The Sky Club by Terry Roberts

                                                                              

When her worn out, dying mother tells her to leave the hardscrabble mountain farm on Big Pine and make “a life that I can’t even imagine,” plucky Jo Salter does just that. Blessed with an uncanny gift for numbers, she soon finds employment at a booming bank in booming Asheville. The year is 1929. And things are about to change.

Rich in history and detail, The Sky Club by Terry Roberts chronicles the years of boom and bust, as Jo pinballs from the proud mansions and institutions of Asheville’s elite to the smoky, steamy, jazz-fueled speakeasy atop Beaucatcher Mountain. She can hold her own in either setting, but she is increasingly drawn to the jazz and the dancing at The Sky Club—and to its manager, the mysterious Levi Arrowood--a far piece from anything her mother might have imagined.

Jo is a true mountain woman, forthright, resilient, and independent as a hog on ice.  Her story, set in a pivotal moment in history, is a delight. For those of us familiar with the area, Roberts’ s meticulous account of familiar places is an special added attraction.

I've spoken of Terry and his books before. He has kin in Madison County--a great-great (or so) grandfather lies in the cemetery next to one of our pastures. He has a real feeling for and gift of bringing this beloved place to the page. And of all his books, I believe that this one is my favorite. Jo Salter is a woman to remember.

                                                                   

Between You and Me --Confessions of a Comma Queen

"Die heiresses! Die heiresses!" I repeated over and over as I moved around the living room, applying polish to the dusty, mildew-pocked furniture.

An odd mantra for house-cleaning? You bet. But I'd just come across a surefire way to remember how to pronounce diaeresis--those two dots that The New Yorker and other staid publication put over the second o in cooperate. (I never do, preferring to live dangerously and also because it's a pain to do on the laptop.)  

In the course of my teaching, occasionally someone will ask about this usage and I've been guilty of calling this mark "those two little dots" or "an umlaut" (incorrect unless you're writing German.) So I am delighted to add this bit of knowledge to my fund of trivia.

Yes, I've been reading another book about grammar and usage. Mary Norris's delightful Between You and Me is part grammar book and part memoir, including Norris's thirty some years at The New Yorker, as well as an early stint as a foot checker at a public pool and later as a milkmanwoman.

From tips on pencils, erasers, and pencil sharpeners to a discussion of hyphens, en dashes, and em dashes--including the hyphen in the title Moby-Dick, to a consideration of proposed gender-neutral pronouns (I hate the use of they for someone of indeterminate gender--they is plural, dammit! but rather like a proposal to use ey, em, or eir) to a hilarious chapter ("F**K THIS SH*T) on the proliferation of profanity in modern prose, the book is a gem. 

I loved it. Especially recommended for my fellow word nerds.

There's an excellent review HERE.

The Salt Path by Raynor Winn

When life hands you lemons--go for a walk! The lemonade may come later.

Within the space of a few days, fifty-year-old Raynor Winn's husband of thirty-two years is diagnosed with an increasingly debilitating terminal illness and, due to a series of misunderstandings, the old farm the two of them have restored over many years and run as a vacation destination is taken from them. They are homeless and almost penniless, relying on a very small (48 pounds) monthly income.  And it's then that they make the maddest of decisions-- they'll hike the 630 mile South West Coast Path around England's southern tip, camping wild all the way.

It's a desperate move and full of hardship--their diet relies heavily on noodles and not always enough of them, their camping gear is inadequate, hot baths, or baths of any kind are a luxury they can't afford, neither of them is physically up to the rigors of walking long distances carrying all their gear--but they keep going, having no real alternative.

They discover that people they encounter think what they're doing is wonderful and brave -- "Go,  old people!"--as long as they say they sold their home. If they say they lost their home, suddenly they're The Homeless and objects of scorn and suspicion. 

The writing is by turns gritty and beautiful-- much like the coast they walk. And the life lessons the couple learn, including the healing power of nature, are startling.

I loved this book. It resonated with me on many levels. Winn and her husband had a farm they'd loved and improved, rock by rock, over many years. I read this and shuddered to think of the horror of losing our own farm.  John and I visited parts of the area on our great motorcycle trip years ago and fell in love with the beauty of the place. And during that same trip, we reached a similar state that this intrepid couple did -- a feeling of being more at home outside than in and the desire to keep going. (We didn't, as we had  teaching jobs waiting for us.)

Highly recommended.

HERE

On Writing Dialect -- and About a Bestseller

I just finished reading a book that has been immensely popular--NYT #1 Bestseller! Over a million copies sold!--and I am shaking my head in, not disbelief but more like puzzlement.

Since I'm going to say some critical things, I won't name the book--though with mega-sales and a movie deal, I doubt the author would be hurt by by my opinions.

Starting with the positive. The book has some truly lyrical nature writing-- evocative descriptions of setting and animal behavior. The protagonist is engaging and is faced with a threat--several threats, actually-- and an excellent hook. It's a textbook setup for a good novel. The reader cares about the protagonist and truly wants to keep turning pages to see how the problems are resolved, which is a key requirement of good story telling. 

But then it gets a bit melodramatic, actually, quite a bit melodramatic.  Nothing wrong with melodrama -- people love it. But for me, it turned what was looking like a serious literary novel into an excellent beach read. (And which sells better?) It will, no doubt, be a wildly popular movie.

But some serious inconsistencies and an implausible plot, much of the dialogue, cliched and clunky writing here and there, and especially the heavy-handed use of dialect made me cringe. Stuff like viz'ter for visitor, Saderdee for Saturday,  and ya/yo used  for you and your. Yikes!

Obviously it didn't bother the legions of readers who have made this book so popular.  (1.5 million copies sold at last count.) It hit a nerve with me though because when I was leading my class at Wildacres, at the request of one of the writers, I devoted some time to the use of dialect in writing. I did note that the people most likely to be critical of dialect are those who are intimately familiar with the dialect represented and that for most readers, just a vague approximation will suffice to let them know the speaker's dialect is Southern/Irish/Appalachian/Latino etc. 

Here's what I told the class -- far more information than most of you will care about. And, obviously, not critical in whether a book's a bestseller.

ON DIALECT

Dialect is tricky – it can add a lot to the richness of a story – or it can annoy, baffle, and irritate the reader till he or she flings the book across the room.

I had one critic call my use of dialect in one of my early books “demeaning.” At the same time, I’ve had numerous readers thank me for writing characters who talked just the way their grandparents spoke. I disagree with the demeaning accusation. I happen to believe that the language of my older neighbors, the same language I tried to reproduce, is musical and evocative. “I wouldn’t trust that man in my meathouse with a muzzle,” one neighbor told us when, during the Watergate hearings, we were discussing President NIXON.” Or, from another neighbor, “I was weedeatin down in the ditch when a great big gorf rat like to run up my britchie leg.” I almost swooned when I heard that -- the first time I’d heard ‘britchie leg” outside of the old song Cripple Creek.

You don’t want to turn your characters into caricatures; at the same time, I don’t see the point in cleaning up language – say, avoiding the use of ain’t, if that’s the way your characters talk. The way your characters speak can tell us who they are – think of Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. He could probably listen to me and pronounce that I was educated, of a Southern background with hints of Alabama and Native Floridian overlaid by long time residence in rural western North Carolina. In my writing, set in rural western NC, I even differentiate between the speech modes of the older generation, their children, and their grandchildren. It’s easy for me – I just think of various people I know or knew – a lot of them are gone now) and ask myself How would Mearl say that? And what about her daughters Elsie and Delsie who have more education and more dealings in the outside world? And Mearl’s grandchildren, whose language is influenced by television?

The first thing to say is that, unless the reader is familiar with the people of whom you’re writing, you can get away with some flagrant misappropriations. BUT, if what you’re writing is being read by the same people you’re writing about, expect to get called on it. I can’t really speak to the authenticity of Dianna’s Irish and German accents, or Lindy’s Irish because I’m not familiar with them, beyond the popular representations thereof. But if Leah is writing about a place near me, I’m going to have a more critical ear.

That said, the important thing is to SUGGEST a mode of speech rather than try to replicate it. Use speech patterns – “Reckon why he did that?’ Or “Reckon why he done that?”

Mark Twain and others of his time wrote with an almost phonetic attention to the pronunciation of words. That really won’t work today. 

Try to get across the dialect or speech patterns by the phrases and sentence construction rather than oddly spelled words. You can also have an outsider comment on the soft Southern drawl, or Brooklyn accent, or Appalachian twang, or the fact that Miss Birdie pronounces chair as cheer. If English is your speaker’s second language, he may speak very precisely, no contractions, and sprinkle in bits of his own language.

‘Eye dialect’ is the term used for showing differences from ‘standard’ pronunciation by using alternate spellings (for example, writing ‘holler instead of hollow or using apostrophes to represent omitted letters y’all instead of you all or runnin’ instead of running. A little of this goes a long way – Over the course of my six novels. I used less and less. Often, I might use some once – As in Miss Birdie’s “Come on in and git you a cheer.” I spell get GIT and chair CHEER -just this once, hoping to have instilled in my reader’s mind, Birdie’s way of speech. Subsequently – and Birdie says this more than once - I use standard spelling.

Watch out for too many of those apostrophes to denote dropped letters. A standard one is an apostrophe instead of a g – ridin’, ropin’, shootin’ – absolutely standard and I used a fair amount of this in my first book. But it began to seem awfully cluttered lookin’ to me and in the secondary story – which is set around 1901 and in which everyone speaks in dialect, I dropped the G but omitted the apostrophe. And in later books, I generally didn’t drop the g at all.

Instead of eye dialect, the things to focus on are diction, synax, and idiom: word choice, word order, and characteristic turns of phrase.

DICTION – word choice: When we moved to our farm back in 1975, we found ourselves having to learn the language. You need to put some chat on that road so it don’t gaum up come winter. Finally, we realized we needed gravel on the road so it didn’t become a muddy morass when it snowed and melted. Traveling in England we had to remember that cookies were biscuits and potato chips were crisps and chips were French Fries.

SYNTAX --word order: This is really useful if you’re trying to convey a foreign speaker, It’s wanting to go, I am could be Irish or perhaps Welsh, while   Reckon what he meant by that? I’m ready to go everwhen you are  are some standard Appalachian twists of syntax.

IDIOM--characteristic turns of phrase: Brilliant! (current Brit) I wouldn’t give her air in a jar, He bowed up and wouldn’t go no further. She’s awful bad to talk. He got right ill at his wife when she burnt the biscuits.

Nothing can substitute for being as familiar with the dialect as if you had grown up speaking it. I didn’t start writing till I’d already been in Western NC for 25 years. I’d absorbed the sounds and had, on occasion, ‘passed’ as a native. But there are other ways of gaining greater familiarity with an accent – spending time with folks who speak like that, local radio, books by indigenous authors, recordings of story tellers using that dialect. Or a source – once I found myself writing that someone was ‘drunk as Paddy’s sow’ It sounded great but I began to wonder if it was something I’d actually heard – or something I’d read. I got up with (that’s some local idiom) Sheila Kay Adams – ballad singer and storyteller from my county and she said she’d never heard that but she had heard Drunk as an owl. Later I found the Paddy’s sow thing had come from the Patrick O’Brian books. Of course it’s not a big deal – the majority of readers wouldn’t have known the difference. But I would.

In my last book I have a character who’s English and as I wrote him, I realized my idea of Britspeak was somewhere between Monty Python and PG Wodehouse. So I enlisted the aid of a longtime English blog friend who agreed to read my attempt at this guy’s speech. He read and suggested a few minor changes. Here again, most readers wouldn’t notice. But for a few, there might have been some dreadful clangers.

Of course, if you’re writing about the past, you’ll have to rely on books of the time for the way of speech. I read Civil War letters to get an idea of the speech of the time. Mark Twain’s books are rich representations of a certain way of speech BUT the eye dialect is too much for modern day readers. The same for Zora Neale Hurston’s accounts by ex-slaves and many other writings of the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. You can read them to get an idea of the way the speech sounded then ‘translate’ paying attention to diction. Idiom, and syntax. 

Here again, less is more. And here you won’t have anyone to call you on authenticity.

In the end, we do the best we can to represent our characters fairly, honestly, and with the dignity they deserve.

American Judas by Mickey Dubrow

It can’t happen here – or is it?

Ten years after the CHRIST (Christian Households Rising in Support of Truth) Act became law, the USA is at last what the Religious Right has dreamed of – a Christian Nation. The National Church of Christ is the state religion – all others are forbidden and church attendance is mandatory. 

The stars of the flag have been replaced by a cross and NPR in now NCR. (You can guess what the C stands for.) Everyone carries guns – not to do so would look suspicious. Alcohol, pornography, birth control, abortion, homosexuality are all criminalized. 

State-run Savior Camps, with Arbeit Macht Frei Saved Though Faith over the entrance and complete with barbed wire and armed guards, “are not just for lapsed Christians and those afflicted with the disease of homosexuality. They also cure drug addicts, adulterers, Satan worshippers, and Liberals.”

Seth Ginsburg, a non-observant Jew, has converted and pays lip service to the state religion in order to hold on to his job in the office of a US senator. When he receives a package containing his late father’s prayer shawl, he finds himself compelled to reclaim his heritage and join a group of Jews in their hidden worship. 

Meanwhile, his wife Maggie is pressured by their Federal Faith Verification case worker to do her Christian duty and get pregnant. Because Seth is a convert, the case worker is authorized to inspect his home at any time, day or night, “to verify the authenticity” of Seth’s conversion. 

Behind the scenes glimpses at corrupt politicians and faith leaders (nothing new under the sun) heighten the tension and intensify the parallels with present day.

Finally Seth is betrayed as a hidden Jew and the trials he and Maggie endure in attempting to flee to Mexico (oh, the delicious irony) take the reader even deeper into the rotten heart of the theocracy that the US has become.

This fast-moving, compelling story would have seemed over the top a few years ago. Now, alas, even the most outrageous scenes are only a few crucial votes away. At times hilarious, at time terrifying, American Judas is, ultimately, a warning.

As Mickey wrote in my copy of the novel, “Have a blessed day. Or not. It’s still your choice.”

Highly recommended.

DIMESTORE by Lee Smith

When I was at Malaprop's on Sunday to hear my students read, I treated myself to a copy of Lee Smith's new book -- a collection of essays about her life as a writer.

The essays are full of memory-evoking detail: from her father's dimestore in Grundy, Virginia (Who else remembers pastel Easter chicks and tiny turtles with roses painted on their shells?) to her mother's recipe box (the secret ingredient in her mother's pimento cheese is Durkees!) 

 Smith recounts her early attempts at writing -- writing about stewardesses and orphans and evil twins  (I, too, have written about evil twins and I'm very sorry) until at nineteen she heard Eudora Welty read and suddenly realized that her own best subject matter was the small world she already knew.

As a long time fan of Smith's writing and as a southern woman of the same generation, I've always felt I 'knew' Lee Smith -- her writing voice is so sure, so true, so clearly based on personal experience. These essays expand that knowledge -- dealing lovingly and forthrightly with her father's bi-polar condition, her mother's 'nerves,' and her son's schizophrenia. 

Small wonder that Smith talks about writing's ability "... to give a recognizable shape to the chaos of our lives."

This is a wonderful book  -- especially for fans of Smith who'd like to see the soil from which her writing grew and for writers, in general, to give a glimpse into the process of one of our finest novelists.  And since it's Lee Smith, it's just plain downright good reading.

 (More about Lee Smith and her work HERE.)

Alligator Candy

Saturday morning and I was checking email and making lists for things that had to be done. NPR's Weekend Edition was nattering away and I wasn't actually listening till a few words near the end, caught my attention --Kushner, brother, bike, woods.

All at once I was riveted -- the speaker was David Kushner and he was there to discuss his just released book ALLIGATOR CANDY -- a memoir about the effect the brutal abduction and murder of his eleven year old brother in 1973 had on him and his family.

In 1973 John and I were teaching at Independent Day School on the outskirts of Tampa. The whole thrust of the school was to allow children the freedom to learn on their own terms, the freedom to explore and grow at their own pace. Some folks called it 'the hippie school' but there was a lot of learning and creativity going on. Lots of peace and love and brotherhood, lots of art and nature study on the idyllic lakeside campus.

And then, in October of '73, one of our IDS students disappeared during a Sunday bike ride from his home to a nearby convenience store. Jonathan Kushner was eleven. 

His mother had been the teacher of the Lamaze class I'd taken the previous year to prepare for the birth of my first child; I think, though I can't be positive, that his older brother was in my English class.  

During eight long days, the community searched for Jonathan until finally the wife of one of the abductors notified law enforcement and told them where the boy's body was.

I remember the stark horror of the time and I remember going to the Kushner's house to offer support and condolences, only to burst into tears when Jon's mother opened the door, as I thought about my own son who was safe while hers . . . And then it was she who comforted me. 

I remember the funeral at the synagogue and the rabbi saying that Jews weren't afraid to question God, to be angry with God and to ask why such a thing could happen -- a reaction that seemed and seems most sensible to me.

I remember when the service was over and the bereaved parents and brothers walked down the aisle, the father with his arms spread to encompass his family so that they moved as a single unit.

And after that . . . I never knew how the family dealt with the aftermath of this horror. By this time we'd bought our farm in the mountains and were, after this shattering of illusions, all the more determined to move. 

So of course I had to read the book.

The author, David Kushner, a well known journalist, was only four at the time of the murder and the book is told  first from his perspective as a four year old who feels that somehow this was his fault because his brother had been going to the store to buy 'alligator candy' for him.

And then it's told from the perspective of the thirteen year old David who has never been told the ugly details surrounding his brother's death and so goes to the newspaper archives to find out for himself, rather than open this old wound with his parents, who have been struggling to give their two remaining sons as normal and free a life as possible.

Finally, it's the story told by the adult David, who is trying to understand how his parents were able to cope with this most terrible loss and trying, as well, to be able to give his own child the same freedom his parents allowed him.

The memoir is a testimony to love that never dies, to the coping mechanisms that allow life to go on, and to the grace that can emerge in the wake of horror.  Kushner captures so well the innocence of that time and chronicles the bravery of a family, facing the unfaceable, bearing the unbearable.


HERE is the Weekend Edition program I spoke of in the beginning.

Asfidity and Mad-Stones

My friend Byron the Village Witch, who has been a valuable source of information as I write of mountain ways, has a second hillfolk's hoodoo book out (I wrote about her first HERE)  -- a further exploration of  mountain charms and folk wisdom. 

I can't do better than to quote my own foreword:

  

On a hot July evening with a Blue Moon on the rise and crickets making mad music outside my window, I settled in to read an early copy of Byron’s latest -- Asfidity and Mad-Stones. And oh! what a pleasure it was. Her voice comes through with such clarity that I find myself feeling that she’s sitting at my side – a friendly witch come to visit. When she begins to speak of the necessity of familiarizing ourselves with the particular bit of ‘hallowed ground” we inhabit, I grin in recognition, remembering my total immersion into learning the flora, fauna, and folkways of this adopted home of mine. Books and neighbors and keeping my eyes open helped a lot but, forty years on, I’m still learning and Byron is one of my most honored teachers. When I dare to incorporate Appalachian magic into my novels, I look to Byron to help me get it right.

This magical place we call Western North Carolina cast its spell on me from the beginning. I learned from my neighbors about scheduling not only gardening but almost any activity on the farm according to the moon signs and The Old Farmers Almanac. 

Louise, down the mountain, made me soon aware of the importance of staying out of the cucumbers and not making kraut when my period was ‘on me.’ She showed me how to make a powder from a dirt dauber’s nest, a powder that cleared up my son’s stubborn diaper rash overnight. And another neighbor left me momentarily dumbfounded when she called in great agitation, telling me to come quick and read the verses from the Bible that would stop her husband’s nosebleed.

I went, I read, and the bleeding stopped. If I’d had this book back then, I wouldn’t have been so puzzled.

And what a glorious mélange of folk wisdom, nature lore, mother-

wit, and just plain good story telling this little book is! It really is like sitting on the front porch with a friendly witch, sipping iced tea and learning what it means when your left ear itches or how to use dirty dishwater for a hex.

If you seem hesitant about all this talk of magic, the witch leans
back in her rocker and reminds you that “children grow up with a
belief in magic that is fueled by a certainty that the world is
more than it seems” and, shooting you a long, knowing look, she
promises “practicing these simple magics affords you a chance to
return to this place of wonder, where mystery is an always-sweet
puzzle and there is adventure and delight.”

You trust this friendly witch and as you hear more of her family’s
handed-down teachings and the accumulation of years of practice,
you lean back, relax, and listen, led into that place of wonder. She
tells you of candle magic and the use of various dusts, of chicken
feet and Reeses cups, and she delves into the glorious
pharmacopeia of our mountain plants. Witch hazel, elderberry,
chickweed and dandelion, plantain and mugwort, mint and ‘sang – 
even the names are a healing song.

You are surprised to realize that evening is drawing on – how long have you been sitting here listening to these wonderful tellings? You excuse yourself and go into the house, returning with little glasses, a plate of shortbread, and a ‘drop of the creature.’ Anything to keep the flood of wisdom flowing.

Accepting your offering, the friendly witch moves on to practical magic – from dealing with burns to politely clearing a house of lingering haints. The tinctures and hexes, omens and admonitions she shares are drawn mainly from Appalachian tradition but with a sprinkling of items ’borried’ from other cultures. And in the liminal time between day and night, as the full moon rises over the mountain, the friendly witch has stories to tell of hauntings and cleansings and she talks with reverence and affection of the Little People who share the land.

She’s right good company, this friendly witch and when at last you must say goodbye to her, your head is spinning, filled to the brim with receipts and charms, hexes, hoodoos, and workings of all sorts– a veritable cornucopia of folk wisdom.

You’ll be glad you have this little book to consult, should you forget the words of the burn charm or should the exact sequence of belling and anointing the house slip your memory. And with the book, you can summon Byron to come sit at your side again and once more delight you with the wisdom of The Ancestors.

Vicki Lane

Wool Branch Farm

July 31, 2015

Available at Malaprops -- our wonderful local independent bookstore -- or from the Witch herself on her WEBSITE.

Twain's End

Mark Twain has been a favorite of mine ever since I read Tom Sawyer many years ago. (The scene where Tom doses the cat with the tonic his aunt has been forcing on him and the zipped-up feline sails out  the window, carrying two pots of geraniums with it, still cracks me up.) When I grew older and discovered  the delightful and irreverent Letters from Earth -- I thought I'd found the real Twain, the deeper, darker thinker.

But Lynn Cullen's excellent novel Twain's End peels back the Twain persona to reveal the  man beneath: Samuel Clemens -complicated, conflicted, passionate, volatile, and deeply flawed -- something that the beloved Mark Twain could never allow himself to be. 

Cullen's story focuses on Twain/Clemens' puzzling relationship with his secretary. Isobel Lyon served Clemens for six years, traveling with the family and enjoying a high degree of trust, confidentiality, and perhaps something more. 

 But shortly after Isobel's marriage to his business manager, Clemens fired her -- and soon after vilified her publicly, calling her " a liar, a forger, a thief, a hypocrite, a drunkard, a sneak, a humbug, a traitor, a conspirator, a filthy-minded slut pining for seduction." 

Well! One suspects there's an interesting story here and, by golly, one would be right. Working from primary and secondary sources, Cullen has pieced together a completely plausible and satisfactory answer to the question, why did Clemens attend his secretary's wedding, appearing to give his blessing to the union, only to cast her into outer darkness a short time later?

The twin powder kegs of Sam Clemens' family life ( two definitely difficult daughters, a saintly, recently departed invalid wife, and a servant who may have had her own agenda)  and Mark Twain's public life (he was a celebrity who hobnobbed with celebrities, who could go nowhere without being recognized) combine to produce an explosive plot that carries the reader breathlessly along.

The book brims with lush descriptions of the world of the rich and famous at the turn of the 20th Century. An intriguing interlude (based on an actual event) is Twain's entertaining Helen Keller, her Teacher, and her Teacher's husband -- who may just be little too fond of Miss Keller.

 Isobel is a charming character -- an early career woman at a time when few women had careers. And her mother -- who remembers past glories and dreams of more for Isobel, is a character worthy of Jane Austen.

 But as in real life, Sam Clemens/Mark Twain's dueling personas take center stage. At times a lovable wit, at times a monster, at times a lost soul, his luster is not dimmed. 

Highly recommended! 

(Disclaimer: I received an advance reading copy of this book but I was under no obligation to write a review, much less a positive one.)

Go HERE for more about Twain's End.

Reading Harper Lee -- A Very Personal Response with Some Minor Spoilers

One would have to have been on a desert island or locked away from all media not to have been aware of the rumor of, announcement of discovery of, forthcoming publication of, publication of, and ensuing reaction to Harper Lee's Go Set a Watchman, the book she wrote before the beloved classic To Kill a Mockingbird.

I didn't leap to acquire a copy. Not because I didn't want my memories of Atticus ruined, as many people put it. Not because this was said to be a much weaker piece of work. It was just one of those things I thought I'd get around to eventually.

The thing is, I'd never been in love with TKAM -- I read it over fifty years ago and somehow never felt the need to read it again. (I went through a very long period of resistance to most American and particularly most Southern fiction, spending my time with English writers for the most part. I did get over this prejudice eventually, thanks in great part to Lee Smith's novels.) 

I probably saw the movie -- but again, have no strong memory of it. So much about TKAM has become a part of our group consciousness that I have a hard time distinguishing between what I read or saw and what I've absorbed by osmosis.

But I thought I should read this new (old) book. At the very least it would be interesting to see the first attempt of this renowned novelist. First, however, I had to read TKAM again.

And, oh! how glad I am that I did. It spoke to me so clearly of a time that I remember -- well, more or less -- TKAM is set in 1935 and I wasn't around till 1943. But things change slowly in the South and everything  about the book-- good and bad -- had the ring of familiarity. My maternal grandparents were from Alabama and I visited kin there on multiple occasions. (Aunt Mamie had a cook who could have stood in for Calpurnia. ) And Troy, Alabama wasn't much different from Maycomb.

Neither was Tampa, Florida in the Forties and Fifties.  It was a city but also a collection of small towns. In our particular small town of South Tampa, southern politesse reigned. The ladies visiting, the rules, the expectations . . . now I find all of it a quaint memory but I suspect that when the book came out in 1960 (my first year in college and the beginning of my growing disaffection with the life I'd been brought up to lead,) I suspect it just annoyed me. Too close, too familiar.

Now, with time and distance, I am enchanted with all of it -- the familiar voices and folkways, the inquisitive, intelligent Scout, the wise and upright Atticus, Jem, Dill, Calpurnia and the many eccentric characters who inhabit Maycomb. It's a wonderful book and it kept me reading till 2 in the morning. 

And when I awakened, I was on fire to go back to these characters -- flawed and imperfect as Watchman was rumored to be. So, with the instant gratification of my Kindle, I was back in Maycomb with the grown-up Scout -- now Jean Louise.

Oh, my -- and this was familiar too, beginning with the train ride and the 'roomette' (that was how my grandmother and I got to Troy for those visits.) I remember the consternation in the white community over Civil Rights, the fear that everything was about to change. (My Alabama relatives were said to be 'strong for George Wallace,") 

I didn't find it surprising that the saintly Atticus had the attitudes that he did. It seemed absolutely believable. And it didn't diminish his role in TKAM. He was still a moral force.

WATCHMAN has its flaws -- at times the grown up Jean Louise is nowhere near as likable as Scout. And some of the dialogue turns into speechifying at times. Still, I read it straight through, finishing in the wee hours of the morning, just as I had the previous day with MOCKINGBIRD.

You can see where Lee mined WATCHMAN for chunks of description or narrative to recycle in TKAM - the description of Aunt Alexandra, for example, or the story of Maycomb's founding. And there are are bits that would have benefited from a close editing. But it's still a terrific story.

For lovers of MOCKINGBIRD, there are lots of flashbacks to that time period. The range of eccentric characters is there.  Uncle Jack is particularly well done. And it was interesting to me to see what had happened to the characters from TKAM.

I thought WATCHMAN was a much harder hitting book than MOCKINGBIRD -- which makes me wonder if that's part of why it was not published. Too many home truths perhaps.

In 1960 when TKAM was published, it allowed white readers to feel good about themselves, to identify with Atticus in standing up for the underdog. (THE HELP did the same.) But WATCHMAN doesn't produce that same good feeling -- at best, it's a wary accommodation of the changes in society. The white folks of WATCHMAN have gone from benevolent in their care of the 'good coloreds' to uneasy and suspicious of them all.

And, alas, as I read, I kept thinking how relevant this old/new book is to today's not- exactly- post-racial society.

The scene where the grown-up  Jean Louise asks Calpurnia -- the now retired housekeeper who raised her -- if she had ever loved them ( Jem and Scout and Atticus) was especially poignant.  (I'll leave it to you to discover Calpurnia's answer.)

I was reminded of overhearing a relative complaining about the cold reception she received from the adult children of her ailing housekeeper/cook when she visited the old woman in the (Negro) hospital.  

"When I think of all we did for her! These young Coloreds have just gotten above themselves!"

I suspect those children resented the fact that the white family had seen far more of their mother than they ever had. For years their mother had cooked and cleaned five (it might have been six) days a week and served  after-school snacks and meals, including Thanksgiving and Christmas, to the white family. Her children got what little was left of her.

As I warned, my response to both of these novels is quite personal. I hear the voices; I know the people.  I remember the times with a combination of nostalgia and loathing.  But I loved both books.