Stockholm doesn't mean
I can't ring her and Torkel up in their new quarters in Haninge. Yes,
why can't I do that? Isn't this the Age of Telecommunications or something
like that?
Bon Voyage, Miss Marcia!
Date: Sun, 21 May 1995 10:46:48 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby XII
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
HIS HAND IN MINE. Marcia told me at some point that she brought so much
recorded music so that she would have a refuge if she didn't like me at
all. Well, we got along fine, and ended up sharing that trove. Her
appliance was interesting, for you car-sound aficionados: a CD player
that plugged into the cigarette lighter, but also required a software-
bearing cassette in the regular deck. As navigator in the Rosenkavalier,
she handled these transformations effortlessly.
On the entire 2000-mile odyssey, she slept not a wink, except for one
brief interlude (maybe it was along that boring stretch of I-40 between
Memphis and Nashville), and I slipped in some Elvis gospel on her: -His
Hand in Mine- (1961; if you have the Amazing Grace compilation, you have
this album). Neither of us made further reference to this infusion, but
I believe its effect was deeply subliminal.
She has this animus about Elvis, you see, and it was not my place to try
to change it. But she did consent graciously to visit The Birthplace. We
approached Tupelo on the designated day, the 22nd, by way of Plantersville
on Highway 6 (I've got maternal connections to faded gentry there, but the
money's all gone) and then white-trash East Tupelo, and the site itself.
Recent editions of the World Book (in the "Mississippi" article) show the
humble shotgun house, built by Vernon, where Gladys bore the stillborn twin
and his royal brother. Just two rooms, refurnished meticulously with everyday
objects of the milieu and their class (Tupelo has a curatorial gift; see
also their city museum if you ever get a chance), presided over by one of
the faithful little old ladies, collecting dollar bills. Marcia buys an
Elvis Christmas-tree ornament in the giftshop! Not for herself, of course.
The Tupelo success story has been well told recently. (Insist that your
library buy Vaughn Grisham's -Beyond Boosterism-, published last year by
Ole Miss.) We cruise by the back side of the Northeast Mississippi
Community Hospital (now Regional Medical Center), where I first saw the
light of day. The gold-domed Lee County courthouse and its courtsquare
partner the Lyric Theater. Hmmm, I don't think there is a monument to
the Confederate Dead there; that will have to wait until Jackson, a few
days later. Old niggertown, "Shakerag", has long since been urban-
renewalized, but I drive through the housing projects where my granddaddy
made his living selling groceries to the underclass. Predictably, I get
lost, but manage to reorient and find Magnolia Street, where Nanny lives.
1900 was her (hard-to-forget) birth year. Confronted with news of
more progeny from the Itawamba County branch of the family tree, she is
not surprised; after all, you live almost a century and you see a lot of
cousins. Her recall of names and relationships, though, is uncanny.
Last summer, when Emily, Rashmi, the Hannster, and I paid our respects,
it was Aunt Mildred in attendance; this time it's Aunt Betty. Later,
Marcia will correctly guess her age as 65, but she will always be a
voluptuous 32-year-old Betty Ruth for me.
I show Marcia the stormhouse in the backyard, a legacy from the killer
'36 tornado, defining event for a generation or two. Last week there
were killer storms again, and Mildred reports that she and Nanny made
their way to the stormhouse.
"Fuck Tupelo. I want to forget about Tupelo."
--EP, 1957, as reported in Guralnick, Last Train to Memphis
Date: Sun, 4 Jun 1995 11:45:41 EDT
From: Brad Grissom
Subject: In the Lobby XIII
To: Multiple recipients of list WORDS-L
BOILED PEANUTS. The road north of Hattiesburg is dotted with produce
stands, already in late April selling strawberries from Louisiana. Or
so they claim. We pull off at one to get some of those famous boiled
peanuts. The owner reaches into his cooler for a sack, but I insist he
go out back and get some hot from the vat. A dollar's worth will last
Marcia until Erie. (Receiving my money, the man says, "I thank you, my
children thank you, my banker thanks you.") One is enough for me, but
Marcia loves them. She claims the taste is similar to kidney beans that
have simmered overnight, plus there's the added treat of cracking the
softened shells with your teeth. In my judgment (often poor, granted),
not worth the time and effort required to prepare them for the Hayride.
But then, I didn't like the baked clams in Providence either.
Jackson was an important Confederate capital (doomed even before Vicksburg
fell) and also Natalie's hometown, so I insist that we do more than wave at
it from I-55. Besides, it's lunchtime. We pull off onto High Street (was
it not?) and drive toward the Capitol. Right at the railroad crossing is
an interesting looking barbecue place called The Chimneystation, with some
kind of antique miniature locomotive out front. The steam-table fare is
excellent, and we grab the last two bottles of Lone Star beer, thinking of
Anne Harwell. Bureaucrats from state government also are obviously sure
that this is the right place. Marcia discovers that I involuntarily look
twice at handsome women in hose and heels, and will tease me about it the
rest of the way home.
Jackson is a sprawling metropolis of some 200,000 souls, not a bad place
to be from. We drive around the downtown briefly. Visible from the
interstate as we leave is a big Perkins restaurant. Marcia and I look
at each other and go, "Oh, Looord!"
The road to Memphis is long and dreaded, but it goes quickly. Highway
signs announce the presence of institutions of higher learning, no
matter how many miles away they are. We should have stopped at the Casey
Jones Museum, near Vaughan. Oh, well. Long about here, Marcia finally
gets me to open up a bit, about my hopes and fears and so forth. Pretty
routine stuff.
Near Batesville, I think about Gerald W. Walton, Interim Chancellor for
Everything at the University of Mississippi and noted collector of writing
implements. Last summer a Words-L caravan enjoyed his hospitality in
Oxfordtown. Hats off, please, to GWW.
That caravan approached Bluff City via Elvis Presley Boulevard and the
gates of Graceland. Marcia and I plunge right in on 55. You have to be
careful here or you will wind up in Arkansas. If we hurry, we can catch
the 5:00 promenade of the ducks in the lobby of The Peabody, where the
Mississippi Delta begins.
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