So . . . we dug Howie free with our bare hands. Fortunately, the walls that confined the bulbous bumptaratum were mostly clay, studded here and there with limestone shale: hard, yes, but sufficiently pliable when gouged and clawed by desperate hands. It took at least a quarter hour of vigorous quarrying, several broken fingernails, and doubtlessly an incipient blister or two, but eventually we volunteer diggers clawed out just enough wiggle room for escape, and Howie dropped down into our midst like a space capsule home from the moon. We couldn’t make out his expression in the subterranean gloom but he had to have known that he was destined to become the butt of numerous butt jokes.
Ever professional, our geologist proceeded to deliver his intended talk on cave formation, although all of us suspected it was an abbreviated version. Then, dirty, tired, and anxious, the lot of us made for the surface, and I was hardly alone in making sure I stayed upward of Howie. Blue sky, when finally glimpsed, had seldom looked so sweet. We did not exit through the gift shop.
As part of the university’s physical education program, all W&L sophomores were given golf lessons. Behind the grandstand, those in my class gathered three times a week to practice the proper holding of a club, the addressing of the ball, and the swing with its all-important follow-through. In order to earn credit for the course, each of us, at the conclusion of these lessons, was obliged on his own to go actually play nine holes of golf at Lexington’s public links. However, on the final day of lessons, the instructor placed a plastic water pail approximately twenty yards from where we’d assembled, and brandishing a seven iron, announced that the student who, with said iron, landed his chip shot closest to the pail would be excused from playing the obligatory round. Okay, fair enough.
My turn. I addressed the ball. I swung. The ball was launched. The ball sailed. The ball looped. The ball came down. In the bucket. Not merely close to but . . . in the bucket! I kid you not. It was pure luck, of course, or divine intervention (the gods are always watching, and sometimes, usually when we least expect it, they smile on us, they grin and make it possible for us to pull something grand or goofy or both out of our bumptaratums). In any event, nodding at the future golfers, I laid down my club that fine spring afternoon and never picked one up again.
In one of my novels, I have a character say, “Golf is basketball for people who can’t jump and chess for people who can’t think.” That wasn’t very cute of me, especially since I have two good friends, a successful film director and a brilliant painter, who are fairly passionate about the game. My antipathy for golf is no doubt due to a certain prejudice against the men most often associated with amateur golfing: country-club types who use the links to make contacts, seal deals, swap information, and in general advance business careers without seeming to be conducting business; and, more recently in our social history, the kind of blue-collar round-the-clock sports nuts who consider the Super Bowl the crowning achievement of Western civilization, and for whom golf, unlike hockey, say, or football, is an opportunity to participate personally in a sport in which “real athletes” also perform. In both cases, these duffers delude themselves into believing they’re actually getting exercise, and in both cases, when push comes to shove, they’d rather be playing golf than having sex with their wives.
It’s been said that golf is a Zen activity. I’d argue that if golfers were practicing Zen, they wouldn’t keep score. Or ever get angry when they blow a shot. But what do I know? If you recall, I owe my personal enlightenment to a neon golf ball.
15
the right snuff
Obviously, I didn’t learn to play golf at Washington and Lee, but what, then, did I learn prior to dropping out at the end of my sophomore year? (Rumor has it that I was expelled from a fraternity -- some say the university -- for throwing biscuits at my house mother, but in fact, while there was a dining room food fight that got a trifle out of hand, I wasn’t expelled for my role therein, merely reprimanded.) Let me see: I learned that Henry Miller could write incandescent circles around the dullards we studied in lit. class (Andrew Marvell is not marvelous); I learned to read German (not simply newspapers but Rainer Maria Rilke and Thomas Mann); learned that wearing a coat and tie could be advantageous when hitchhiking; and, well, learned to drink bourbon, although in retrospect I could have learned that back in Blowing Rock from my old granny.
Sophronia Ann Robbins, known for miles around as “Aunt Phronie” or simply “Granny,” was a mountain woman right out of central casting. Tall and gaunt, her igloo white hair pulled back in a severe bun, she wore actual bonnets, high-top shoes, ankle-length gingham dresses that she made herself; kept a cow she milked every morning, churning her own butter; kept hogs she butchered in the fall, making not only sausage and liver mush from the flesh but rendering pig fat with lye in a huge cast-iron cauldron to produce the soap with which she laundered the family’s clothes, and with which, not suffering fools gladly, she would threaten to wash out the sassy mouths of her grandkids. (Once she scolded Cousin Martha and me that we weren’t fit to lick a dog’s ass, pronouncing “ass” as “ice” -- and suggesting that she could use some oral soaping herself.)
Granny carded raw wool, spun it, and fashioned quilts prized by summer people and locals alike, some examples of them ending up in galleries and museums devoted to Appalachian folk art. I wasn’t privy to the information as a child, but she was also a healer and practicing midwife of some repute: a newspaper once called her “the Florence Nightingale of the Mountains.” A lovely tribute, though it’s difficult to picture the saintly nurse Nightingale dipping snuff and downing bourbon.
In her last twenty years -- and despite or because of a life of hard work she lived to be ninety-two -- Granny was rarely seen without a birch twig protruding from her lips (the little sticks were used to tamp the snuff and when a snuff stick became frayed and drooped at an angle, it could be mistaken for the unlit fuse on a granny bomb). On the floor beside her old hickory rocking chair, a Maxwell House coffee can served as a spittoon, and evenings a tumbler of Four Roses straight Kentucky bourbon was ever within easy access.
My mother and my paternal grandmother had never gotten along, and that nightly glass of Four Roses became the target of Mother’s most poisonous rays of disdain. Never mind that Granny Robbins was a Bible-reading lifelong Southern Baptist widow of a part-time preacher. In Mother’s view, one could not possibly be a Christian and partake of whiskey, not even for medicinal purposes, as was Granny’s claim. Mother found Christianity -- even common decency -- and alcohol -- even in small amounts -- to be mutually exclusive.
Following my two years at W&L, I worked briefly in the mail room of a Richmond insurance company. It was a large firm, and on the last workday prior to Christmas break, there was a party in every department. As I went from floor to floor collecting outgoing mail, I would be offered at each stop a cup of cheer. Uncharacteristically prudent, I accepted but a swallow of spiked eggnog here, a sip of cheap champagne there, and when at the end of the day I rode a Trailways bus (I didn’t own a car) from Richmond to my parents’ new residence in nearby Colonial Heights, I remained by most standards sober. I did, however, smell faintly of booze, and that yeasty perfume was the stench of hell to Mother’s olfactory receptors.
Backing me into a corner beside the gaily decorated tree, she declared through teeth clenched so tight they could snap a bone in half that should I ever again attempt to enter her house with alcohol on my breath, her door would be closed to me forever. Forever!
That struck me as kind of cold. About as cold, in fact, as an assassin’s ice pick. The bartender in a Skid Road joint I, ever the romantic, frequented during my first months in Seattle, would say politely to an intoxicated customer he was asking to leave, “See ya later when you’re straighter.” Hello? A drunk in a dive is treated with a measure of respect and the promise of future congeniality, while a mother threatens to permanently disown her firstborn, her only son, should his exhalations suggest that he might have entertained a discreet swallo
w of wine?
I was hurt by that and held it against her much as she held against me my determination to see for myself what lies beyond dogma’s cinder-block walls. It was not until many years later, a full decade after her death in 1992, that I learned with a jolt what accounted for her rigid, relentless, and fierce opposition to adult beverages.
An elderly aunt, helping my sisters and me with some genealogical research, finally spilled the terrible beans. During an incident in which alcohol played a prominent role, my mother, then eighteen, had shot and killed her beloved older brother.
At twenty-eight, Conley Robinson was a successful, apparently charismatic Charlotte attorney. Although he’d yet to run for office, he was considered a rising star in North Carolina politics, and some thought he was being groomed for the governor’s mansion. Mother’s childhood had not been easy. Unloved and slighted by her stepmother (her biological mother had died when Mother was eight), ignored by a timorous and distracted father (another Baptist preacher), she turned for warmth to Conley, the family member she most respected and adored. In the interval between high school graduation and starting nursing training, she moved in with Conley and his wife, helping to care for the couple’s infant son.
One evening after working late, Conley stopped by a party at a social club, where he proceeded to get rather thoroughly plastered. When he arrived home, an argument ensued and Conley commenced, first verbally then physically, to abuse his wife. At one point, for reasons known only to a certain species of American male, he felt compelled to interject into the disagreement that metallic expression of the testosteronic imperative, a handgun. By then, Mother, awakened by the commotion, had come to the wife’s aid, and in the struggle that followed, Conley was shot dead.
Arrested, Mother spent at least one night in jail, though the shooting was eventually ruled either accidental or self-defense: details remain spotty. It was all the information I needed, however, to place my mother’s zero tolerance policy toward alcohol in a more forgiving perspective. How she must have suffered with that secret her entire adult life, taking refuge in the Bible and decaffeinated coffee. I’d like to think that had I known the truth, I might have been a kinder, more loving person. If only we knew the Truth, mightn’t we all?
Unless they’ve enjoyed an unusually close relationship, men do not regularly dream of their grandmothers, so it’s hardly unusual that Granny Robbins has appeared in my dreams only once as best I can recall. Dreams swim up and down my subconscious fish ladder in great profusion every single night, yet no matter how lurid, enchanting, or disturbing, they seem to vanish completely and permanently within hours if not minutes after waking. The dream in which Granny plays a role, however, I still clearly remember even though it occurred in my late teens. It remains one of the two or three most vivid, memorable and perhaps significant dreams of my long somnolent career.
It unfolded like this: I am a passenger on a large wooden raft that is slowly ascending up to and beyond the clouds. There are thirty or forty other people aboard, but the raft is by no means crowded. The people, all strangers to me, are friendly and cheerful, not in the least perturbed by the altitude or the absence of guardrails or seats; they’re just sociably milling about, a few listening to an old upright piano that’s being plunked at one end of the otherwise bare raft. At some point it becomes clear to me that the raft is on its way to heaven.
In the dream, I haven’t died nor have the other passengers been resurrected from their graves. It’s just Judgment Day, apparently, and we collection of living souls, presumably as a reward for our piety, have been provided free transportation to God’s promised paradise. Nobody is singing hymns or shouting hallelujah, there are no blaring trumpets, no posse of angels riding shotgun, it’s all rather low-key, but there is little doubt that the lot of us are glory-bound for the kingdom on high. Then, a funny thing happens: I fall off the raft.
It’s kind of a shock but it isn’t scary, because rather than tumbling head over heels, I fall slowly, gracefully. I’m worried about hitting the ground, naturally, but eventually find myself gliding and realize that I’m lying belly-down on a sled, a children’s sled, my own private Rosebud. The sled lands gently on a steep snow-covered road in Blowing Rock, a hill familiar to me as it’s right around the corner from the Robbins family homestead. The snow peters out, the sled continuing to coast over gravel and dirt for a few more yards before coming to rest. I stand up. It’s very, very quiet. Not a person is in evidence -- which makes perfect sense: it’s Judgment Day and the entire population has been airlifted to heaven or jerked down to hell, depending on their résumés.
Feeling like humanity’s lonely orphan, unsure what to do next, I turn the corner and walk down deserted Rainey Street. Then I see her! Granny Robbins, in her long granny dress and Frankenstein shoes, is standing in the expansive front yard next to her prize hydrangea bush, matter-of-factly raking leaves. So what if it’s Judgment Day? She’s got chores to do. As I walk up and greet her, the dream abruptly ends.
Now, I’ve never attempted to analyze that dream, never consulted a Jungian psychologist or one of the popular dream manuals. I’m unconvinced, in fact, that dreams have a lot of meaning. When we fall asleep, our mind is relieved of duty, it goes on recess, takes a play period, starts looking around for recreation. In that playful mode it snatches up images, figures, and locales from our memory vault and rearranges them, often randomly, usually out of context, for its own amusement or stimulation, trying different incongruous combinations just to observe the results. Your memory bank is your sleeping mind’s toy box. Sometimes these art projects, these little private movies and impromptu skits, require themes to legitimize them, so the mind will seize on our current worries or deep-seated fears for subject matter, and because our mind isn’t completely confined to our brain but extends, abridged, throughout our organism, biological urges (say we’re hungry, horny, or have to pee) will sometimes intrude upon the dream show, adding a touch of stark reality to what is essentially a surreal production.
Okay, but having said all that, I’m left with the still-lucid recollection of that particular dream, puzzled why it, among tens of thousands of other dreams, would have made such a lasting impression that sometimes even now “during the solemnity of midnight when every bosom is at rest except that of love and sorrow” (as they characterized insomnia in more poetic times), I’ll picture Granny and me alone on Judgment Day and wonder if there is some wider meaning there, some cryptic message from a hidden dimension, from the Other, from the Over Self. Or if it was simply that heaven didn’t want us and hell was afraid we’d take over.
16
cry for funny
The evening of my twenty-first birthday found me not in a festive bar enjoying the first legal cocktail of my shiny new adulthood, but perched instead in saggy underwear atop an olive-green footlocker shining ill-fitting new black shoes to a gloss lustrous enough to satisfy the perverse demands of a uniformed sadist who’d be in my face berating me ere the cock crowed thrice on the morrow. No, a bar it surely was not, yet there was live musical entertainment of a sort, and in a peculiar sense it affected my life in ways beyond the reach of any lounge singer in any gin joint this side of Casablanca.
Two weeks earlier, I had enlisted in the United States Air Force. Why? -- one might fairly ask. Well, for precisely the same reason that 90 percent of all enlistees join the military, which is to say, I was at a point in my life when I didn’t know what else to do.
Professional patriots, religious demigods, and politicians of all stripes are wont to shine the shoes of their public image by periodic references to “the heroic men and women who sacrifice so much in order to keep America safe and preserve our freedom.” There may have been a few times in our nation’s history when such tribute was accurate and deserved (in the days and weeks following the attacks on Pearl Harbor and the World Trade Center, for example), but I have to say that during four years in the air force, including posting at an army base in Korea; and durin
g numerous conversations with both veterans and those on active duty, I never once heard a serviceman or -woman claim that he or she had joined up in order to preserve American values and keep their countrymen free. By and large, young people have enlisted in order to escape boredom, financial difficulties, bad relationships, and general stagnation.
The travel and adventure promised (and, yes, often delivered) by the military is not a component of basic training. From the hour one lands in boot camp all thoughts of future fun and past attachments are pounded out of one’s consciousness; one is locked in a perpetual present designed to purge one of any trace of individuality and extract from one any erg of energy with which one might presume to resist. Talk about a makeover! It can leave the new recruit feeling exhausted, beaten down, lost, apprehensive, and that he’s probably made a terrible mistake. That, as a matter of fact, fairly accurately describes the state most of my platoon mates and I would be in when, slumped on our footlockers at Sampson Air Force Base, New York, buffing our ugly brogans and dreading the too-soon-upon-us dawn, we’d be treated to the aforementioned “musical entertainment.”
Almost to a man, the two dozen or so recruits in our platoon had lived their entire lives in the racially segregated South, only to find themselves now in a freshly integrated military, spending days and nights in close company and on equal footing with members of a familiar yet alien race. There were only three or four blacks in our unit and the attitude of the white guys seemed one of passive curiosity rather than hostility or resentment, although frankly we were all too tired and distracted to give racial differences much thought. There was at least one prominent difference, however, and it asserted itself in a manner whose benefits the Pentagon could not have foreseen.