Recognizable Background

I note this week a letter in the Times from a Ms. Carlisle taking exception to Ms. Seltzer, who "by pretending to have led a life she has not, and by passing off that lie as a memoir, has betrayed those of us who have stories to tell and who attempt to write them honestly and faithfully."

I'm taking exception to the exception.

An alarming letter in the local rag a few weeks ago complained our town has "gone downhill this past year because of a chronic problem with intoxicated individuals, unruly gangs wandering in the streets, and drifters who lurk on the Parkway." Intrigued by 'lurk,' I looked it up. There was lie-in-ambush, sneak, conceal - hardly words which come to mind looking at the poor souls who sit forlornly on a guardrail in plain view holding an "I'm hungry," sign. This letter writer, who's clearly annoyed just by the sight of their passing presence through a windshield, employs lurk instead of sit to tell a better story.

Another writer this past week takes exception to a prior letter writer taking exception at those not wishing to help African refugees who settle in our small town in lieu of assisting the lurkers described above. She contends no one should worry Africans take jobs intended for the native-born since our own lurking homeless 'wouldn't hit a lick at a snake.' I don't know what that means, exactly, but I think I get the point.

AP writer Douglas Birch warns, though "Tomorrow's presidential election (in Russia) marks a symbolic end to a tortured post-Soviet odyssey from poverty to economic might, the country has embraced a rigid political orthodoxy - call it Putinism - that the Kremlin has used to crush the independence of political parties, civil society and the media."

First off, putin, which sounds something my two-year old godson is more wont to do than a world leader, is an invitingly funny word, like pickle, or, coincidentally, seltzer. Another AP writer, Mansur Mirovalev, informs us, 'anekdoty,' indeed, "have long been a litmus test of public opinion and individual liberties in a country where in the past, people faced exile, prison, or worse for expressing their opinions directly."

Putin, barred by law from another term, ran Medvedev for president, to appoint himself Prime Minister, to still exercise power behind the scenes. What follows is an example of Russian anekdoty: "Putin and Medvedev wake up with hangovers. Putin says, "which of us is president and which of us is prime minister today? Medvedev says, "I don't remember." Putin says, "then go fetch some beer."

I have to say as someone who tries from time to time to write with some small degree of wit, if 'attempted joke' was a felony offense in the U.S, and I could be shot or exiled to Alaska, the joke has to be funny, if not, downright hysterical. I'm not saying I wouldn't still try, but to take that risk, the punchline needs to be more humorous than 'fetch a beer.'

A theme in this blog since it began is to convey what it means to be Southern. In times when it seems reality itself is more bizarre than fiction, it's not surprising memoirs are king, since the public demands a truth that leaves little room for a good-natured exaggeration which always formed the foundation of the best stories.

Speaking of South, could anyone ever surpass F. Scott, who fashioned the following speech for a Southern woman out of place in New York City:

"These were just men, unimportant evidently or they wouldn't have been unknown; but they died for the most beautiful thing in the world - the dead South. You see, she continued, her voice still husky, her eyes glistening with tears, people have these dreams they fasten onto things, and I've always grown up with that dream. It was so easy because it was all dead and there weren't any disillusions comin' to me. I've tried in a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige - there's just the last remnants of if, you know, like the roses of an old garden lying all around us."

Truth, sublime, submerged, the hallmark of genius, the envy of hacks. Perhaps, though, in order for honesty to hit home, there must first be recognizable background. I instinctively understand Fitzgerald, because I live and speak Southern.

Farther afield, desiring to enjoy Shakespeare, lacking ability to translate its foreign language, I discovered the key - buying the essential DK Shakespeare Handbook. Just to solitarily read its plot summaries and character descriptions drives the life out of the drama - but if you read first, then attend a play, you've got it - you need not struggle to catch the drift; you enjoy the experience, no longer a challenge, still not necessarily grasping all, mind you, but enough to make the difference.

The recognizable background of two letters hit my desk, these past few weeks, that promise stories far beyond the surface of the paper upon which they were written.

The first was from a police department in California. On Christmas eve, someone left a check in a manger on a church altar. With no leads towards its rightful owner, it was returned to sender. What gripping story lays beyond the facts of the case? Enough, certainly, for a gripping movie of the week, no doubt, starring Valerie Bertinelli and Tom Bosley.

The second was simple enough in itself. In an old bureau, a fella found a World War I savings certificate, purchased by his great grandfather, and wanted to know if it was redeemable, and of course, with the interest due. The grander story involves the building in which I work that was constructed in 1919 to process correspondence such as this relative to the issuance of World War I bonds. What epic journey must have transpired for this letter to find its way home?

Whether stories are real, or not, matters less than the imagination they stir which beckons us from the margins to enjoin the page.