GOLDEN RAINTREE 4TH OF JULY NOSTALGIA

This 21^st Century I sometimes find myself reflecting on 20^th Century life, even 19^th Century remnants carried over that I encountered when young – the General Store, the place to shop in my grandmother's and aunt's small villages; the gazebo in the town’s “center” on a weekend afternoon where a small group of local musicians played the “oom pah pah” music rhythms carried over from the previous era. 

Patriotic holidays like July 4th celebrating Independence Day attracted the entire community to either participate in, or cheer on the school's marching band augmented by a few old-timers parading down the center of town.   Colorful red, white and blue stars and stripes flags waved by onlookers then, in my Midwest state neighboring that of the golden raintree, fluttered everywhere as they continue to do  yearly in these parades. including where I live now on the Pacific's West Coast in Southern California. 

When I was young, a variety of books, magazines and comic books captured my attention.  In addition to classic books an older relative had received when young, and periodically sent me, I sometimes was also gifted with a brand-new book for my birthday, or at Christmas.  That is how I came to read all about The Bobbsey Twins. 

During my middle to upper elementary school ages we continued to live in town.   I used to ride the city bus down town,  then took only a block’s walk to our local library.   Saturdays, and during the summertime when we had school vacation, to occasionally be permitted to travel alone by bus downtown increased my self-confidence that not only was I trusted, I was capable of taking care of myself.  I'm sure this freedom contributed significantly to my developing an independent nature.

I examined numerous library books, some quite at length, before selecting a few I was permitted to check out.   I recall becoming interested in historical fiction, also at that age I enjoyed Lorna Doone, said to be a romance novel infused with some historical characters.  Probably some of the books I examined I might not have been allowed to check out since I was so young – librarians likely screening to protect my youthful sensibilities. 

I concluded during those pre-teen years that reading big thick books with lots of pages often held more interesting complex stories.   So, I sometimes just wandered down aisles, randomly selecting such hefty books, flipped them open to the middle, then read a few paragraphs.   That’s how I encountered one of the books I read only at the library, Madame Bovary -- also one in which I probably read more paragraphs than in some others.   

My 35 cents a week allowance I spread pretty thin, so I made certain to never have any library late fees.   My mother endeavored teaching me to be selective in my tastes and not squander my limited funds on what she thought would be a waste of my time and money -- such cheap stuff which included most ten cent comic books with superheroes and villains, serial movie matinees at the local theater.   I’ve become a bit more accepting, enjoying those super heroic humorous characters in some recent generations’ movies.  

“True” comic book was an occasional exception because the stories were based on history in Mother's view.   Years later when I was a teen, a comic book that attracted me then was the satirical “Mad” with the “What, Me Worry” boy, Alfred E. Neuman for which she had little appreciation.      

We had by then, years before, left the town of my early years following significant changes in family makeup, location, and financial status.   From my Jr. High through Sr. High School years we lived in what I generously describe as being the “boonies”, or if I desired to present a classier tone I would describe those years as being when we “lived in the country” and the immediately succeeding years when we had “a cottage near a lake.”  Privately, I knew the latter would have been described as more like a shack compared to where we had lived in the Midwest.  I was learning the nuances of language and the situations in which it might be wise to use those more palatable terms.    

I no longer had such ready access to a library, or even to checking books out from school.   My having books to read was quite limited.  Pop was enamored with the book “Scottish Chiefs” by Jane Porter which didn’t capture my interest at the time (he would have liked the years later movie “Brave Heart” about Sir William Wallace).    

Mother’s vision problems had long since developed to a degree she could no longer read most print – large size print books were generally not available.  In fact, I had to read to her the letters she received.   Some years later, I was able to obtain a subscription from the Library of Congress for her to receive by mail the Talking Books, on records then.  They later transitioned to tape before becoming audio books, now digitized, distributed here through the Braille Institute.   

Knowing I missed reading, Mother quickly accepted a new book offered, that I could even keep, when a casual friend wondered if her daughter might like this fictional novel, Raintree County by Ross Lockridge, Jr., her son had earlier received as a book of the month selection.   

Other forms of entertainment from the arts were pretty much absent from my life, except for what I might encounter at school.  I was thrilled to finally see a movie again when our English teacher took us to see “Hamlet” starring Sir Lawrence Oliver’ in a performance which totally mesmerized me – the visual effects when Hamlet encountered his father’s ghost in those black and white film days before technicolor were chilling.   

To say that aspects of my being were starved for nourishment during those years would be an understatement, so when I received Raintree County that summer I became totally immersed in the words and story which captured my imagination.   I tended toward romanticized fantasy despite life's realities.   The over a thousand page novel's conclusion came too soon, did not resolve as I might have wished, but the visualizations conjured in my mind have lingered throughout my life.  

I sometimes thought, I would really like to meet that author and discuss his book with him.  This Wikipedia excerpt describes the world into which I entered, encapsulated in an ethereal environment, entranced, beneath a magnificent golden raintree. 

“The book is often surreal, with dream sequences, flashbacks and departures from the linear narrative. It has been described as an effort to mythologize the history of America, which to a great degree it succeeds in doing through the eyes and the commentary of John Shawnessy. For example, a number of turning points in John's life seem to coincide with Fourth of July celebrations.”

Years later the book was made into a movie that deterred significantly from the novel’s storyline.   I was disappointed that the movie did not do justice to the book, though most movies don’t – two totally different story-telling mediums.    But…that said, I did derive some momentary satisfaction in how the movie concluded their story, even though the ending was altered from the book. 

Nat King Cole sings the movie’s theme, a melancholy harmonica in the background.

The character emphasis in the movie’s created story probably had to do with embroidering the roles played by the stars chosen to play them, especially the female lead, Elizabeth Taylor.    Something similar occurred with a movie that has come to be considered a classic, “To Kill A Mockingbird”, as revealed by the book’s author years later.   In that movie the male lead’s part was beefed up, his character made more idealistic, at the star’s, Gregory Peck’s, insistence, but this was not quite how the author portrayed the character in the book -- or observed the person to be in real life, her father, who served as the model.    In fact, the author said she intended the story to revolve more around the child (actually the author) from whose perspective the story was being told.       

I think my circumstances during 1948, a significant year for multiple reasons, coupled with my youthful mindset, probably had some bearing on why reading Raintree County published that same year affected me as it did then, and why the novel has continued to remain such a nostalgic memory.   Certainly, I’ve read many books since, impacting me emotionally.    I have bookcases filled with print, running the gamut from nonsense to the profound, from little known to some considered among the greatest writing, fiction, nonfiction, biography, autobiography, and much more. 

Why some literature, music, paintings, artistic creations resonate with us at various times in our lives can be very complex.   Our reaction likely has little or nothing to do with how critics may assess a creation, or the general public’s response in popularity.   I wish I could have told Ross Lockridge, Jr. about my reaction to his only book, but I discovered years later that would never be possible.  You see, shortly after the movie was released, the book’s author committed suicide at age 33.   Ever after, I’ve always wondered, why?   

Many years later sharing this with a personal friend, who happened also to be a creative writing teacher, she noted, having read the book, she was not at all surprised he committed suicide.    I never understood what about his story caused her to have this view.   Ironically, a couple decades later she engaged in behaviors she had to have known could and did culminate in her own death, much too early. 

I was reminded of all this a few years after my husband’s death (not a suicide) and I came upon the information Ross Lockridge, Jr.’s son, Larry Lockridge who was only 5 years of age when his father died (coincidentally my age when my father abandoned our family) had written his father’s biography titled In the Shade of the Raintree published in 1994.    The book was re-released a few years ago.  Later, I happened on an Internet free copy offer which I accepted by writing that author a letter and soon received the biography.    

I fully intended to read the son’s book and write about it here, but for some unknown reason, I couldn’t bring myself to start reading the book immediately.   When I did start reading I was pleased to discover the son’s writing to be that of a very polished experienced writer as I later discovered he actually was.   The book is filled with page tabs I placed throughout, as I read words that resonated with me in some way.  Yet, when I finished I still could not quite bring myself to write that blog post. 

The son’s account was very emotionally moving to me – making the acquaintance of one who might have been dear to him though his memories of his father were limited – the descriptive word picture painted of his father’s life – his mentions of possible contributors to depression’s pain.   I thought, too, of the ramifications of life-ending actions on those left to grapple with the consequences.      

Someone I cared for many years ago ended his life.  I learned soon after that his behavior revealed he had become severely depressed.  I was angry to hear those close to him had reacted in the manner  they did, however well-intentioned, but misguidedly inadequate.   He clearly needed professional help -- so much more than they provided.  I recalled words he had said to me many years earlier, in retrospect revealing the seeds of pain that might have portended his possible outcome. 

If only he had not been so idealistic, been less noble, moral or ethical, he might have avoided reaching that low emotional state into which he sank, or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.  In my sorrow mixed with pain I was angry with him, too.   Why hadn’t he called me?  I could only think of that saying, "the truly good die young".  I felt similarly about my writing teacher friend after being informed of her death.  

I never wrote as I intended about Raintree County, or about In the Shade of the Raintree.  I never wrote Larry Lockridge to tell him how much I appreciated his writing about his father -- to thank him again for the biography.   Often when the 4^th of July comes around, thoughts and visions of the book’s mystical golden raintree flash through my mind much as Ross Lockridge, Jr.’s words first planted that mental imagery.      

Movie clip of Montgomery Clift (hero John Shawnessy) and Lee Marvin (Orville “Flash” Perkins) in 4^th of July race culminating with Elizabeth Taylor (Susanna Drake) and Eva Marie Saint (Nell Gaither) HERE.

THE VERY ORDINARY -- EXTRAORDINARY

(This started out as an intended humorous commentary about a mundane aggravating frustrating unwelcomed after-holiday experience I had, then I clearly seem to have lost control of the content as the words went elsewhere on their own and I, too, became just another reader.)

ONCE IN A WHILE I get a hankering for various foods that I can picture in my mind, almost literally smell and taste in my mouth. I had been thinking about one particular such food combination around the time I gave thought to menu planning for the the past holidays. "What was there to plan?" I asked myself at that time, since there was only me at home, so instead I went out to eat on Thanksgiving -- an account about which I wrote previously.

Despite the fact I could have been with friends, I wanted to see what being alone on a traditional family holiday would be like. My reasoning was I might just as well become accustomed to being alone, since that was my life now. Somehow it seemed to me the longer I waited to have that experience, the more difficult adaptation might be. I didn't expect any serious issues, so I had no negative self-fulfilling prophecies. After all, there are people all over the world who for one reason or another, by choice or not, find themselves alone.

That's not to minimize the feelings, reactions to memories I found myself experiencing on that occasion, but I could embrace the sadness, the loss, the wistful longing, along with remembering the joyful, happy, loving feelings I experienced, all as discrete elements combining to contribute to the richness of my life.

My Christmas holidays were quite a different matter. I would have some very special family members present for what would be my first Christmas alone since -- well, I can't remember since when, or maybe never. For our holiday dinner I allowed them to select the foods of their choice. The primary determination centered on the meat -- turkey, ham, prime rib, or some other preference.

We had previously made plans for a number of activities for various days, so a variety of ways for simple quick food preparation was desired. Along with Christmas preparations including decorating the tree, baking cookies, shopping, there was to be a trip to the taping of a TV show in L.A. that my granddaughter was anticipating; then an afternoon and evening at Griffith Observatory, and another day a matinee lunch featuring a special Christmas musical at a nearby dinner theatre. Then after Christmas the younger set wanted to participate in decorating a Rose Parade float, an activity which had become an instant tradition after their having done so the previous year for the first time.

Considering our activity plans, we decided we would like leftovers that could readily be made into sandwiches, eaten cold if we chose. Comparing notes we discovered we'd all had turkey at Thanksgiving, so choosing ham for a variation was logical and easy. Almost immediately, I began envisioning my dining future when I was once again alone, concluding my advanced planning would insure the ham bone would be left with lots of ham still attached.

Past years on those holidays when my husband and I had ham, toward the end of the ham's life we followed what became a tradition we took for granted. This unofficial tradition evolved before the children were born, and we discovered that we both liked very ordinary soup beans with ham and cornbread. We did, however, disagree as to whether or not the beans should be small or large size -- just one of those topics that can stimulate conversation, give new meaning to the word compromise, increase awareness for the need of "adjustments" in order to enhance the possiblity of relationship compatability, since neither of us could recall our wedding vows specifically covering that bean topic. I've also realized we couldn't have avoided those issues even if we had merely lived together instead of marrying.

I think the bean issue must be an example of the fact that partners in a relationship may handle major items reasonably well, but it's the little things that can be wearing over time. Despite all that, sometime, at least once yearly, during each of those five years with just the two of us, we managed the ham 'n beans with cornbread routine. The size of the bean usually depended upon who purchased them at the store. The meaty combination was always better when reheated, whatever the size bean, beginning especially with the second day, so we made a pretty big pot of beans.

Our bean soup tradition became even more special to us when two years after we wed, we bought our first house, set in the outskirts of a rapidly growing area of 300,000 which is now the fifteenth largest city in the U.S. Our house and acre an-a-third property has long since been devoured by a housing development of million dollar homes. We sold it when my husband's employment required we move, ultimately, to a distant location. Too bad! If we had lived there only a few more years, we would have made a significant amount of money on our property -- IF we had been willing to sell to the developers. If we hadn't been willing to sell they probably would have figured out a way to get it through eminent domain in the name of progress.

I can still envision in that house our first real working fireplace, an activity described in songwriter vocalist Mel Torme's The Christmas Song lyrics "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." In my memory as the chestnuts roast, I'm gazing out our front picture window at snow-covered leafless maple trees in regal stance at irregularly spaced intervals in arc shape around our house, as though we were in the midst of a forest clearing. Interspersed among them were varying numbers of birch, elm, oak, smaller red bud trees, tall evergreen trees with one mixed grouping appearing as though they were standing protective guard around a seemingly radiating little blue spruce tree which will always be the most beautiful blue spruce I have ever seen. When I think of that house, that idyllic picturesque location, I always feel nostalgic, a sense of sadness wondering what happened to our blue spruce tree? This, as with much in life, is a question for which there will never be an answer for me to know.

Back to the present, the holidays are over, family members are gone, I am once again alone. The first month of a brand new year has arrived, bringing with it what comes to feel like a "holiday letdown" of some sort. My thoughts turn to those soup beans with ham and cornbread. I forgot to mention, our children never liked that food combination, so we didn't really resume that long ago routine regularly, until after they had left home and, once again, there was just the two of us. Now, there would be just me to savor this very ordinary dining fare so I began the simple preparations.

The large size soup beans had successfully soaked through the night swelling to even much larger proportion, having absorbed so much of the water in which I had placed them. I poured off the small amount of excess water as my mother long ago taught me, that was a cautionary but highly recommended technique to prevent the confirmation of my father's oft-voiced conviction expressed in rhyme, "beans, beans, the musical fruit." The simple addition of fresh warm water to the now-swelled beans along with adding the ham bone with lots of ham and additional cut-up ham cubes as well as onions, which was all my husband every wanted in the bean pot, was all that was necessary before moving the pot and contents to the stove top. The mixture then simmered on the stove top burner for a couple of hours, or however long I wanted to leave it.

When the beans started cooking, I selected a time in my mind when I would want to pre-heat my oven, mix my cornbread -- again plain, no variations with creamed or whole corn kernels or jalapenos that I found tasty -- perhaps another year I'll bake cornbread variations. The batter is poured into the readied 9 inch square pan, but what is this -- the external light has not gone out, which signals the oven has reached the desired temperature for baking the golden corn bread which I am now highly anticipating eating. I wait...and I wait...and I wait some more. Finally, I hesitantly open the oven door, quickly thrusting my hand inside in order to feel the heat, prepared to just as quickly remove it lest my flesh be cooked. What heat? The oven is barely warm, and I can see only the filaments barely lit up inside the crystal clear light bulb in the back of the oven. Obviously, there is a problem, my oven has died!

I pride myself in adaptive compensatory skills for whatever life throws my way, including a loved ones earlier death and now this present terminal condition of my oven. I hastily pre-heat a toaster oven which has imprecise temperature setting markings, so I just guess. I grab muffin tins from the shelf beneath my stove top, paper liners from my pantry, spoon cornbread batter into each cup from the previously filled 9 inch square cornbread batter-filled pan, then place the muffin tin in the toaster oven for a duration of time at which I again guess. When the top of the muffins start browning, I conclude they are done. In fact, they turned out to be more than done, and the muffins golden yellow dry insides had hardly the moisture, texture and flavor I had come to highly anticipate. The ham 'n beans were tasty, the corn muffins edible at best.

I'll have the oven repaired or replaced in time, but am having difficulty finding service since this is an oven probably dating to when this house was built forty or fifty years ago. I use the microwave and toaster oven for myself most of the time anyway. I'll bake a fresh pan of cornbread to enjoy with some other desired food of my choice when my taste buds next prod me to do so, or perhaps I'll do that to check out the oven function when next I have one that works.

I couldn't help thinking, though, isn't this so like life? We have periods of high anticipation, instances of lowered expectations, events of desolation, but begin examining what we must do to rectify problems, and in so doing focus on a glimmer of hope. Then, in a more calm aftermath we relish the richness of what we have, settle for some of the mediocrity, consider our future, begin further thinking, dreaming, planning and anticipating what we want and hope to be able to realistically achieve in the years ahead. I believe this to be a true, viable manner in which to view and approach life experiences, whatever our age and circumstances. I also have become aware that over the years, as with my bean soup 'n cornbread, the very ordinary often does become extraordinary, upon reflection

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