Hawthorne Road

I kept going when I saw the horses. They were swinging their brown heads in the low green swarm of the weeds growing by the ditch, their bodies gleaming in the beginning rays of the sun setting over in the west. I could feel, as if it were not seven years ago but only yesterday, the layers of dirt and sweat thick on my hands from brushing a horse after riding, combing it gently but hard enough that its barrel belly would shake in pleasure from the feeling of the curry comb. It made me take deeper breaths of the cooling evening air and I was intoxicated by the smell of my childhood, of playing outside until the sun sank too low and it was time to take a bath. My feet pounded against the ground in too-flat shoes as I came around the corner. The oak trees here, so much bigger than the oak trees back East, towered majestically over me. I suppose they have more sky to grow in here. A sweet thick scent of flower bushes pushed me onward, tempting me, suggesting possibilities for love between myself and the state with the scorching days and the chilly nights. A veritable desert and my husband is proud of it. The sprinklers jerked their heads sharply, punctually, the kinking fretting sound of water shimmying through the hose and into the carefully kept green grass. The house on the corner was plain, nothing extraordinary or lush, but surrounding it were these tall oak trees, gentle-eyed giant women with soft rough voices and soft rough bark.

Before me lay a golden field that stretched out forever. I opened my mouth, to gasp for air and to wonder in awe at the way the word land came to my mind. I had seen this place before in a dream, in which I stood on a hill and looked down at the grain growing below me, waving in rippling conglomerate rows and wriggling each root into the cool dark damp of the dirt. The field was ripe—I knew this was a lie, I knew it was too green, but the sky stretched down a shower of coppery haze, golden arms reaching down like strong women kneading dough, and I felt that warm bread could be baked from the sheaves at any moment. The stalks of wheat shimmered and bent toward me, away from me, pressing together and then straining apart, moving together and separately at the same time. Breathing. Whispering. I could not have captured it had I thrown open my arms—it evaded me, evaded the comfort of closed-in groves and round blue hills and gentleness. But the smell was the same—the smell of asphalt black and tarred in my nose, the thick rich smell of tall grass filled with twitching hopping insects with sharp legs and thin heads, the sweet summery smell of water dampening the grass and running in rivulets onto the side of the road. I felt like everything was opening itself to me, proclaiming itself to be wide and wild and untamed—but not any more dangerous than it was comforting.

And then from the ground came, inexplicably, the humming of the universe—which I had not expected to hear anywhere but India. Yet here it was, deep, throaty—no, different—instead of the low voices of men chanting and humming and praising were women’s voices, melting together, harmonizing, strong and perseverant and rich. I heard in my mind the words of a song which I could hear the pioneer women singing:

As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good old way
And who shall wear the starry crown
Good Lord, show me the way !

O sisters let's go down,
Let's go down, come on down,
O sisters let's go down,
Down in the river to pray.

My grandfather grew up here. The East must seem closed-in and thick to him, uncomfortably broody, melancholy, full of reminiscence and yellow leaves and the melting of firefly lights in and out of the dark summer bushes. As I came back from running tall trees with dark, sharp leaves cast their eyes at me and shivered a little, desiring to place their branches in my hands so they could pull me into a dance. I denied them and continued on. For the first time I had fallen a little bit in love with this place, with each stalk of golden wheat, with each sweaty horse’s back, with each drop of the deep water running through the ditches. It crawled under my skin and sang quiet, insistent songs. As the field disappeared behind me, two horses arched their backs high and proud in the pale rose glow of the setting sun. They struck an elegant silhouette, dark and sharp and shining. I could remember the feeling of a horse’s body under mine, years before, of its strength and power and fearlessness—just from looking at them, standing there like that. I felt strong just looking at them. The sun swallowed the horizon whole and dashed pink and gold and white across the sky, shouting, blowing its horns, stomping on the ground and throwing back its head and laughing. It had every reason in the world, to be so happy and so free and so unafraid. I laughed too.

Monthly Book Review: Catcher in the Rye

I'd heard it was controversial, sexy, chock-full of cursing and smut. I checked it out from the library it because it was one of the many classics on my list, one of the well-knowns to check off before I died. J.D. Salinger, the author, was supposed to be pretty good. I'd never heard it personally recommended, never heard someone boldly declare that it had changed their life or was particularly fantastic.

Having finished it about seven minutes ago, I am here to say that it is probably the most truthful book I've ever read.

If you're unfamiliar with the story, it follows the three days that sixteen-year-old Holden Caulfield spends in New York after getting kicked out of prep school in the 1930's. Far more than a debaucherous tale of prostitutes and pimps, liquor and lechery, it's the story of how alone a person can feel trapped with too much inside them and almost no way to express it. Since it's written in the first person, the author narrates in Holden's voice, which is slangy, vernacular, and littered with curses; though this is without question one of the many reasons it was banned, it's what Holden (or many of us in his situation) would really say--no Elsie Dinsmores here to sugarcoat reality. Though he declares himself to be "illiterate," Holden reads voraciously. Though he continually fantasizes about how he could build a little cabin for himself far away where he could pretend to be a deaf-mute and wouldn't have to talk to anyone, he makes friends with strangers, adores his little sister, and makes a corageous effort to comprehend the complexities of the prep-school girls who torment him.

What makes him most charming are the details of his personality. He loves a girl because she keeps all her kings in the back row when they play checkers--because she likes how they look. He obsesses continually about the ducks in Central Park and wonders what they do in the winter--does a man with a truck come and take them away to the zoo until springtime? He hates fakes--movies, aristocrats, women wearing too much makeup--he tells the reader that it makes him sick. One of the most beautiful details of who he is gives away the title of book, so I won't reveal it, but simply remark that it is one of the most beautiful passages in American literature. Holden is a contradiction. He fails his classes, gets himself drunk in every bar in New York, and hires a prostitute; he also teaches his little sister to dance, tries to keep his roommate from pawing a girl on a date, and tells the prostitute to take the money and go home without sleeping with him. Throughout his narration, he relates snippets of thought that all of us have, with a Joycian freedom. The book reminds one of Ulysses in its freedom of expression and willingness to digress into the tedious and the crass if it will better communicate the truth.

What I love most about this book is how I feel like less of an Olympic figure skating judge and more of a county fair tomato. I usually scrutinize characters in the books I read, questioning their motives and passing judgement on their choices, deciding whether or not I would enjoy their company at an afternoon tea. When Holden narrates his life to me, I feel he is simultaneously examining me--divining from how I respond whether or not I am one of those dreaded fakes--and entertaining me, winning my affection and the hope that he will not shun me. Forget that tea with Holden might involve a few choice words and a couple of extra-dry martinis--the conversation would unquestionably be worth it.

The Maintenance Man

Larry bolts through the door as fast as an eager six-year-old at the gates of Disneyland. He charges past the window, where I sit idly perusing chili recipes online, and then doubles back, comically, like a bad Vaudeville actor with a straw hat yanked off the stage with one of those old-fashioned wooden canes. Larry, however, is neither a six-year-old nor a actor; he is the short forty-ish ponytailed maintenance man at the property management office where I am the secretary.
"Well hey there!" he says loudly. "How're you doin'?"
"Wonderful, thanks," I reply with an enthusiasm I didn't realize I had until he asked. "How are you, Larry?"
He opens his eyes wide and goggles at me as if flabbergasted that I should ask.
"Well, I've just never been better! I'm just trying to scrounge up some work around here, see if I can keep myself busy!"
"You do that," I tell him. "I put a coupla work orders back there for you. They're real good ones." Around Larry, I often find myself talking in more cheerful, down home country tones than I ever would usually, as if I am liable to dust my hands on my gingham apron and offer him a slice of homemade peach pie at any moment.
"Oh, well, all right, if they're good ones, I better get to 'em," he says seriously. He rounds the corner at the same pace and runs up the three steps to the back of the office, where Alex, crew-cut tidy and button-down shirt neat, greets him warmly.
"You ever gonna pay me?" Larry asks, exaggerating.
"Well, if you give me those receipts," Alex tells him.
Larry hands him a couple scrawled-on pieces of paper and Alex looks them over.
"Oh man, I don't know about this...John, we payin' him this much these days?"
"Larry, what are you tryin' to put over on him?" John pretends to demand from the corner office, raising one blond eyebrow over his black polo shirt.
I don't hear the rest of their conversation, but it ends in a burst of uproarious laughter from all three. Larry stomps back down the stairs and passes my window. I feel a little bit of sadness in my heart, like when you wave to a friend and they don't notice and you pretend that they did anyway so the other people walking around you won't realize that you were snubbed.
Then he doubles back again.
"You thought that I was gonna leave without saying goodbye, huh?"
"Yeah, I did," I admit. "And I felt a little sad." I hang my head. He laughs.
"Well, you have a good day now, all right?"
"Oh, I will, and you do the same."
"Well, I will sure try. I sure will," he says. "Well all right! See ya!"
He charges out to his rectangular white van, reminding me of a wild horse from Assateague Island, wiry and reckless and a little underfed.
John tries to explain to me, after the first time I meet Larry, how he feels about him. It feels like a warning, or a caution not to judge.
"You know, Larry might come in here wearing patched-up clothes with his long hair, but he has a good heart. He really is reliable and always has something good to say."
"Oh, I think Larry is great," I protest. "My dad always had contractors and plumbers and carpenters as his friends and they always seemed some of the kindest men I ever met."
"Exactly," John says, relieved. "Yeah, exactly."
I wonder secretly what John thinks about a man ten years older than him without the advantage of higher education, of a realtor father to shepherd him into the business, without an air conditioned office and a young and attractive wife to go home to. I like John very much. He is a decent person who believes in being fair and trying to help people out when he can. Sometimes I wonder, though, what it is that leaves some people, equally hard working and equally kind, acres apart in class and yet still able to joke with each other and not feel a twinge of guilt or envy on either side. Perhaps that is, deep in their hearts, what they really do feel. But John in his pressed khakis and Larry in his paint-splattered jeans never let the slightest hint of malice trace their countenances, and continue to smile across the divide.


(note: names have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals they represent.)