Kamryn

Smiling at her Daddy

From the Archives

Several readers told me they have tried to find this essay, which was published a few years ago in Birmingham Arts Journal, but the archives were so confusing that they gave up.  I'm posting it here.  (And thanks for your interest, dear readers!)

The Southern Way

 Brenda Wilson Wooley

(Reprinted from Birmingham Arts Journal)

Many of my favorite writers are Southerners: William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Eudora Welty, Flannery O'Connor, Lee Smith, Anne Tyler.  The list goes on.

Don't get me wrong; I enjoy other writers' work. But you just can’t beat deep, dark stories like Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury;” Tennessee Williams' “A Streetcar Named Desire” and “The Glass Menagerie.” Shocking ones, like Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” sad, tragic ones, like Lee Smith’s “Black Mountain Breakdown.”  And the quirky ones, like Fanny Flagg’s “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café.” 

One of the reasons I enjoy Southern writers’ work is because I identify with them. And although I'm small potatoes compared to the literary giants, we do have some things in common. 

First and foremost, we are Southerners.  We think of ourselves as being from somewhere, as belonging to some place.  Regardless of how far we roam or how long we've lived away, most of us eventually come home. And we are welcomed back with open arms. 

But not without validation.  

When I returned to Kentucky after many years in Illinois, I was met with a little suspicion and a lot of curiosity.  Until they figured out who I was:  "Oh, you're Tommy and Evelyn's oldest girl." "You're Miss Muriel's granddaughter, aren't you?" "I should’ve known you were a Wilson; y'all all look alike!" 

Another tradition of Southerners is storytelling. Our ancestors told stories they never would have been able to write, and I think it was their way of handing over the legacy. 

Like most Southerners, I grew up in a family of storytellers. I loved sitting on the front porch on summer nights listening to my relatives tell one story after another:  a great-grandfather, who walked everywhere he went and had a song written about him (“Walk, Tom Wilson”); a corncob-pipe-smoking great-great grandmother who took off running and hopped on her horse from the rear; neighbor Anna Lee, who baked cakes when she was depressed. Many cakes. All night long.  A distant cousin who strolled into the local truck stop, perched himself on a stool at the counter and leisurely sipped a cup of coffee. (Did I mention he was clad in nothing but a towel?) 

And that is just a drop in the bucket. 

It took the storytellers a long time to get to the point; they were always adding to the story. Or jumping in and telling another story about the person in the story. Which reminds me of writer Barry Hannah's version of the light bulb joke: “How many Southern writers does it take to change a light bulb? Two...one to unscrew it and the other to talk about what a good old light bulb it was!” 

A powerful thread that runs through Southern writers' work is religion. And it's no wonder. We were threatened with hellfire and damnation at every turn. During revival time, the evangelists' screaming sermons echoed in my ears long after souls had been saved from the fiery pits of hell and baptized in Tyler's pond. Even now, when I hear the relentless chant of Katydids on stifling summer nights, frogs croaking, bugs thumping against the window screens, my mind conjures up images of that volcanic lake of fire where one lost soul begged for a drop of water for his parched tongue. 

I was relieved when we left the church after those scary sermons, but a sense of impending loss surrounded me as we drove away. And I still feel that sense of impending loss when I return. My childhood fears coming in on me? Mourning the past? I don't know. All I know is I am unable to leave it all behind, and I am driven to write about it. As Faulkner once said, “The past is not dead. Actually, it isn't even past!” 

Like the fog that hung in the swamps, secrecy shrouded the South in which I grew up. There were things I couldn't quite put my finger on, unspoken things that simmered just beneath the surface. And then there were things everyone knew. But acted as if they didn't.  (As Pat Conroy wrote in “The Prince of Tides,” “That’s the Southern way!”) Things like Anna Lee's nerve problems, Mr. Leonard's “spells,” or Imogene, who "had something to do" with any man who showed an interest.

The adults spoke in low voices when they discussed such things, so I skulked here and there, gathering information. I was fascinated. And a little fearful. But I was thirsty for more, regardless of how horrible it might turn out to be. 

My siblings were also curious, though not as curious as I. We were unable to get any answers, so we were soon joining in. "Guess Mr. Leonard’s having a spell tonight," one of us would say as we drove by his three-story house late at night and saw it all lit up, cars parked haphazardly in his yard. (Neighbors always sped right on over as soon as they got word. His wife needed help; it took several men to hold him down.) 

So how do Southerners deal with such things? We write about the Anna Lees, the Mr. Leonards, the Imogenes. I've written Anna Lee's and Imogene's stories.  And I'm in the process of writing Mr. Leonard's.  Believe it or not, I still don't know what caused his spells. And I don't think anyone else does, either. 

Nevertheless, that metaphor was my identity and love, where my family and community were. It nurtured my imagination as I lolled in the front-yard swing on hot summer days, the scent of fresh-cut hay drifting through the air as the big trucks rumbled past our house; on frosty nights, sitting close to the warm-morning stove, reading. And listening, always listening. To me, there wasn't a better place on earth to grow up. Everything I am is in that land. That place. Those people. 

Southerners seldom lose their sense of humor, even during their darkest hours. I learned at a very young age that even within the most dreadful situations, people continued to say and do peculiar things. My siblings and I were quick to pick up on it, and we sat trembling and stone-faced, stifling our giggles, at every somber occasion.

Just being kids? Maybe. But it might have been our way of dealing with that burden of a religious philosophy that insists that things of this world are evil. And we were evil because we were laughing when we should have been crying. Or, at the very least, acting serious. (I can't say my siblings felt that way. But I know I did. To me, it was not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be endured.) 

There is not much porch talk anymore; most people have no porches. Air conditioning takes us inside during the hot summer nights; television has replaced the storytelling, often portraying Southerners as ignorant, toothless hillbillies who do nothing but feud and swig moonshine. Movies, like “Deliverance” perpetuate that image. 

I resent that classification. I know better. And I guess that is one of the reasons I write about them. Granted, there are odd people in the South, but there are odd people everywhere. It's just that Southern writers feel compelled to write about them. As Flannery O'Connor said, “When I'm asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it's because we are still able to recognize one.” 

Although I prefer the word "eccentric" to "freak," I know what O'Connor means. And I agree with Eudora Welty, who said, “In a way, I think Southerners care about each other, about human beings in a more accessible way than some other people.” 

We do care about all of our people, including the eccentrics.  We celebrate their lives by writing their stories. 

That’s the Southern way.

This Young Kentucky Writer

Gina, Pitty Pat and I had a great time Monday night.  We heard Silas House speak at West Kentucky Community & Technical College.  (Regular readers might remember my post of two or three years ago, Silas House:  A Man With Soulful Eyes, just after Suzanne, Pitty Pat and I met him at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville.)

I have read all of his books (my favorite is The Coal Tattoo). They are wonderful stories of family, love and loyalty. And very strong female characters.

Silas spoke about method writing and his use of music to get into the minds of his characters.  Later, he took questions from the audience and read passages from Eli the Good and his newest book, Same Sun Here, which he wrote in collaboration with New York City writer Neela Vaswani.

Although we are from opposite sides of the state and he is much younger, there are similarities between us.

We both grew up in storytelling families and lived near our grandparents and other relatives.  We knew everyone in the little communities in which we were born.  He, too, was subjected to hellfire-and-damnation sermons each Sunday morning and grew up obsessing about the Rapture. 

I wrote about my experiences in my short story, Lost, which will appear in the September issue of Barely South Review.  I worried incessantly about the day when I would be thrown into the fiery pits of hell where I would burn forever and ever without one drop of water for my parched tongue.  And I suspect Silas did the same.

Silas House is a wonderful human being and very talented.  I predict we will hear much more from this young Kentucky writer in the years to come.     

Kamryn Elizabeth

A baby girl is wonderful
A very special part
Of all the hopes, dreams and plans
We cherish in our hearts.

The Gemini Flight and An Odd-Looking Couple Called Sonny & Cher

From My Journal
June 3, 1965

I'm watching the Gemini space craft flight live on TV.  Just a minute ago Ed White stepped out into space, the first American to do so.  This is really exciting!  It makes me nervous because no matter how smart the scientists are, they can't know for sure what's going to happen.  Just think how White must feel floating in that vacuum of space!  

He just said, "It looks great."

I keep expecting one of them to start screaming, "Let me out of this thing!  I can't take it any longer!"  I guess they're trained for this sort of thing, but I can't help but feel that something is going to go wrong on this flight.  I'm praying it doesn't!  

He's back on the spacecraft now, thank heavens!   Guess I'll turn off the TV and listen to some music.

So far today I've vacuumed and dusted every room in the house, cleaned out the kitchen cabinets, mopped and waxed the kitchen, bathroom and entry floors.  I've been kind of restless lately.  I want to get out and do things, go somewhere besides Tupperware parties and coffee klatches!  I've thought about going back to work, but here I am with my feet on the coffee table sipping a cup of hot tea. 

Oh, I shouldn't be thinking that way!  I should consider myself lucky that I don't have to work, like Agnes and Judy.  Besides, I can't bear the thought of leaving my precious little Suzanne with a babysitter and missing out on all the cute things she does.

Can't believe she is 21 months old.  She's learning to count, now.  And she's talking all the time, saying, "I love you, Mommie," "Daddy's gone in the car," etc.  Today she saw the neighbor's dog in the yard and said, "Look at that dog!  Oh, Mommie, look at that dog!"  Right now, she's doing her favorite thing:  piling up blocks.  She has piled up fourteen so far.  "Just look!" she said just now, clapping her hands.

I Got You Babe is playing on the radio.  I love that song!  It's sung by an odd-looking couple called Sonny and Cher. 

Sonny is shorter than Cher and not good looking at all.  Cher always wears pants.  She says she will NEVER wear a dress! 

Joyce Moreland just called and invited me to a Tupperware party.  But I am NOT going!

Love Means Hot Cocoa & Vegetable Soup

My thoughts always drift back to my childhood when I'm sick.

First, Mother would press her cheek against my forehead to check my temperature, and then she would give me a big hug and say, "Oh, Brenda Gail, bless your heart.  I'll bet some hot cocoa and vegetable soup would make you feel better."

Mother's hot cocoa was smooth and creamy with just the right amounts of cocoa and sugar.  It tasted very rich; I think she added a little evaporated milk. 

To make her vegetable soup, she started with chopped onions, tomatoes and potatoes, adding whatever vegetables she had on hand:  carrots, celery, corn, peas, sometimes green beans.  She seasoned it with salt and lots of black pepper and set it on the back burner to simmer. 

I've never been able to duplicate it.

For about a week, now, I've been nursing a sore throat and a head cold.  I phoned Mother last night, and when I told her I was sick she said what I knew she would say:  "Oh, Brenda Gail, bless your heart."

And if I were there now, I have no doubt she would offer to make me some hot cocoa and vegetable soup.

Divine Inspiration

There never was a great soul

that did not have some divine inspiration.

~Marcus T. Cicero~