Southern Bookman

Greeting the Magnolias

Exhilarating day - a brisk breeze, cloudless sky, temperature just right. On my familiar neighborhood walk to the Blue Heron pond, I see that the magnolia trees are in bloom again at the condominiums.

This year, the gorgeous white bursts surprise me with their early arrival. Through the years, they've appeared in June, but already some of the flowers are fully open amid the green magnolia leaves, along with a few tightly closed buds that will slowly unfurl in creamy splendor. The show will continue into the summer, as will the continual blossoming of roses.

When I walk and see such common wonders, I think about Thoreau, how he celebrated and observed his local habitat. Living in his cabin at Walden Pond, Thoreau recorded when varieties of trees flowered. Today, with climate change, spring arrives earlier than in Thoreau's time.

These lovely days raise hope that action can be taken. But each day, we heedlessly send more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. When I walk, I almost feel Thoreau's presence, heart-broken, but still speaking to us.

Summer Reading

The Memorial Day weekend brings the end of school and thoughts of summer holidays. For years, what to read on those getaways has been a staple of magazines. Reading is as much a part of summer as walks on the beach, baseball on the radio, seafood feasts and waves crashing.

Some like "beach reads," cheap, trashy paperback novels that we don't mind getting sand and saltwater on the pages. One of the pleasures of going to beach houses is going through the old yellowing books left there.

Others swear to use the slow lazy moments to at last read "War and Peace" or "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." Oh, darling, you've gotten suntan lotion on my Gibbon.

As a certified book snob, I've always looked skeptically at the concept of summer reading, seeing books as a year-round undertaking. Yet, I associate some of my most pleasant reading memories with summer and its pursuits.

One year in college, I frequently went to a neighborhood swimming pool; I can't remember why. I remember sitting there as children splashed in shimmering sunlight and reading "Crime and Punishment" and, so help me, Kirkegaard.

Our home in Atlanta has a now dilapidated pool, and when I was a young man and our children were small, I used to spend summer Sundays reading and swimming. Standing out from those Cheeverish days are Randall Jarrell's poetry essays, Shelby Foote's Civil War narratives and journals and short stories of Mr. Cheever himself.

Beach trips also are connected with books. In Stuart, Fla., in a flea market used book bin, I made one of my all-time best discoveries: a cheap paperback copy of Frank Conroy's "Stoptime." Conroy's memoir is one of my all-time favorite books, and through the years I read everything he wrote. His sentences remain in my mind like jewels. I'll always mark as one of happiest moments seeing that 75-cent paperback, with its pastel cover illustration of a boy on a bicycle.

One of my most intense reading experiences was sitting on the beach grappling with Ralph Harper's theological and philosophical work "On Presence."

Another happy literary purchase at a beach town - perhaps at a bookstore on St. Simons Island - didn't strictly involve reading. That was a cassette tape of Jack Kerouac's "The Dharma Bums" read by Allen Ginsberg. I loved sitting on the beach at sunset listening to Kerouac's saga about the San Francisco beat scene narrated by Ginsberg, upon whom a central character in the book was based. I heard "Dharma Bums" on my Walkman, that icon of technologies past.

Other impressions remain - reading James Fenimore Cooper as a child with my family at Fort Walton Beach, Larry McMurtry's "The Last Picture Show" in the trailer of my father's camp - but the rest of my summer books remain a blur.

Now another summer approaches - perhaps at last I'll finish every volume of "Remembrance of Things Past."

The Internet and Poetry

Poetry receives its share of attention these days, especially with the rise of poetry apps and Internet sites.

Some once familiar poets are receiving new attention. In the last several months, I've seen two pieces on the 18th century poet Thomas Gray, who wrote relatively little for a writer of his time yet created a number of lines and phrases that entered the language's cultural database, such as "ignorance is bliss" and "far from the madding crowd."

David Lehman, of "The Best American Poetry" fame, a few months ago wrote an appreciation of Gray's "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College." In last Saturday's Wall Street Journal Review section, a writer discussed "Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard," citing Lincoln quoting a line from the poem. Lehman's piece on Slate included a recording of Lehman reading "An Ode," as well as a copy of the poem.

Slate frequently runs poems by contemporary writers, along with appraisals of poems by writers in the canon. This week, Slate had David Rivard's appreciation and reading of Edward Thomas' "There's Nothing Like the Sun." Thomas, an English poet whose work was championed by Robert Frost and one of the many fine writers killed in World War I, has received a spate of attention lately after Matthew Hollis' biography appeared.

Poetry magazine's app offers a library of classic and contemporary poems, accessible through a cool spin mechanism. E-copies of the New Yorker on my Nook offer recordings of poets reading the poems appearing in the magazine each week, along with other audio and video features.

One of humans' oldest forms of expression is receiving new vitality from technology otherwise disrupting traditional media forms.

A Vivid Look at Shiloh

On a recent trip to Nashville, I saw an I-75 sign in Tennessee for the Pittsburg exit, which stirred my memory of the Civil War Battle of Shiloh, which began at Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River when a ragged Rebel force on a lovely Sunday morning in early April disturbed the breakfast and languor of Sherman's troops. Leaving the Cumberland River and crossing the Tennessee River on our return to Atlanta also brought back my recollections of the federal-Confederate conflict in the West.

The trip to Nashville had raised my awareness of the old river city's Civil War legacy. Along with historical markers and Garrison Keillor's amusing reference in his Ryman Auditorium show to the 1864 Battle of Nashville, we visited Belle Meade Plantation, with its exhibits on the plantation's role in the battle and the experience of slaves who lived there. With remnants of old Nashville juxtaposed with its soaring office towers, hotels and gleaming convention centers, I felt an underlying presence of the Civil War.

I'd read quite a bit about Shiloh, yet realized I didn't deeply know details about the battle. I'd encountered Shiloh in general histories but never read a book devoted to the battle, the war's first with a shockingly high number of deaths and casualties. I'd read such specialized histories of Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and Antietam, all written by the excellent Stephen W. Sears.

In my state of Shiloh curiosity, I came upon Winston Groom's "Shiloh 1862" at the library as if it had been placed there for me. Groom, best known as the author of the novel "Forrest Gump," is also a noted military historian who before his Shiloh account published a similar book about Vicksburg. I excitedly checked out "Shiloh 1862," and it has captivated me from the start, a fitting book as Memorial Day approaches.

"Shiloh 1862" with novelistic power looks at giant personalities such as U.S. Grant, William Tecumseh Sherman and Albert Sidney Johnston as well as lesser players. While Groom falls short of Sears' encyclopedic range, "Shiloh 1862" gives a vivid, detailed look at the battle that made the North realize that the war would be long and bloody and strengthened the South's resolve.

The Alarming Carbon Equation

The most important news story of the last few weeks received far less attention than the overblown Benghazi and IRS scandals. The amount of carbon dioxide in the Earth's atmosphere has reached 400 parts per million, the most in thousands of years. The New York Times placed the story on its front page's lead position, with a double column headline, but I didn't see any other news organization even mention that the earth-threatening carbon threshold had been crossed.

Esteemed science writer Elizabeth Kolbert, one of the most knowledgeable and sobering reporters on climate change, cites in a piece in this week's New Yorker the alarming carbon dioxide reading. She ties the constant spewing of CO2 into the atmosphere with efforts to build the XL pipeline from Canada through the United States.

Extracting the oil substance from Canadian tar sands requires huge carbon releases, she reports, and calls upon President Obama to not approve the pipeline. While extracting the tar sand oil will continue no matter what decision Obama makes, with no letup in CO2 releases, Kolbert says that Obama if he rejects the pipeline will make a significant stand against the carbonization of our air and its threat to life on Earth.

Kolbert's piece clearly shows the simple arithmetic of carbon use. Every ounce of petroleum extracted from the ground is converted into an equal amount of carbon sent into the atmosphere. Every auto trip, every airplane ride, every coal-fired generator is part of the equation.

Farewell, Ken Venturi

Watching Ken Venturi stagger through heat exhaustion and dehydration to win the 1964 U.S. Open is one of my strongest memories of TV sports viewing. Venturi's victory at Congressional Country Club cemented my love for golf and the Open, which I have watched every year since. While I adored Arnold Palmer, Venturi and his heroic victory made him one of my favorite golfers. Venturi's death Friday at age 82 marked the passing of another childhood hero.

Wearing a white shirt, gray pants and Ben Hogan-style snap-down cap, Venturi endured 36 holes on the tournament's final day, as had every other Open champion. As Venturi battled severe dehydration, a doctor advised him not to play the Saturday afternoon final round in 100-degree heat. He pressed on, consuming candy bars and placing wet towels upon his neck, to shoot a 70 in a performance he said he couldn't even remember, although he knew on the final green that he had won the open, his childhood dream growing up in a working class home in San Francisco, handicapped by a severe stutter. His winning the championship while risking possible death remains the greatest sports performance I've seen.

Citing the threat to Venturi, the USGA changed the tournament to an 18-hole final round on Sunday, although cynics thought the shift was more to meet TV network demands than to protect golfers. Whatever, watching every shot of the open's Sunday final round has been my Father's Day tradition.

I also associate Venturi with the Masters, from his years of broadcasting the tournament for CBS, especially with the great Pat Summerall, who also died this year. While reverential about the tournament, Summerall and Venturi held back from the obsequious excesses of current CBS announcer Jim Nance. Venturi's commentary was exact, brusque, and pointed, in contrast to Nick Faldo's self-referential flights.

Before winning the Open, Venturi had fallen short of expectations after turning pro following a sensational amateur career. The Masters was one of his major disappointments. As an amateur, he'd led the tournament for 54 holes before blowing to a final round 80. After joining the PGA tour, Venturi finished second to Palmer in the 1960 Masters, when Palmer received a favorable ruling that Venturi considered unfair. Palmer was not penalized for removing an embedded ball, giving him a narrow win.

Venturi was a main figure in one of the best sports books I've read this year, Mark Frost's "The Match," which tells the story of a best ball competition that Venturi and fellow amateur Harvie Ward played against professional greats Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson in 1956 at Cypress Point in Carmel, Calif. While the book doesn't justify its subtitle, "the day the game of golf changed forever," it presents a wealth of golf lore. Venturi idolized Hogan, copying his clothing style and exacting approach to golf, and received lessons from Nelson. Nelson's instruction brought Venturi's game to a world-class level.

I remember a Sports Illustrated profile of Venturi that presented him as the stylish, savvy exemplar of post-war American manhood. His blazer and gray slacks, martini and cigarettes cool, sardonic wit and rugged good looks defined him as one of the greats of a vanished era. Ken Venturi's name and personality will always glow in my memory.

A Good Book Is Hard to Find

The book business can be puzzling - I often read reviews and feature stories on authors, then can't find their books. Nowadays, my source is limited to the Buckhead Barnes & Noble. Atlanta's few remaining independent bookstores are too far away for easy driving. Plus, my visits to independent bookstores in recent years, outside of New York and San Francisco, have left me disappointed.

I've been seeking to take a look at Rachel Kushner's novel "The Flamethrowers," the subject of several articles. I've not found the highly publicized book in several visits to B&N, although it was published in early April. On a recent trip to Nashville, I didn't find the book at Ann Patchett's independent Parnassus Books. The book must be such a smash that booksellers can't come up with copies to sell.

Speaking of Parnassus, heralded in the New York Times, I was not impressed by the store in my second visit. Located in a small shopping center of chain restaurants and retail businesses, Parnassus misses the undefinable bookish spirit of bookstores such as San Francisco's City Lights. The periodical section was distressingly small, and the poetry section had shrunk in the six months or so since my first visit. I thought for sure Parnassus would have "The Flamethrowers," but no such luck. Parnassus gave me the sense that it is struggling.

Well, there's always the Nook, which has "The Flamethrowers" in e form. The e-universe also yields classics at little or no cost. After reading in Sports Illustrated about a new Library of America edition of Red Smith's columns, I found in a Nook search a free edition of an out-of-print Smith collection, "Views on Sport," the title of his seven-day-a-week New York Herald Tribune column. The e-book contains Smith classics such as his report on Bobby Thompson's home run in 1951 that won the New York Giants the National League pennant over the Brooklyn Dodgers.

The new Library of America Smith collection was supposed to be in bookstores Thursday. I think I'll look for it later today at the B&N, but I won't be surprised if it's not there.

Dear Lord, Is It Pretentious

Sam Sacks in a haughty Wall Street Journal review Thursday dismisses Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's new novel "Americanah." "...Dear Lord, is it pretentious," Sacks says.

The in-house fiction critic for the Journal's Saturday literary section, Sacks likely gives his honest appraisal of "Americanah," calling it preachy and moralizing. Yet I wondered why the WSJ couldn't find an African-American woman, or man, to do the review.

I read an excerpt of Adiche's book in the New Yorker and thought it a strong work of fiction. The full "Americanah" might be as bad as Sacks says, but his condescending tone raises my doubts about his ability to appreciate her work.

Nashville's Past and Future

Early Sunday morning, the last drinkers have left the honky tonks on Nashville's Broadway. The brisk cool wind, a surprise for mid-May, blows down the slow-waking street. From noon to long past midnight, country songs blare from the neon-lit bars, but now the street is quiet. A helicopter churns above in the perfect blue sky, bearing a Regions Bank sign that will be slowly swung down and placed atop one of the skyscrapers that surround the old pleasure-encrusted buildings along the strip. Outside Legends and Tootsies, grizzled bar keeps wash down the sidewalks with hoses, their voices husky and cheerful, their seen it all eyes open to another day.

Because of the danger posed by the sign possibly falling from the chopper, Broadway has been barricaded, although the policemen talking and laughing while standing beside a cruiser parked on Fourth Avenue don't pay any attention to me walking in the middle of the street and down the sidewalks. They don't look my way when I stop to take photos with my IPhone. I snap pictures of the RCA Victor dog in the window of the Ernest Tubb Record Store, old Ernest himself, Gene Autry in another window, the sign of the Paradise Park Trailer Resort bar. Looking inside the closed Ernest Tubb store, I see the stage with its mike stands, amps, piano and drums - years ago I listened to the Ernest Tubb midnight jamboree when it came on after the Opry over WSM clear channel radio.

One or two unbalanced looking street people greet each other at the Nashville Convention Center at Fifth and Broadway, just across from the Ryman Auditorium, country music's mother church. They both wear new looking lace up military style work boots. The black one asks me if I can help him, then shakes his head and retreats before I can even respond, muttering "I was just mess in' with you."

I walk down Fifth past the alley separating the Ryman from the back of Tootsies and other Broadway dives. Hank Williams and other Grand Old Opry performers used to cross the alley to grab quick drinks between shows. Hank did it too many times I guess - the Opry fired him for drinking. Seeing the narrow space, I imagine him there, playing his old Martin and working on a song. The Ryman, with its handsome brick facade and stained glass rainbow colored windows, is one of those places where you feel the presence of ghosts.

Back on Broadway, I look down the street's long vista, where church steeples rise into the air. Sin and redemption co-exist in Nashville as in country music. Standing in the nexus of past, present and future, I think of Peter Taylor's stories and those that will be written by new generations.

A Rare Film Shows Faulkner

The New Yorker web site's Page Turner offers a link to a 1952 film of William Faulkner at home in Oxford, Miss., after winning the Noble Prize.

The film, posted on Open Culture, was shot for the cultural-affairs show Omnibus and shows Faulkner walking around Oxford's downtown, talking to cronies like the lawyer Phil Stone and joking with black workers. Stiff and contrived, the film still captures Faulkner's formal, aristocratic personality as well as his courtesy and humor. It preserves the long vanished accents and rhythms of the deep South speech of Faulkner and others.

Scenes of him walking, with perfect posture and fine tweeds, shows that one of Faulkner's greatest creations was himself.