Book Makers

Possessively, she held his hand and the silver-haired pair walked into the building. Slight in statute, they were actually literary giants. Familiar faces from dust jacket photos and yet the usually gregarious twenty-something me hesitated. Should I approach, welcome them to our facility? What if I were wrong about their identity? He walked ahead into the reading room while his companion came closer. She stood before me and said, "He's a very famous man. Do you know who he is?" It must be them, I thought, and so I responded with his name. Quickly I said I'd call the Director. He'd want to offer a proper greeting and any assistance whatsoever. She smiled and somehow I felt that she'd been making these remarks in many places for decades. In fact, she was nearly as revered as her spouse. Certainly the stories about her earlier life were lively. Born in 1898 in Russia, she was a young teen-ager in New York when she met him, her teacher. By the time she was 15, her mother could no longer resist the request that they marry. He, the older gentleman, had already changed her given name from 'Chaya' to 'Puck' and finally to 'Ariel' forever. A legendary story recounts how she rollerskated to City Hall for the wedding ceremony and only fell a few times along the way. Her contributions to his body of work proved so substantial through the years that she became co-author of his seminal works. When I met them briefly, they were in their seventies and more books were yet to be written. Winners of the Pulitzer Prize and the Medal of Freedom, their series, 'The Story of Civilization' remains an outstanding work of scholarship.



Will and Ariel Durant

http://www.willdurant.com/ariel.htm

He wore a suit and a smile, nestled below a full mustache. I'm clothed in anxiety. In a truly gracious gesture, he's agreed to appear at a book signing to herald his latest publication. We've talked a lot about the movie that's being cast from his story. I've argued that the main character must not be played by John Wayne. I'm in the throes of my vehement dislike of Mr. Wayne because of his stance on the Vietnam War. I won't be dissuaded. He patiently explains that although his son is writing the screenplay for the movie, he has no influence over the selection of the cast. We discuss other things, mostly books. Some days I look up from my desk and he's just there, wanting to talk. He's doing me a favor with the book event and I'm grateful. Cookies await our expected guests. A discreet pile of his new novel anchors one end of a table. We wait. There's been ample publicity. He's so well-known, a very special resident of the town. I fret, he's calm. Eventually we know. Not a single soul is going to attend. I can barely breathe. He is nonplussed. We sell one book. The author buys it himself and insists on giving it to me. "What shall I write?" he asks. I respond weakly, "To Jackie for surviving." So he wrote and I treasure those words decades later even though John Wayne did star in 'The Shootist.'



Glendon Swarthout



She stood tall and graceful like a beautifully etched figuerine from an African art collection. When she spoke, her voice was rich and melodious and so distinct that it demanded attention. Her body language was dramatic--expressed by a constant removing of her intellectual half-glasses. The room was hushed and she began first by acknowledging her audience and then with palpable power, shared her concept of commitment. She related that a good speaker demonstrates a basic concern for the human being whatever the subject of the speech. Recalling the ancient poet and playright, Terence, she repeated his words, "I am a human being, nothing human can be alien to me." She challenged the audience, nearly all of whom were librarians, to instill beauty in others and make them know their own contribution to this world. She said we must know where we came from to know where we're going. And then, raising her voice to just the right pitch, she proclaimed, "The tomorrow young people give us, we damn well deserve!" For some, these words were bitter, for others a clear reminder of thoughts unspoken, of duties unmet, of directions not taken. She's arrived in town only that afternoon, a woman whose frenetic schedule allowed no time for dallying. I'd been honored to sit in a small room with only she and the chairman of the conference. She was approachable, perhaps even a bit soft for one so lofty. Her honors were multiplying, her voice being heard around the world. She was the perfect embodiment of the conference's theme, 'Commitment.' No extra words were needed. She understood and she delivered the message unflinchingly.



Maya Angelou

Drop into town, see the local library director, get acquainted, learn a few facts, weave a story. Pick anywhere, just get the regional landmarks right and let your characters feel at home. Create a fan base that reads your prolific stories eagerly. Seek someone who'll serve as a temporary hometown editor. Perhaps a person who's also creating. Not a book, but a being. Without the largesse of the Internet, fact-checking required more mundane research and I was willing to spend the time. The author corresponded by mail in charming letters now tinged with age. An affable lady with more than twenty books already published, she'd honed her niche in the light mysteries genre. This time the locale was a famous desert resort town where I live. An imperiled woman's life entertwines with that of her great-aunt, an aging former star who hides from the world in her desert retreat. Sounds intriguing and perfect for the plot. I eagerly accepted the assignment as editor supplicant and produced pages and pages of suggestions/corrections. The name of a local river (more like a stream) needed attention. Rudolph Valentino was unlikely to have visited the area after his death. An important area resort belonged on a different street. Small things, but the author cherished authenticity, even if her readers never visited the book's locale. As I impatiently awaited the 'publication' of my own 'work,' interacting with such a respected writer provided me with topics beyond the advent of diapers, sleepless nights, and the pure joy of parenthood. As an octogenerian, the author retained her enthusiasm for characters and with unfettered energy, lived another 25 years before succumbing at the age of almost 105.



Phyllis Whitney



Writers control my life. They form words which have defined my existence from my first memories. Though my experiences with people such as the Durants, albeit briefly; Gendon Swarthout (such a dear man); Maya Angelou (so impressive); and Phyllis Whitney (truly a lady) have lingered, there is one writer whose words transform my life. I believe that if she had been physically able to write at birth, she would have done so. Words flow in her body and emerge in such beautiful sequences that often I weep at their reading. It is her name I long to see printed along a book's spine and repeated inside on the title page. She is my book maker, my daughter.



Jackie in 1982

Clothes Mourning

There it was, reluctantly posted by the director.  Henceforth, pantsuits would be allowed as work attire.  Not a blouse and coordinating pants combination.  Too casual.  The note was explicit.  It even mentioned the word 'unisex.'  Pantsuits prevailed.  Men wore nice shirts and dress pants.  No suit edict constrained them.  Still, this clothing change represented a first victory.

Freed from dresses or blouses and skirts, I indulged in my first work pantsuit.  If it still resided in my closet, perhaps it'd be labeled a '60's classic.  Some actress on 'Mad Men' might pine for its authenticity.  My daughter greatly admires that decade and surely she'd appropriate the outfit for a theme party.  Swathed in Pepto-Bismal pink, maybe I was making a loud statement.  The long tunic was bordered at the neckline with a white band.  The pants, in perky polyester, flowed gently into an exaggerated bell shape.  Completing the ensemble was a long scarf, also in white, which offered a quasi-Isadora Duncan effect.  With no convertible in my life at the time, I averted a tragic accident such as befell the famous dancer.

Quickly, pantsuits evolved and an almost seamless transition to less rigid dress requirements occurred.  Skirts grew shorter, colors more bold and combinations reflected a major societal change.

Clothes cover decades but remain in one's life only briefly, though their impact can be long lasting in one's memory.  I often reminisce about particular outfits and accessories that have accompanied me through this worldly journey.

As a child, I eagerly anticipated the annual ritual of a new Easter wardrobe.  Nearly every year, mother/daughter dresses were purchased.  A special favorite featured an almost brocaded cotton material, pale yellow with faint white flowers strewn across the fabric.  A self-belt cinched what was becoming an identifiable waist.  Scissor pleats shaped the skirt.  My mother's grown-up version duplicated my own.  We completed the ensemble with white straw hats, gloves, heels and hose.

Chemises, with their shapeless angles, charmed me momentarily.  A silky white quilted skirt with multiple petticoats underneath, paired with a black mohair sweater, took me to the 8th grade dance.  It didn't help.  I stood forlornly on the sidelines in my splendid apparel.

For my 16th birthday, two aunts feted me with a party.  Big hair, artfully arranged by my favorite beautician and doused in a can of AquaNet, crowned a pale pink rabbit fur sweater and straight skirt.  I was cute?  Well, maybe.  No boys at this party so I guess being adorable wasn't required.

A short scarlet chiffon evening gown couldn't secure even third place in the Miss Forestry Queen contest.  I loved that dress anyway and together we were really winners despite the judges' decision.

My freshman year in college, I arrived on campus with a dropped waist black linen sheath tucked in my trunk.  For a pop of color, a daisy pin was perched on the upper left shoulder of the dress.  I completed the look with equally bright yellow pumps.  Yes, yellow.  There were less startling colors in my dorm closet.  A navy suit with sleeveless sweater and a crisp white jacket piped in navy looked very chic with its kick-pleated skirt.  The most spectacular white mohair double-breasted coat with fake fur collar took me through college and several years after.  It is probably the vintage item I mourn the most.  I also favored hats and collected an array ranging from nearly boring beige to aubergine and a wide-brimmed teal number adorned with a fabric bow.  Really stunning.

Shoes spoke my name and I spent nearly all the money I made from part-time jobs on either clothes or footwear.  The most comfortable heels I've ever owned were faux alligator pumps with low wooden heels.  Divine.  Equally loved were a pair of dark blue sandals with cork soles and heels.  Jaunty laces completed this perfect package which I must have worn for 5 or six years.  Only when the cork began to disintegrate did I relinquish these treasures.

My penchant for clothes and other accessories, especially shoes, has not abated.  These days I can't say that there is anything in my closet that is memorable or that I will truly mourn with its departure.  I've become too matchy/matchy as my clothes diva daughter reminds me.  I choose classic lines that are, well, bordering on boring.  The 'classic' in this instance doesn't mean timeless, but rather, unobtrusive.

The most compliments I've received lately have been for a black eyelet sundress.  It belonged to my daughter and thus owes its cachet to her, not me.  I do treasure my beige (!!) wedding dress from 1977 and the multi-colored frock I wore to Caitlin's wedding two years ago today.  Both represent extraordinary days in my life and that's what clothes are really meant to evoke.  And yes, I still have the pale pink dress depicted in the toddler photo above.  It connects me to my heritage.

A Country Place

August 13, 2010

Farms harbor fertile fields...and stories.  I've always said that somewhere in this world, there's a person who was born on the same day and in the same hospital as myself.  Long before the days of careful infant identification, a negligent nurse mixed up two newborns.  Thus, the baby whose penchant for farm life always confused her urban parents had been unintentionally exchanged for me.  I was convinced that I belonged elsewhere and I spent my childhood imploring my daddy to move us to town.

Nevermind that Daddy's parents lived in our farmhouse immediately after their marriage at the end of the 19th century or the fact that he'd been born in the room where he slept and would eventually die.  Clearly he wasn't leaving his home.

So, this often disconsolate farm girl discovered books very early in life and that has been my salvation.  Without moving anywhere, I could be everywhere, transported by the limitless power of words.

Years on the farm were spent riding my horse, Stardust; picking and then consuming dusty blackberries which grew along the fences that divided our pastures; and attending services at the nearby church.  I thought the distance from town was at least 20 miles, but it was actually merely seven.   Our household constantly hosted family visitors.  With six sets of aunts and uncles, an indomitable Granny, and 15 first cousins (plus even more in the next generation),  there was ample family to enjoy.  My younger brother and I played endlessly with a little boy whose family also lived on the farm.  None of us, however, seemed adept in our environment.  Maybe I wasn't the only one who was misplaced.

I do remember feeling lonely much of the time.  I longed for houses close by, a neighborhood street in which to ride my bike, a store where sodas and candy could be purchased.  Books helped vanquish my feelings of unrest.  A favorite story from my childhood, of which I have no personal memory, was shared by my mother.  It perfectly illustrates the power of print in my life.

One summer Sunday, the family was out in a distant field, looking for stray cattle.  Suddenly my parents realized that a little girl had gone missing.  I was about five years old at the time.  My name was shouted loudly as they began to scour the area for any sign of me.  Looking in bayous, they hoped not to find a small body.  As panic began to overtake them, the two worried parents hurried back to the house to call the Sheriff and other family members to organize a wider search.  With eleven ponds on the place, lots of meandering livestock, thick wooded areas, and those bayous, time could not be wasted.

As they approached the house with its screened-in back porch and concrete steps, sighs of relief escaped from their tense bodies.  Perched quite contentedly on the very top step was the errant daughter, totally engrossed in a book.

I believe the joy of finding me unharmed mitigated any punishment.  If it were administered, Mother kept that part of the story to herself.

As the brilliant Emily Dickinson said, 'There is no frigate like a book.....'  It is forever true for me.