Читать книгу Leaving Rollingstone - Kevin Fenton - Страница 8

I tend to reduce my childhood to a beatles movie—an edited, accelerated, saturated, and scripted happiness.

Before dawn, late November, almost winter, a kitchen in a farmhouse on a ridge above Rollingstone, Minnesota, a village in the southeastern part of the state, in country that looks more like New England than anything in the Midwest.

I am still sleepy, so more of the world seeps in. The windows in the kitchen look out toward the machine shed, yet I can’t see anything but the reflection of the halo-shaped kitchen light, the blue flame of our gas stove, the tutti-frutti-speckled linoleum, and my family, standing in bathrobes. We all stand on the floor vents, aligning ourselves along the wall like the saints in church. If I were to place my hand on the glass, I would feel its chill. But I’m standing away from it, the metal floor vents embossing my bare feet, the air from the vent heating my shins and tickling my pajama bottoms. My mom walks from person to person and refills our cocoa. Then she makes another trip and gives us toast. It looks as if she is serving us communion. When I dip the toast, the margarine floats and glows on top of the cocoa. I eat the triangle of cocoa-soaked toast in one bite.

We leave our mugs in the sink, sprint upstairs, and tug on jeans and flannels. We step into boots in the entryway; we run out the door; the chill air surprises our lungs and smoothes our skin. We hurry, almost running, goofing around in the way that we have learned from Beatles movies, yelling, mock-threatening. The yard light illuminates the graveled driveway and grassy strip in front of the barn. We pass the shed, then the chicken coop. My brother Dennis turns right, into the barn. Dad follows behind us. He limps. Hip replacements have shortened one leg, but the latest operation appears to be taking. He is careful. At this time of year in southern Minnesota, the ground can ice over.

Dad is careful; we’re not. Dawn tints the sky and reveals the horizon. We jog into the barnyard, stepping in shit, following the strangely thin cow trails, darting into the nibbled land, past the leafless birch trees, wiry raspberry brambles, and dry milkweeds. We sprint. We locate the cows and urge them toward the barn. Now, we slow because the cows, not having seen Beatles films, take their time. There are fewer than thirty of them, so we know their grandmotherly names: Abigail, Bessie. Because they have names, we love them a little too much. When the cows are in their stalls, the girls and I walk up to the house. Dennis and Dad stay behind to milk them. We stop at the chicken coop—a cave of straw and poop, lit by bare bulbs, toothy with beaks and claws. We collect the eggs.

The girls put on records while we get ready for school. The candy-colored, fragile 45s spin like a county fair ride; the needle skates and scratches above them. Herman’s Hermits’ “No Milk Today.” Uncool but surprisingly beautiful. The Ohio Express’s “Yummy Yummy Yummy.” Uncool but surprisingly fun. Dennis runs in after finishing the milking and quickly gets ready. He washes and then changes from his farmer clothes into penny loafers, blue jeans, and an untucked oxford shirt. He Brylcreems his hair and sticks the comb in his pocket. He looks like one of the Beach Boys.

My oldest sister, Maureen, and my mom have left for Winona, where Mom works in the hospital and Maureen attends college. Everyone else is ready. I follow them out to the pickup. Because there is only a front seat, we either cram together or I hop into the open back. Memory sputters here, so I imagine what happens next. Dennis says something like, “We really wanted you to sit in the front seat with us … but …” And here Dennis parodies a customs agent who has noticed a difficulty he wishes he could dismiss but knows he must address. He winces; he visibly cogitates.

He finally speaks again. “It seems that, well … it just seems that you … might not be … cool enough.”

Colleen says, “Oh, Dennis, stop being so mean.” But even she knows that his threat is about as mean as the crust on an apple pie.

“Okay, this time, you’re in. But try to get a lot cooler by tomorrow morning.” We cram into the front seat and head into town. As we descend the hill and approach the zag we call Devil’s Curve, Dennis accelerates, to scare the girls. They scream as they look out over the tree-interrupted drop that separates them from the Speltzes’ pasture. There is no glass in the window in the back of the pickup. Cold air swirls behind our heads; heated air blasts toward us. We could stick some cardboard in there, but that wouldn’t be cool, either.

After school, Colleen and Sheila dance in the living room to Freddy Cannon, who sings the theme to the teenybopper show Where the Action Is. The girls Frug and Twist and Pony to a voice—tinny, manic—that sounds like a transistor radio. He wants to take them where the action is, on the Sunset Strip. Later in the show, young men in Revolutionary War costumes—wigs, tri-cornered hats—play guitars and keyboards on the beach.

At night, Dennis and the girls ricochet knock-knock jokes from their beds, between our room and theirs.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Pecan.”

“Pecan who?”

“Pecan someone your own size.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Gorilla.”

“Gorilla who?”

“Gorilla me a cheese sandwich.”

The point of the jokes is the awfulness of the jokes. We are all already tucked in. The lights are out. Our voices frolic like cartoon ghosts.

I watch this private movie of my childhood when my adult mind becomes ugly with the present—when my resentments bore even me. My mind tends toward the obsessive. I don’t solve problems so much as erode them. But when I remember the farm, my thoughts simplify until they are not uniquely human. I feel mute and sensitive to love. I feel as if I am nosing among happy presence. I feel with the wistfulness of a beloved dog: I liked these humans. I am sad that they have left.

This remembered, composited day was not as simple as I remember. I was seven. I missed things.

Farming is simple only to those who’ve never tried it. A farm is a factory open to the weather, with a delicate inventory and a fickle market. It requires seven-days-a-week work, favorable weather, heavy lifting, substantial credit lines, and tricky decisions on equipment upgrades. Spend too little on these upgrades and you fall behind. Spend too much and the debt can cripple you.

The seemingly simple world of hay bales and manure was whipsawed by invisibilities: the slippery paradoxes of agricultural economics, the esoteric protections of agricultural law, which encoded Jefferson’s love of the family farm into a thousand exceptions. Understand these oddities and you could hedge against the vagaries of weather and economics; your hard work could become that legally blessed thing called a corporation; you could pass your farm on without bankrupting your children. Fail to understand them and they become one more storm that gathers on the horizon. Nearly twenty years later, I would study agricultural law and get one of a handful of law school As, but I never went into law. It was too late; my truest clients no longer needed me.

After we had all left for school and my father was alone in the farmhouse, his past may have strobed in his mind: It was 1938 in Cabery, Illinois. His basketball team had won a district tournament. He and his teammates packed into one of those bulbous 1930s cars. I suspect the boys were that rare thing: young people aware of their youth, carbonated with victory, giddy with the fluidity of their layups, the precision of their set shots, the deftness of their passes. As they drove along, celebrating and taunting each other, the driver dropped a lit cigarette by his foot. It jiggled and glowed by the accelerator. He bent to pick it up, revealing sky to those in the backseat. The land was flat. The sky in front of them was huge, so huge it felt like grief; its immensity evaporated the human. In that moment, the car swerved, struck a stone historical marker, and detonated.

As Dad awoke on the pavement, tangled in wreckage, his lungs surprised by the winter air, his eyes confronted by a strange perspective, his body jolted with shock, his muscles raw to the air, he must have thought, in something that wasn’t quite a sentence and that memory immediately blanched: everything has changed. He saw blood on the highway. He could not move one leg.

And everything had changed. My father’s lips and nose had detached from his face and had to be sewn back on. He also had broken his hip. One of the boys had launched through the roof and died. Another died soon thereafter.

Dad would spend the next five years in hospitals.

In 1966, at our kitchen table, even in this day in what I think of as a golden age, he swallows a Darvon, a narcotic related to methadone, for the pain.

As my mother lay in bed that morning in 1966, the future may have strobed in her mind, and it did not reassure her. Hours before, exhausted but still wakeful with caffeine, she had forced her eyes shut and finally sunk into sleep. All through the night, the clock ticked; the hands traversed the circle. A bell tizzied in her ear. Consciousness intruded on her silty sleep, like a hook jerking through water. She started to move to quiet the bell, but she couldn’t, not quite yet, not right now. Then she decided, quickly, that she must. She grasped the alarm and shut it off. She let her head fall back. For those few minutes, her head settling into the pillow, her mind puddling and vulnerable, she allowed herself to feel how afraid she really was. Maurice’s latest hip operation had been no more successful than the earlier ones. Medical bills mounted. Too much was being asked of Dennis.

But fear was a movie she didn’t have time to watch. She had to keep her part of a bargain she had made more than twenty years before. She stood across from my father in Holy Trinity Church in Rollingstone on a weekday, surrounded by their big families, the church brightened by children who had been let out of school to attend the wedding, and she recited marriage vows freighted with an intimacy few brides have with their betrothed: she had been my dad’s nurse. She had read his charts. His hip had been broken and repaired, but because of the damage to his circulation, it was starved for blood, so it would be slow to repair itself. She had seen his disfigured body, the purple continent of damage around his hip and shin. She was a woman who took words seriously, who would stand before a Hallmark display and read card after card until she found the rhymes she felt in her heart. When she said, “For better or for worse,” she agreed to something specific. She said to me years later, when I tried to discover more about our time on the farm, that “I knew when I married your dad that I might have to support him.”

In 1966, at 5:30 in the morning, my father stirred next to her. She said something like, “Another day. I’ll make breakfast.”

My golden age in 1966 was for my parents a few months of relative luck. Between 1960 and 1970, Dad would have his hip replaced twelve times. Mom would pack his bags forty-seven times, for forty-seven hospitalizations. She counted.

I never practiced law. Instead, I went into advertising. I don’t believe that advertising is a lie, although it’s sometimes a fantasy. At its best, though, a good ad is the happiest and simplest of truths.

For decades, since long before I wrote my first ad, I have been compiling this movie trailer that I call my memories. You would think a movie trailer would be simple and satisfying, and in some ways it is. I was raised by good people in a good place. But I see some surprising things when I look hard from the perspective of my various adult selves. As an ad man, I realize that what I’ve always thought of as a rustic memory of a family farm brims with the shine and pulse of popular culture. As someone who teaches fiction, I always thought I knew the hero of this story—my dad, struggling to keep the farm. But my thoughts on the subject have grown more complicated. As someone who has left the village for the city, I find myself wondering what I have taken with me—and what I lost forever when I left Rollingstone.

* * *

When I try to sum up my Rollingstone experience in the glib way you sum up whole portions of your life during conversation with near-strangers at Christmas open houses and client dinners, I say, “Until I was twelve, I thought goddamnLuxembourger was one word.” It usually gets a laugh. It usually gets a laugh from the Luxembourgers themselves.

Rollingstone was 95 percent Luxembourger. During the First World War, the young men from Rollingstone could still speak Luxembourgish to relatives they met in Europe. Eventually, a few non-Luxembourg families, including my mother’s (who were largely Irish), moved in to enroll their children in the free parish school. My father agreed to move there because he wanted to farm, and that was possible there. He became known as the Irishman. But in the sixties, a dozen names still proliferated in the pamphlet-sized phone book. Off the top of my head, I recall five Speltz families who owned four farms.

I think the reason goddamnLuxembourger prompted laughs is that it represents such a strangely intramural prejudice. The Herbers and the Hengels and the Speltzes and the Kreidemachers and the Kronebusches shared my family’s culture: we all attended the same school, said the same prayers, did the same work, favored the same brand of tractors, shopped in the same stores, watched the same television programs, and anticipated the same heaven. They all, basically, seemed to like us, and we liked them.

To get a sense of how deep Rollingstone’s Luxembourger roots go, read Rollingstone: A Luxembourgish Village in Minnesota, written by Rollingstone native and City University of New York professor Mary Nilles and published in 1983. The book lovingly describes the project of Rollingstone: how the town was founded in the 1860s, in the valley that the evicted Dakota named E-yan-o-min-man-wat-pah, “a stone that had been rolling”; how, although the founders lacked the isolating zeal of religious sects, the village attempted to continue the Old World rather than to create a new one. America is too glibly viewed as a place to start over. The early settlers left Luxembourg not because they wanted to reject it, but because they could not find jobs or land. A nostalgia slowed and sweetened the town from the very beginning. The first settlers missed Luxembourg; they were homesick, which is to say they were heartbroken. Rollingstone was born as an extension of Europe

In Nilles’s book, time stops at about 1920, and this reflects the wish of Rollingstone’s founders that things stay the same. Our family wasn’t Luxembourger, but we wanted the town to stay as it was, too.

What amazes me most about Rollingstone are the photographs. The cover photo emphasizes the link to old Europe: women sit demurely in billowing skirts and blossoming hats; and men in vests, bow ties, boaters, or bowlers are arranged along the branches of a tree just behind the women. Only the plants—scruffy pasture grass, complex ferns, swarming leaves—are familiar. It’s less an American scene than the subject matter of the Impressionists. But the names are familiar. Most of the men are named Rivers. The women’s names include one Rivers, and also a Speltz, a Kramer, and a Dietrich—all names I knew from grade school. I was looking at the great-grandparents of Butter Rivers, whose dad ran the creamery.

The faces in the book are even more startling than the names. The people I knew in 1960s Rollingstone weren’t born yet, but their faces were: the shadowed eyes of certain of the Herbers; the fine features of some Hengels; the intelligent squint of Mr. Rivers; the doughy face and curly hair of Mary Nilles’s brother, Myron; the sharp, serious faces and dark hair of the Kronebusches. And it was these repeating names and recurring faces that could—when things otherwise weren’t going his way—bother my dad and cause him to mumble, in the vague direction of his problems, goddamnLuxembourgers.

* * *

While Rollingstone was 95 percent Luxembourger, it was 100 percent Catholic. I breathed this Catholicism when the smoke from censers swung at certain Masses sweetened the air. I felt this Catholicism in the bumpy flow of rosary beads in my hands and in the strain in my knees, which trembled from kneeling too long. I sensed it in the rhyming morbid prayers I mumbled before bed (“Now I lay me down to sleep./I pray the Lord my soul to keep/If I should die before I wake,/I pray the Lord my soul to take”). I saw it in the curtseying fames of votive candles, in the mannequin intensity of the saints in the church, in the Virgin with her heart on the outside of her body, in the jeweled stories told by stained-glass windows. I heard it in the tolling of church bells and the tinkling of the sanctus bells the altar boys rang at intervals. In our house, frosted glass hands prayed on dressers, statues of the Virgin calmed the buffet, Christs writhed on crucifixes on the wall, Communion candles waited in the purgatory of attics, and rosaries were as ubiquitous as house keys.

Catholicism even shaped our play. When Colleen and Sheila were old enough to read but not to reason, they placed apples on the cross as an offering for Jesus. They found a note that said that Jesus preferred Hershey bars. Thinking they were witness to a miracle, they told my mom. Mom recognized Dennis’s handwriting. She had to tell them about how she did the same thing with raisins when she was a little girl, and how her older brothers had pulled the same trick on her.

But the Catholicism I was born into wasn’t all playful. A document that I discovered in the basement of the Winona County Historical Society embodied the harsher side of this Catholicism. Its letters’ indentations suggested the whack, whack of manual typing. The document—unsigned, undated, apparently created in 1954—sketches the history of Holy Trinity Church—the first settlers, the first Mass, the first church building, the first resident priest, and then, twenty-five years later, the school. The school, so solid and central in my boyhood world, is surprisingly tenuous, “an ambitious project in so small a parish.”

By 1954, the “ambitious project” had graduated only 256 students, yet the report notes that “Rollingstone has given to the Church eight priests, twenty sisters, one brother, one seminarian now in second philosophy.” One out of every eight students who graduated from Holy Trinity became a priest, nun, or brother.

The report ends with an exhortation: “But that noble history is also a challenge to this generation. God alone knows how much faith and courage may be required in the lives of those who now face the uncertain future.”

An even more interesting document can be found within the parishioners’ report. To fortify its call to faith, the history quotes the July–August issue of the Social Justice Review:

These are extraordinary times, and call for extraordinary Catholics. Otherwise, in countries such as ours, extinction is a possibility. The old faith is at war with the new paganism.

The prose reminds me of nothing so much as the times when my mother would grab our wrists when we tried to steal the raw potatoes she was preparing. She wasn’t a big woman, but her grasp was amazingly strong, and we could never get away. Similarly, the prose here is all knuckle and tendon and assertion.

I don’t want to seize on a few hypocrisies—say, the German cardinals saluting the Führer at Nuremburg—because, when pushed, I’d have to admit that my own beliefs aren’t free from the toxins of contradiction and denial. And I do not want to fall into the time chauvinism that reflexively views the present as enlightened and the past as so much superstition. If “pagan” is viewed as simply non- or nominally Christian, the world probably is pagan.

What frightens me here—and in the larger article—is the sense of a man ossifying into a God. War gives us permission to kill, a power that is normally reserved to the Deity. Lutherans were condemned to hell. A son or daughter who married a Lutheran was disowned. Protestants with children who thought about moving to Rollingstone were pulled aside and discouraged by a committee of townsmen because we could not provide them with a public school.

Catholicism was our calendar and our clock. We observed holy days of obligation such as All Souls’ Day, the day after Halloween when we prayed for the souls of the dead, and the Feast of the Assumption, which celebrated Mary’s bodily ascension into heaven. We waited for Christ during Advent and deprived ourselves during Lent by giving up candy or TV. The Masses of Holy Week—Holy Thursday, with the washing of the priest’s feet; stark Good Friday, without music or Communion; the vigil of Holy Saturday; the joyous release of Easter—felt like travel. We lived in Rollingstone and Biblical Palestine.

I can’t remember the name of a single mayor. I can remember the name of every priest. I was raised in a theocracy.

* * *

I was born into stories—stories told at our kitchen table as teenagers fought over pizza and poured themselves fizzing pop, as adults played joshingly competitive games of 500 Rummy over coffee and caramel rolls. Our stories picked up the rhythm of the cartoon, the energy of the pop song, the quick cut of the sitcom, and the giddiness of karaoke. Maureen would sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Dad would sing whatever novelty song was popular at the time. While some people are nostalgic for a more leisurely time, I’m nostalgic for a more accelerated one.

Even the explanation of my name arrived as an anecdote. Before you were born, Dad took all of the kids to Dairy Queen and promised them that if they voted for the name Kevin, they could get anything they wanted. Mom wanted you to be named Maurice after Dad, but he thought that being a junior put too much pressure on a kid. Mom never had a chance.

And I learned about the rest of the family through such snippets: Mom once looked out the window and saw Dennis chasing Maureen with a rake, like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner. (Moral: Dennis is almost comically competitive.) When the girls wanted to play with Maureen, she told them they were going to play “family” and that family consisted of the following Warholian performance art: get in the car and wait the fifteen minutes it would take to get to a theater in Winona, come back into the house and “watch a movie” on the television for two hours, “get sick” and take sadistically unsweetened Watkins medicine, and then go to bed indefinitely while Maureen goes about her business. (Moral: Maureen is aloof and darkly comic.) Sheila and Colleen once, at Sheila’s insistence, painted themselves with mud and presented themselves to Mom. (The girls are a yin-yang duo, with Sheila being the troublemaker.)

My parents’ backstory was exuberantly sketched in:

Your mom studied nursing in Winona and then Rochester because, while she wanted to attend the University of Minnesota and study journalism, her father thought there were too many Communists there and forbade it.

Your dad announced to your mom on their second date that he was going to marry her.

When your mother was pregnant with Dennis, diabetes swelled her waist to sixty inches, and Dad joked that he could just “roll her down the hill.” When your mom was on bed rest with you, bed rest meant that she didn’t iron the starched shirts your dad wore in the field.

Mom and Dad used to go dancing at the Altura Fire Hall on Saturday nights in the fifties. Mom was a timid, tentative dancer because, when she was a little girl, the priest told her that dancing at non-Catholic events was a mortal sin. So the whole evening, Dad would hold her by the waist and carry her around the floor, reassuring her, “It’s okay, Holly. I’ve got you.”

The moral of these anecdotes? We suffer but shine.

These stories mixed with darker ones. Dad’s problems with his hip and his health, in remission for much of the fifties, resurfaced. Surgeries failed. He might not have been able to continue farming. So your mother pushed herself even harder than a farm wife and working mother of the fifties normally would. For a time, with four children under ten at home, she worked graveyard shifts (eleven at night until seven in the morning) until, unable to sleep during the day, her mind fraying from exhaustion, Dad insisted she take a more humane shift. Her diabetes jeopardized her pregnancies, and in the years she bore five living children, she also miscarried three times. Once Dad had to carry her while she hemorrhaged between her legs, into the hospital, past the protesting admissions desk, to Winona’s overmatched facilities. In the ambulance speeding toward Rochester, Mom’s blood pressure sank, her self drifted away from her body, and she negotiated with God, asking him to save her because she had four children to take care of.

I was her fifth child, delivered a month early, via C-section.

This occasioned more stories: Your birth was announced on the intercom at Holy Trinity School. When you were a baby, we would carry you around on a blanket and sing “Hail, Hail to the King.”

* * *

In a sense, I was also born into cinematography. My image of the years before my birth takes its tints from the silver of movies, the grey of TV shows, the halftones of newspapers, and the monochrome of family photographs. I know better now but I still visualize the world before my birth as black and white. Then, when I was born, by the evidence of the family photographs and the culture at large, color flooded the world.

No wonder they announced my birth over the intercom. I have a powerful sense of being born lucky. I wish I could say the same for my parents.

Trash cans were my first anthologies. I toddled amid backyard ones that stood like burnt altars, crusted with carbon and pocked with holes. The trash cans held exploded egg shells, the doughy cardboard of egg packaging, greased butter wrappers, and bloody butcher paper. They held language that I could not yet decode: manic cereal boxes, stylized cake mixes, and the balloony colors of bread wrappers. Once the trash can got too full, we would ignite the contents. The grease in the bacon and butter packaging would hiss; the bread wrappers would shiver and melt; the paper would fare; the heat would shimmer; the smoke would waft; and then the fire would subside, and our trash would become ashes.

Flame was much more with us than it is now: businesses gave out matchbooks decorated with their logos. The world was more fragrant then: my parents’ friends smoked cigarettes in stores and living rooms; Dad indulged in Dutch Masters cigars; in autumn, people burned leaves.