I end with the infamous attempted robbery of our little country market. A wave of other kinds of violence washes over me as I write. Too much pain, though. An uncle who continued his alcoholic insult to his brilliant brain. A beautiful girl who killed herself out of alcoholic despair; physical abuse. Now we children have even come to piece together the puzzle of Thompsonville’s violence. Close quarters; little opportunity for modesty; long, hot summer nights; the relentless Santa Annas; the dead-end hopelessness for many. Abuse—of another kind—dark, destructive, too painful to contemplate.
But people need a place to be. My folks reached out with patience and tenderness. Every alcoholic, every “busted” and going down, downer was still a human being—and a lesson. They were our books and our parents, two well-read high school graduates, pointed out the lessons. “See, Mike, how sad it is, when Marge asks every single day if the ‘mail has run,’ when we know she has never received a letter in all her years here.” And then Marge buys a six-pack of beer at 10 in the morning and heads back to her lonely trailer. And the Santa Anna winds. Empathy. Human suffering.
While in junior college, serving a stake mission, I was away more, but acutely aware of the real university of my life: Family and Thompsonville. Nothing prepared me, however, for the possibility of killing someone.
The event is simple. Sundays, ET runs the store alone. I return from church, walk in the door and see a man with a gun. “Run, son!” I run to a telephone pole; I look back in time to see Dad leaping over the counter, locked in a death grip with a man a head taller. A bullet goes through the window, a second well above the pole. I hesitate, but in an instant, the man jumps in his car, under the steady barrage of Coke bottles, several exploding on the hood, then the departing trunk. Mom and I converge, expecting the worst. Dad, face taut and white with fear and anger, calls the police. Robber apprehended 15 minutes later at the end of Highway 78.
“Dad,” if I had come in, we could have . . . .” Looking at me, he said, “yes, easily, the two of us. Then I would have killed him. That’s why you did the right thing.” The lesson? Obedience. No death. A lifetime of gratitude for our family and especially for Dad. “It was the principle,” he said, “not the 60 dollars. No man is allowed to steal from another. If things like that happen, we have no civilization.”
Wow, Larry! That's an amazing story. I never knew that had happened. I feel like Thompsonville is one of the most colorful aspects of our family's past-- that, and Grandma Dollie. And Grandpa.
ReplyDeleteI have really enjoyed reading your blog-- such fun to read and so thought provoking!
Yes, colorful and sometimes dark. Not all people or perhaps all of the family really wants this chapter out in the open. These are our roots. One worried niece once asked her dad: "Are we upper class?" Her, dad, a sly fox and one whose heart understands the common people, said, "No, we're low, lower class." She squealed, "No," at such a revelation. His point was metaphorical or even spiritual. Your own father, a doctor, has the kind of compassion ET had. A doctor, yet a man who loves the sound of wood-working tools and the feel of a saw in his hand--a plea for intellect and muscle. It could yet another lesson in compassion.
ReplyDeleteWhile this was happening, I was standing on the side of the grocery store. I saw you run, and a man fire a shot at you and get into his car and drive off. I was frozen, so concerned about you. I did not want to think about dad. That day, you and dad were protected. At this moment I realize I was protected.
ReplyDeleteAnd the silly robber was protected, as you read and remember. No blood or sin from his possible death on our generation and Dad's. Now in my late Winter years I see the miraculous, amazing design of it all. Friend Steve doesn't feel comfortable but the words "divine design" if only applied to us humans best defines my life--and you and yours. You and I have often talked about a novel as a world and your J. Joyce's description of the author, "like God," watching it unfold. A lifetime [say Brothers Karamozov] within less than a 1,000 pages. Someone wrote a book about literature as a "Rage for Order." Morris Peckham responded with a Rage for Chaos [or the other way around]. You and I read books because they create a world of order, even if dark and sometimes painful. The sun usually shines or it rains or everyone gets in a circle and dances. The French Deconstructionists have had their 15 minutes of academic fame. Now our restless Ivory Tower Boys are beginning to read books as stories about life--life with a modicum of hope.
ReplyDeleteWe were asked once in a graduate class why we read novels. Someone gave her or his correctly expected response: “Not just to find out what happens to the hero!”
ReplyDeleteI thought “That’s why I read a novel.” I slunk down in my seat hoping not to be found out for the imposter/scholar I was.
After reading a novel I would look for something to present to my classes that dealt with ars poetica or social content or whatever in order to justify my credential to stand at the front of the room while students looked at the clock. When I read "Dandelion Wine" every year for several years as my rite of spring to let summer begin, I still enjoyed watching Douglas struggle with his rite of passage. I e-read "The Ambassadors" and even The Golden Bowl.
As for creating a world of order I didn’t need fiction for that. My faith carried me through whatever chaos others might see around us.
Now, when I read a novel I still want to find out what happens to the hero. Even in the epilogue. But I haven’t read many novels the past 18 years—too many other things to do that I might feel guilty neglecting.
However I will never read "The Princess Casamassima" again. Once is enough.
donny
literature for me has always been an integral part of the Center of the Circle in which I live. Christ resides at the core: literature shows me ways in which the Great Archetypal Plan works out among humans who don't have your "faith to carry [them] through." Don't forget the 99, Donny. "Finding out what happens to the hero" is simply a way of watching, in at least the great literature, what Kenneth Burke called the "purgative-redemptive process dramatized." I don't think the "Princess Casamassima" is purgative--or even redemptive. "Douglas' rite of passage is purgative-redemptive." If you're talking about other books beyond the great ones," you might be talking about Louis Lamore [sp?].
ReplyDeleteI have to admit I have read all of Louis L'amour [sp]. At least I read something with the name Ruby Ridge in its title, and someone told me if you've read one Louis L'amour novel, you've read them all. That was good enough for me to not read the rest of them. As I recall that novel didn't keep me worrying about the hero--if there was one--I just slugged it out to say I'd done it.
ReplyDeleteThat was a kind of purgatory if not purgative-redemptive.
donny
Thank you Lar. I often think of mom kneeling on a pillow with her list nearby as she prayed those 2 months with us. Her love was deep because of her prayers. One appreciated hearing, " I will pray for you!" She meant it! Everyone knew mom prayed over all. She loved the Savoir from the time she was 7 and went door to door to sell his picture on a wooden plack. All She wanted was one for herself, very Catholic, which I have. Your dialogue is taking me where I need to be. I appreciate your role as the Harbinger that keeps me centered. You have done it all my life ,always turning me to home and family, helping me see. You are my most unforgettable real character. love,Carol
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