Chattanooga Sketches
Stories
WE WERE IN the spring garden thinning carrots. It was midmorning, and the day had not wasted time in getting hot. My baseball cap was cocked at a ridiculous angle to block the sun. The going was slow, so you put your water bottle ten paces ahead of you as an incentive and as a measure of progress.
Noah and Daniel were talking about how to deal with flea beetles. Matt and I were swapping jokes. He knew some good ones. There was one about a talking dog, and another about thermometers. I vowed to myself that I would remember them, even though I knew that I would not. I could only remember one joke. I told it, drawing it out as long as possible, trying to make up in duration what I lacked in quantity.
"And then he says, 'Where’s that old woman with the toothache?!'"
I had stopped thinning carrots to deliver the punch line with added flair. This paid dividends. Matt was down the row convulsing.
"You know what I’d love to study?" I said. "Storytelling. What a beautiful, lost art."
"You should hear Jim Pfitzer tell a story. I think he does it professionally. Got one those Marshal grants recently to maintain local tradition. Fifteen thousand dollars."
"Really? Never heard of Marshal grants. So he spins a good yarn?"
"Jack tales. That’s what they call them around here, I think. Jack tales."
"Jack tales. I like that."
We were closing in on finishing the second row of carrots.
"My grandpa could tell a story," Matt said. "That’s one of my favorite memories as a kid. Just sitting in the living room listening to grandpa talk about growing up in the Depression in South Dakota and getting into all sorts of mischief. He could tell a story."
When I try to picture someone in their childhood, I just superimpose their grown up head onto a child’s body. The results are cartoonish and usually comical. Imaginary Little Matt was particularly comical. Grown Up Matt wears a wide, straw hat and has a long, bushy, reddish-brown beard. In appearance and temperament, one might suspect that he escaped from either Lancaster County or perhaps the nineteenth century. He teaches writing and literature at University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and speaks, slowly and sonorously, with the precision of someone who makes his livelihood with words.
"My dad’s Uncle Elmer… now he could tell a story," I said. "Nick Harris Detectives. That was my favorite—Nick Harris Detectives. Uncle Elmber drove out to Los Angeles from this small town in Illinois, kind of a last hurrah before going to study dentistry. And somehow he landed this job with a Hollywood detective agency for about two weeks of misadventure. I must have heard him tell it six or eight times, and it never took less than forty-five minutes. I recorded it before he died. That, and his stories about the Philippines during the war."
We kept on in silence for a while, and I thought about television and storytelling and that Wendell Berry quote Noah liked. Something about how we should always ask whether a technology increases or decreases the skill level of the person using it. I wondered what sort of stories I might tell my children grandkids one day, and against what kinds of games and gadgets I would be competing for their attention.
A cool breeze was coming in from the south. I finished my section and moved on to hoeing a row of Swiss chard. The ground was hard and caked after the prior week’s rains and the recent heat. The hoe did not slice easily through the soil.
Ashley called us in for lunch just after noon. She had made sandwiches with Matt’s sauerkraut, her own mustard, and a massive block of raw-milk cheese she had special ordered from Wisconsin. With some of the limes we had inherited from Ann, she made the best tasting limeade I have ever had.
The food disappeared quickly, and we sat around the table, satiated. Chocolate almond butter cookies materialized and life certainly could not have gotten any better.
"I sold Anabelle this morning," Ashley said. "It was funny; I met the lady in the parking lot at Baylor School, and the security guard kept giving us weird looks."
"Well… you were in the process of selling a goat, out of the back of a pickup truck, at a private high school," Noah pointed out. Everyone laughed.
"You should have just looked incredulous and said, 'What? You’ve never seen a goat deal go down before?'" This was Matt’s contribution. I nearly lost my meal.
We all washed up and thanked Daniel and Matt for coming out. When would we be seeing them again? Soon, they said. They set off to canoe back to the Baylor dock. Clouds were coming over Elder Mountain from the west. I filled my water bottle and shambled back to the field. As I picked up where I had left off with the chard, my mind was filled with snippets of the voice and laughter of Uncle Elmer, recounting his exploits with the famous Nick Harris Private Detective Agency of Hollywood, California.
All the World’s a Stage
I DID NOT know where, exactly, the theater was. And I was running late.
I passed through the long tunnel at Missionary Ridge. Then I was on a gray, uninspiring stretch of Brainerd Road, going slow and downhill, looking in vain for 3264… 3264… 3264. Up ahead on my right were two men on the sidewalk dressed as pirates waving toy swords. I slowed and made the turn.
Ripple Theater was directly across the street from Chatt-town Radiator Service and A.C. Supply. The theater’s website read, “Ripple Production is a non-profit theater company dedicated to the mission of bringing people face to face with Jesus.” I was curious as to how this encounter would be facilitated through a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance, but curiosity was not my raison d'être this evening. I was compelled by nostalgia.
Strange as it may seem, The Pirates of Penzance represents my sole foray into anything resembling theater. The year was 1996, and I was a junior at Monta Vista High School. Against all logic and prior indicators, I auditioned for a performance choir called the Variations. I vomited during my audition, later claiming food poisoning. Perhaps out of pity, I was selected to the group. When I told my father in the garden that evening, he nearly dropped a basket of early potatoes. I might as well have informed him that Kenneth Starr had told Congress, "You know, let’s just forget the whole thing. Seriously. Water under the bridge."
To this day, my selection baffles me. I have a reedy, high-pitched singing voice. Judging by home videos, I had all the stage presence of a cardboard cutout. Our director, the wonderful and talented Shari Summers, announced that Pirates would be our big production of the year. I played a non-descript pirate. I had one line; it read: "Of course—for we are orphans ourselves, and we know what it is!"
With each recitation, I endeavored, with little success, to lower my voice about an octave. Then I would return to my dominant preoccupations: blending in to the ensemble, and avoiding doing anything that might draw attention.
My own performance aside, the Monta Vista High School Variations rendition of Pirates was superb. Tim Brandt as the Pirate King, Donnie Hacket as Frederic, Tobias Clausen as the Major-General, and Lisa Mortensen as Mabel—each of these four could have headlined for any reparatory theater. Shari’s abridgement of the musical was crisp and lively. A certain chemistry presided. We toured Hawaii, won something called the Heritage Festival in Los Angeles, and filled the school auditorium for our final performance. That so many people evidently enjoyed watching teenagers perform a satirical opera about pirates, written by two Englishmen in 1879, still stirs some amount of wonder and puzzlement in me.
THE ROADSIDE PIRATES with plastic swords ushered me in the door with a round of enthusiastic yarrs. I paid sixteen dollars in the lobby; fifteen for the ticket, and a dollar for a bag of Peanut M&Ms. The stage was small and decorated sparingly. I took a seat in the second row and read the playbill. I looked around, noting that my presence brought down the median age very considerably.
The lights dimmed and the players took the stage. At first, they seemed foreign—usurpers of their roles. Slowly, however, faces, voices, and mannerisms grew more familiar until there was no more comparing to the past. I was close to the stage. Eyeliner and sweaty brows and shaking hands were all apparent. These were people, and this was drama as it had been since the Greeks and well before.
Of course there was one to fall in love with. What fun is theater if you do not fall in love? She was blond and slim, with a lovely face and radiant skin. I sat up and paid closer attention whenever she came onstage.
I had fallen in love, too, with Éponine. That was almost twenty years ago from the high balcony at the Geary Theater on Market Street in San Francisco. My parents had brought us to see Les Misérables. For me, the story revolved around Éponine, the self-sacrificing street girl who serves as a symbol for unrequited love. I asked for the compact disc for my birthday and read the libretto from the liner notes when I was supposed to be doing math homework. How, I wondered, could Marius be such a fool to fall for Cosette over Éponine? This was something that my eleven-year old brain could never comprehend.
MY SINGING AND acting career was mercifully short-lived. The various a capella groups that I auditioned for in college quickly recognized that performance was not my calling. But I maintained a casual interest in things musical and theatrical throughout college, watching Into the Woods on a cool spring night outdoors, and listening to Condoleezza Rice, still in her Provost days, gamely warble a few lines in the student written musical that serves as a prelude to the annual football game versus archrival UC Berkeley. And of course, I was religious about attending Shakespeare in the Park in Cupertino. That was not to be missed, under any circumstances.
It was in Alan Baumler’s Chinese history class that I began to see theater as a sort of tool for effective teaching. During office hours, Professor Baumler appeared to be made of some sort of inert substance. At the podium, a curious transformation took place. He was all movement and magic and soaring cadence. He was captivating.
Perhaps, like me, Professor Baumler had been drawn to teaching in part because it was somewhat uncomfortable. For those of us inclined towards introversion, public performance of any sort can be an odd mixture of dread and exhilaration. Through it, our worst fears are either confirmed or transcended. With luck and experience, transcendence gradually gains the upper hand.
THIS MORNING, I talked to an older gentleman at the grocery store. He had a garden, he said. He lived on Signal Mountain and grew peppers and tomatoes. He must live on the sunny side, I said. Yes, he did.
"What did you do in your former life?" I asked.
He was a social worker and an English teacher. His wife had been a librarian. Was he a fan of Shakespeare? I asked. His eyes came alive. Was he a fan of Shakespeare? He and his wife traveled to England every year and visited the new Globe Theater. And of course the Folger Museum in Washington, D.C. What a wonderful place!
It would not be an exaggeration, he said, to call me a Shakespeare fanatic. He drew out the syllables of the word fanatic with pride and special emphasis, as if intimating his membership in a distinguished club.
Then he must know, I continued, whether there was a Shakespeare company in Chattanooga. No, he said, and his countenance fell. No, there was not. Now he was very nearly bitter.
"That’s a shame," I said.
"Yes, it is a shame. A town of this size should have Shakespeare," he said. "There is no reason a town like this should not have Shakespeare."
We talked some more about gardening and the climate differences between Signal Mountain and the city. He had to plant his tomatoes a week or two later on account of frost. I told him that he was welcome to visit the farm on the island any time. We said goodbye.
As he walked away, I imagined him and his librarian wife at the Globe Theater in England, taking their seats, leafing through the playbill in anticipation. Then the dimming of the lights, and for those who would have it, the temporary and precious dimming of the self and its smaller concerns.
Swords to Plowshares
I DISCOVERED TODAY that if you use a mason jar as a water bottle in Tennessee, it is universally assumed that you are drinking moonshine.
"I see you brought your moonshine." That was my friend Laurie this morning at Stone Cup.
"Whatcha drinking there? Moonshine?" That was Duane this afternoon at Rembrandt’s.
I tend towards self-containment and anonymity at coffee shops, so it was unusual that Duane and I spent the next two hours in rapt conversation. It was particularly unusual given that we had never met before.
Duane was fifty-four years old. He joined the Air Force in 1973. He was now a Colonel in the Army and helped to train Iraqi forces. For the past year, he had been stationed off the Tigris just north of Baghdad. He was of medium build and wiry. His eyes were intense. A taught, lean face betrayed his daily habits: pack of smokes, two quarts of coffee (black), four hours of sleep.
"You a writer?"
My notebooks were sprawled on the table. "Kind of," I replied. "Kind of a writer and kind of a farmer and kind of some other things."
"Farmer? Whereabouts?"
I told him. He was interested. Plied me with questions.
"You’ll like this." He pulled up a photo on his laptop. It showed a garden.
"Those little trenches," he said, "those are irrigation channels. Here is where the water floods out of the well. This is in front of the Iraqi’s administration building at the base. Their General is the head gardener. These guys know agriculture. In their blood."
:What are those?" I pointed to metal cones, three feet tall and painted green with Arabic writing in black. They surrounded the garden.
"Those? Those are empty missile heads. Use ‘em as bollards so people don’t back into the garden. Swords to plowshares. How’s that for swords to plowshares?!" He laughed.
We looked at Duane’s photos. Here was a blown out Scud missile silo. This was an old adobe building built during the British occupation of 1917. Here were two soldiers from Macedonia. Best damn soldiers out there. Everything the Americans are supposed to be but aren’t. Here are some date palms. Did you know there are four hundred fifty varieties of date palms? No, I did not.
The photos were artful.
"You have a good eye for photos," I said.
"You think so? People tell me that. I try to make art. I try to make art while I’m looking out for my guys and trying not to get shot. That, and it’s one hundred and twenty degrees outside." Duane embellished this last sentence with expletives. Duane was fond of expletives.
Most of the photos were in sepia tone. We shared an appreciation for sepia.
"Sepia makes you think," said Duane.
"It adds emotional depth," I said. "I showed him my photos from the farm."
"So why do y’all do this farming? It’s a commune thing, right? Find God and whatnot?" By now we were friends.
Speaking very generally, I said. Speaking very generally, the people I knew who farmed did so because of a recognition that as a society we faced some momentous challenges, that a shift to the local and the energy efficient was important, and so was community.
Duane seemed to like that answer. He said he would like to swim out and join us on the island but that he was too tied to the system.
"Been in the system my whole life," he said. "Dad was military. Brothers and sisters all military. My whole life on the move. Got my agriculture from Grandma. She lived to be a hundred and four. Had a garden so big you couldn’t see a man standing on the other side cuz of the curvature of the earth. That’s where I got my agriculture."
"No, I’m too attached to the damn system. I don’t have friends. Just go from place to place. Never been socialized, see. Too damned paranoid. You can trust people, maybe. But I’ve seen an old Iraqi woman with three children tailing at her sleeve fire an AK47 like nobody’s business. Never know who you can trust when you’ve seen stuff like that."
"You and I live in different worlds, friend. There’s always this sort of buffer zone, see? You and me, we get each other. But see, we live in different worlds. I’m part of the system. I’m a bird in cage."
DUANE NEEDED A cigarette. I joined him outside, and we stood on the street corner. I had my hands in my pocket and kicked lightly at the concrete with the toe of my shoe. I noticed Duane had a limp.
"Two months ago, I looked like a twenty-one year old. Weighed a hundred and sixty-five pounds. Now I weigh one thirty-five. Tore my meniscus. Damned military won’t even pay for the tests and all. They’ll just let my body fall apart until I’m sixty and then turn me over to the V.A."
With his grandma’s longevity, I said, at least his body would have a nice long while to fall apart. He guffawed and tapped his cigarette against the lighter.
He took a long drag.
"The military is gonna be where a lot of this change you’re talking about is gonna come from. The military was the first to really integrate blacks, you know. The military’s probably got more gays and lesbians and bisexuals than the rest of society cuz they want to leave home, and where are they gonna go? I tell my guys I don’t care if you like girls or boys or sheep as long as you do your job."
"And then there’s religion! This Iraqi army guy, big tough dude who’s sore cuz we’re the victors and all, you know. This guy comes up and asks me if I’m a Christian. So, you know what I do? I pause…I pause for dramatic effect, you know. And then I say to him, “Not a very good one.” You like that?! He laughs cuz he’s probably thinking well, I’m not that good of a Muslim, and I can probably work with this guy after all. Religion!"
It was getting late, and I had not even gotten to my writing yet. I shook Duane’s hand and we wished each other well. I told him how much I had enjoyed our conversation. He said it had made his day. He said he admired what I was doing; I said likewise, the feeling was mutual. He pulled out another cigarette and waved goodbye as I turned to walk down Third Street.
Savoring
MY CALENDAR INFORMS me that just six days remain before Beatrice the Buick and I set a meandering course back to California. So, I started savoring in earnest Wednesday evening. Carrots were anathema at market. Not a single customer would so much look upon a carrot. This was unfortunate. Williams Island Farm is lousy with carrots, phalanx upon phalanx of carrots… a vast, underground army of root vegetables.
Consequently, Noah and I found ourselves at seven in the evening parked riverside cutting the green tops off several million carrots to prepare them for storage. The day had been piping hot and protracted. Noah, always pregnant with ideas, birthed an exceptional one:
"Let's buy a beer."
Ten minutes later, we were again topping carrots, but now we were topping carrots with a twenty-two-ounce bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale. This is a beer of such complete and forceful delight that it simply insists upon being savored.
And then, I was savoring everything. I was savoring the breeze curling up from the river, fat handfuls of blueberries from the Keeners' farm, and Noah's fine company and conversation.
Carrots topped and ale imbibed, I still had more savoring in me. I went to Lupi's. The good folks at Lupi’s are absolute pizza wizards. Their pies are not so much made as they are conjured out of magical substances. What is more, this is very much a Community establishment. At closing, I cornered TJ, the manager, and subjected him to my effusive praise and appreciation. I fear I may have waxed sentimental about pizza and Community.
Feeling so satiated, so light of step, I walked one block east to the Hair of the Dog pub. Now I was making the rounds. This was the late night writing spot of choice where you would be scribbling intently at the bar and, without a beat skipped, suddenly discover yourself discussing the dietary restrictions of Seventh Day Adventists with the bartender whose father was a pastor and the guy next to you whose father was also a pastor… and wasn't it odd that Seventh Day Adventists do not eat spicy mustard? Yes, we all agreed; it was quite odd.
By now, it was late, and the moon was a floodlight when I paddled across the river. Crossing the river is always savored, always. I have done it a hundred times and more. The day that canoeing across the Tennessee River fails to thrill me is the day I will have lost all sense of wonderment and gratitude.
SO MUCH TO savor, so little time. On Thursday I savored Shakespeare's Twelfth Night over at the Ripple Theater. Six Masters of Fine Arts candidates from Regent University put on the production, each of them playing multiple roles. It was a wonderful, intimate performance. I chatted with the troupe afterward, pitching the idea that they consider "Shakespeare on the Island" one of these days.
On Friday I savored a resplendent harvest morning and the lovely diversity of people that are drawn out to the island to volunteer their time. Hoeing a patch of winter squash, I bantered with Clark (old time musician), Yuri (social worker), and Mary (photo and video documentary artist). These folks come and share their company and labor, sometimes taking a few vegetables home with them in return, but mainly to build a connection to their food source.
It is a joy to see this connection take root. Our friend Yong has been volunteering once a week for the past month or so. A month ago, he had never seen a carrot growing. Now he has harvested many thousands of them and has become something of an authority on that activity.
Friday evening, when the heat finally subsided, we headed back out to the field to plant sweet potatoes. Summer evenings on the island are exceedingly pleasant. The fireflies hover in the trees, the setting sun illuminates the clouds above Signal and Elder Mountains, and the crickets begin their chorus.
There is much to savor in Chattanooga these days. There is energy and enthusiasm building around local food, around the arts, around greater community orientation. I have been fortunate to land amongst a collection of individuals who are pushing things forward in exciting and positive directions. This has been a charmed season of my life, a largely harmonious balance between physical work, intellectual and creative exploration, and community involvement. I return home with notepads of writings and re-writings that require still further re-writings, a camera full of photographs, and a deep sense of connection to and gratitude for this place and its people.
