Cross Creek by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

 

At one time or another most of us at the Creek have been suspected of a degree of madness. Madness is only a variety of mental nonconformity, and we are all individualists here.

This 1942 novel of rural Florida is rife with life, redolent with place. Observations and anecdotes abound picking out what is common to all human experience and perhaps rendered all the more noticeable as we garner it from a background of so few human characters.

Every human we encounter in Cross Creek has a story to tell about ourselves.

Old Aunt Martha Mickens, with her deceptive humility and her face like poured chocolate, is perhaps the shuttle that has woven our knowledge, carrying back and forth, with the apparent innocence of a nest-building bird, the most revealing bits of gossip; the sort of gossip that tells, not trivial facts, but human motives and the secrets of human hearts. Each of us pretends that she carries these threads only about others and never about us, but we all know better, and that none of us is spared.

The rural life, the frontier life as seen by one who actually lived it as opposed to how many from congested areas might see it.

Folks called the road lonely, because there is not human traffic and human stirring. Because I have walked it so many times and seen such tumult of life there, it seems to me one of the most populous highways of my acquaintance. I have walked it in ecstasy, and in joy it his beloved. Every pine tree, every gallberry bush, every passion vine, every joree rustling in the underbrush, is vibrant. I've walked it in trouble, and the wind in the trees beside me is easing. I have walked it in despair, and the red of the sunset is my own blood dissolving into the night's darkness. For all such things were on earth before us, and will survive after us, and is given to us to join ourselves with them and to be comforted.

Rawlings has a sincere gift. I’ve never encountered such a novel way to describe the annoyance of mosquitoes.

One would think that exposed neck, arms, the face would suffice the hungriest of insects. But the mosquito is a Freudian, taking delight only in the hidden places.

Rawlings’ limns the life of early rural Florida with such skill I feel the richer for having visited on the page, and the poorer for not having visited in actuality.

We at the Creek draw our conclusions about the world from our intimate knowledge of one small portion of it.

Old Boss said, “The Creek don't amount to anything. The people don't amount to anything. But if you're sick and have no money, they'll cook for you and fetch it to you, and they'll doctor you, and if you get past their doctoring, they'll send for a doctor and pay his bill. And if you die, they'll take up a collection and bury you. I figure it's just as close to heaven here as any other place.”

Easy A.

“Grandpa and the Miracle Grindstone” by Joe David Brown

 

Women were still weeping over the graves at Gettysburg when my grandpa came to Walesburg. Nobody ever quite figured out where he came from or why he came. He just showed up one night in a blue-serge store-bought suit and eased his way into Jere Higham's place. Grandpa walked quietly to the end of the bar and put down his Bible. He didn't have to call for silence, because it followed him through the long smoky room like a hound dog.

Grandpa cleared his throat and began to speak. “Boys, I'm you’re new preacher,” he said, “and I aim to give my first sermon right here.”

A couple of General Lee's men still in uniform, began to laugh. Grandpa didn't even glance that way. He just reached under his long coat and pulled out two long-barreled cavalry pistols and slapped them on the bar.

“Either I speak,” he said, “or these do!”

This 1956 short-story by Mr. Brown is a mini-marvel. He is also the author of Addie Pray, which became the charming Oscar-winning film, Paper Moon about a 11-year-old con artist and her older partner.

The story feels like a Southern shaggy dog story, that morphs into one of tough-minded faith, and right before one suspects that it may turn mawkish ala a lesser episode of The Waltons, Mr. Brown kicks his moral into high gear and leaves us with both a fine story and a firm sense of the kind of boot-strappin’ faith that likely sustained many of pioneer spirit.

Damned, well done.

I will now be tracking down more of Mr. Brown’s work.

Do You Fear The Wind by Hamlin Garland

 

I’d like to offer a poem by Hamlin Garland, the author of Main-Travelled Roads [reviewed favorably on this blog.]

It is a bracing bit of Western thought, in his case, Mid-Western thought.

May you enjoy!

Do You Fear The Wind by Hamlin Garland

Do you fear the force of the wind,

The slash of the rain?

Go face them and fight them,

Be savage again.

Go hungry and cold like the wolf,

Go wade like the crane:

The palms of your hands will thicken,

The skin of your cheek will tan,

You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy,

But you'll walk like a man!