I think and write a lot about water. As a child, I lived out the warm days on lakes and bayous and any watering hole. The attraction was strong and yet, I retained a great fear of such places. Water meant sink holes, snakes, and sorted old tales about someone who drown, stories punctuated with words like foolishness and risky and wild. These tales played out even while swimming. Often bridges came into play. Old bridges. My friends and I walked them, out in the middle of nowhere, across waters that would have reached up and took our lives with a cold smile. Bridges like this one where old men fish bass for their supper.
I have such an aversion to winter. I suppose this is because the early years of my life were spent in the bottom half of the state, and cold winters were few. Then, snow was a delight. Later in life I moved to the northwest of the state and the winters changed. They are wet and cool, so damp they turn my bones blue. I began to look for the Saucer Magnolia, a small, pink variety of the magnolia family. I often call them Tulip Trees. Like the Dogwood, they are one the first signs of Spring in Mississippi, and I adore them. Strange, I have none in my garden. Maybe this year. Yes, this year, I'll plant a couple.
(I am always looking for signs.)
It is true that literature absorbs folklore. You can read that phrase in many articles about The South. Faulkner's work is a clear example of this. But if we look at Faulkner closely, we can glimpse the primitive beliefs of Mississippi's people in an age when books were rare things.
I've been on a "Faulkner journey" for a few years now. He's not an easy read. I am hoping to take a college course on him this fall or next year, along with one on Mississippi History. I took this photo today. The tree stands behind Faulkner's house. I was amazed at the roots on this tree and will post more photos this week.
Faulkner named his house Rowan Oak, because he believed it was good luck, the rowan tree legendary for protecting folks from fairies and otherworldly creatures. I believe, but am not sure that he planted several rowans and they all died, which makes me smile when I think of Faulkner.
Book Recommendation
“A dark, unpredictable mystery that . . . shimmer[s] with sumptuous descriptions and complicated psychologies. . . . Occult accoutrements, descriptions of the wild landscape, and a twisting-turning plot create an uncertain atmosphere that constantly shift readers’ perceptions of who is trustworthy.”
—Publishers Weekly
April Tucholke is one of the best prose masters writing in Young Adult or Adult fiction. Her stories are never simple, often defy genre, and present problems that the readers must solve. I love her work and highly recommend it.
I'm stuck here, in this place. I know I've written about it before and will do so again. It's a path at Butler-Greenwood Plantation outside of St. Francisville, Louisiana. I have the fondest memories of it, and now the memories have taken on a life of their own. I feel as rooted as the trees, as settled as the old bricks at the bottom of these steps. Memory feeds my work. I write best if I am writing through this kind of bewildering, because there is a vagueness to memories, yes a truth, but also a fantasy. This is born out of past experiences and present dreams. Maybe future hopes?
And I am living in that haze.
And I suppose that is what writing fiction is too, capturing this haze and passing it down to some reader.
