Southern Bookman

My heart thanks you, Mr. Marcus

My heartbeat spiked when I visited the cardiologist Tuesday, so now I'm to receive a pacemaker.

Since my heart's chambers no longer do the job, the small wireless device will regulate my heartbeat. My fine doctor expressed optimism that my days of a-fib aggravation will be over.

I will have the procedure done at the new Bernie Marcus Heart Center, a curved futuristic building of blue glass and steel fronting Piedmont Hospital on Peachtree Road.

When I was in the hospital for nine days in September 2019, I watched through the window as construction of the Marcus Center progressed. The workers in their yellow hard hats and orange vests passing back and forth helped the long afternoons go by faster.

While I'm dismayed at Home Depot co-founder Marcus contributing millions to the Trump campaign, I'm thankful for his generosity to Piedmont Hospital. One of those paradoxes of living in Atlanta, I guess.

My heartbeat dropped enough for me to schedule the procedure for next week, rather than going in immediately. As I drove down Peachtree, as I've done countless times since moving to Atlanta, a misty rain fell and the brisk breeze felt like autumn.

The trip down Peachtree brought a flood of memories.

All three of my children were born at Piedmont, and we've been there for many emergency room visits and doctors appointments through the years. We've gone to concerts at Symphony Hall, experienced art exhibits at the High Museum and watched Alliance Theater plays. We've had haircuts and sipped smoothies at the Peach Shopping Center and hung out at the Barnes & Noble.

Now, my  bionic heart will bring a new chapter in my life.

 

 

Nastasha Trethewey's "Memorial Drive" examines pain of mother's murder

Nastasha Trethewey has left the South, following the release from prison of the man who murdered Trethewey's mother.

Trethewey, in one of the most heart-rending interviews Terry Gross had done for "Fresh Air,"  was overcome by the anguish she carries over her mother's slaying by Trethewey's stepfather. Trethewey was 19 when her mother was shot and killed outside of her home in suburban Atlanta.

Discussing her new book, "Memorial Drive, A Daughter's Memoir," Trethewey recounted to Gross a chilling scene in which her stepfather confronted her when she was a cheerleader at a high school football game. The Pulitzer Prize winner and former poet laureate believes her stepfather intended on killing her, but decided not to because she greeted him cordially.

Trethewey also told Gross about the pain of growing up in southern Mississippi as the daughter of a mixed-race marriage. Her father was white and her mother black. Trethewey was born on Confederate Memorial Day, and grew up seeing the Confederate battle flag fly on her birthday.

Her mother and grandmother were civil rights activists in Mississippi, resulting the the Klan burning a cross on their lawn, the subject of one of Trethewey's poems.

Trethewey's leaving Emory University to teach at Northwestern outside of Chicago was a blow to Atlanta's literary stature. In the interview with Gross, Trethewey implies that she wanted to leave Atlanta because of  the anxiety she would feel living in the same city as her mother's murderer.

The critically accomplished "Memorial Drive," like Trethewey's poetry, widens the scope of Southern literature. For years, the black woman's experience in the South was expropriated and distorted by Faulkner and other writers.

Trethewey, Mississippian Jesmyn Ward and other black women writers are creating an enduring literature that tells searing truths about Southern violence and oppression. They are also telling inspiring stories of family love, dedication and overcoming.

Atlantans will recognize the title of Trethewey's memoir as referring to the road that leads from downtown Atlanta to Stone Mountain, where the massive sculpture of Stonewall Jackson, Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee is visible from long distances. Trethewey told Gross about growing up near Stone Mountain, and the oppressiveness she felt viewing the Confederate shrine daily. Yet, she doesn't want the monument destroyed, she told The Los Angeles Times.

The road also passes Oakland Cemetery, where a towering monument honors the Confederate dead buried there and tourists visit the grave of "Gone With the Wind" author Margaret Mitchell. Black slaves and free blacks also are buried there. Trethewey's poems and non-fiction examines such tangled strands of Southern life.

Trethewey in her work engages with the legacy of white-male-dominated Southern literature. In her brilliant"Southern Pastoral," the poet tells about a dream in which she gathers with the Southern Fugitives. In the poem, she pictures sipping bourbon with the dead white poets, and Robert Penn Warren lining her up to take a photo with the Fugitives, who wrote the Agrarian manifesto "I'll Take My Stand," steeped in Confederate nostalgia.

The poem ends with an echo of Quentin Compson's statement at the end of Faulkner's "Absalom, Absalom," in which he denies hating the South. Trethewey's poem ends, "You don't hate the south, they ask. You don't hate it?"

For all the heartbreak the South's brought her, I believe Trethewey loves the South. We are richer for it.

Southern Pastoral

Natasha Trethewey

In the dream, I am with the Fugitive
Poets. We're gathered for a photograph.
Behind us, the skyline of Atlanta
hidden by the photographer's backdrop—
a lush pasture, green, full of soft-eyed cows
lowing, a chant that sounds like no, no. Yes,
I say to the glass of bourbon I'm offered.
We're lining up now—Robert Penn Warren,
his voice just audible above the drone
of bulldozers, telling us where to stand.
Say "Race" the photographer croons. I'm in
blackface again when the flash freezes us.
My father's white, I tell them, and rural.
You don't hate the south, they ask. You don't hate it?

 

 

Coronavirus hits hard in Louisiana

Once again, I weep for my native state, Louisiana.

Just two months after LSU won the national football championship, which may be the last NCAA title awarded for awhile, Gov. Jon Bel Edwards shut down the state Sunday because of the soaring number of coronavirus cases.

My darling New Orleans, as Little Queenie and the Percolators called the old port city, now faces another disaster less than 20 years after the devastating flooding from Hurricane Katrina.

Its coastline disappearing, many of its citizens mired in poverty, poor health and ignorance, Louisiana is now one of the states worst hit by COVID-19.

Three of my sisters, my two brothers-in-law, and several nieces and nephews still live in Louisiana. My thoughts are with them.

My niece, Dr. Madelaine Fontenot, and her husband, Dr. Jeff Fontenot, are both residents at a hospital in Lafayette. Madelaine started her ICU rotation Monday and Jeff is on inpatient. "They are on the front lines now," my sister told me.

Most of the COVID-19 cases are rising in New Orleans, already endangered by climate change, flooding and the gulf's encroachment.

A poor city with an economy dominated by tourism, restaurants and entertainment, New Orleans will be especially hard hit by the shutdown.

New Orleans took years to recover from Katrina. The coronavirus is delivering another knockout punch. But the Crescent City has survived epidemics, the Civil War, economic decline, and natural disasters.

Before the state's shutdown, LSU's championship coach Ed Orgeron delivered a stirring video urging Louisianians to follow coronavirus precautions. Coach O.'s effective PSA gained national recognition.

Coach O.'s optimistic spirit, and Edwards' calm leadership, give hope that Louisiana will overcome this crisis, as it did the 1927 flood and Katrina.

 

 

 

 

 

Farewell, Terry Massar, champion for Buckhead children

Terry didn't look well the last time I saw him a couple of months ago.

He sat at his desk at Peachtree Presbyterian Church as usual. After we traded stories about our common a-fib affliction, Terry told me he was undergoing chemotherapy for cancer.

The longtime director of the youth sports program at Peachtree Presbyterian, Terry Massar recently lost his battle. He passed away at age 74, surrounded by his loving family, according to his Atlanta Journal-Constitution obituary.

Generations of Atlanta children learned lessons of teamwork and sportsmanship playing in Terry's youth leagues. Terry was a smiling presence on wintertime Saturdays as girls and boys teams from elementary age to high school played simultaneous games on the church's two courts. Electric scoreboards and refs in zebra shirts calling fouls added to the excitement as dads, moms and siblings cheered from the gym's stands.

Each of my children played on PPC teams, from early childhood through middle school. I also know Terry's son, Todd, who helped coach my daughter's soccer team at North Atlanta High, and coached the boys' team there.

After my children had grown, I saw Terry often when I went to work out at Peachtree Presbyterian Church's gym. I always stopped by Terry's desk near the church's entrance to chat. One frequent topic was college sports; Terry loved his Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets.

Terry took pride in being a native Atlantan, increasingly rare in a city of transplants. He grew up near Georgia Tech in the Home Park neighborhood, developed in 1901 for Atlantic Steel workers. He was a championship golfer for the Fighting Irish of Home Park's O'Keefe High, one of Atlanta's long vanished neighborhood schools. Terry later played for Tech, and captained Georgia State's golf team. Terry also played for awhile on the PGA tour, according to his obituary.

Several Saturdays earlier this year, I witnessed the basketball league's pleasant confusion, unchanged from when my kids played at the church decades before. The youngsters arrived and departed in their multicolored PPC uniforms, shepherded by beaming parents and grandparents, some of whom had probably played there themselves.

Terry built a program of continuity, one of the enduring Buckhead rituals of childhood and family. Whenever I see a youngster dribbling or making a bucket at a PPC game, I'll imagine Terry smiling.

 

 

 

Sargent's "Portrait of Madame X" enhances poignant "This Is Us" episode

My heart melted when John Singer Sargent's "Portrait of Madame X" appeared on Tuesday night's "This Is Us."

Sargent's alluring 1884 portrait was revealed as the painting Rebecca Pearson had longed to see since she first viewed it at New York City's Metropolitan Museum as a little girl. The episode details Rebecca's thwarted attempts to see the painting during later trips to New York City with her Pearson family.

In one of the show's dazzling twists, we discover that the little Rebecca was mesmerized by a woman looking at the painting for hours as much as the artwork itself. The woman in firs and a pillbox hat epitomizes New York City glamour in the early 1960s.

The show ends with the now aging Rebecca seeing the painting at last. Suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer's, she stares at the work, seeking to recapture her early revelation of feminine glamour and sophistication. Sargent's "Portrait of Madame X" reflects that vision of beauty.

Unfolding like a series of New Yorker short stories, the episode examines aging, family love and conflict, the appeal of art, mental illness and the shadow of death. The recent storylines about Kevin's relationship with Rebecca have raised the show's already excellent writing to an even higher level.

New York City's romance and elegance glow during the episode. it's a valentine to the city and its hallmarks, from the subway to its hotels, parks, museums and restaurants. Even the city's street-food stands have symbolic resonance.

The "This Is Us" episode was the latest moment in the cultural spotlight for Sargent. His portrait, "Dr. Pozzi at Home" adorns the cover of Julian Barnes' recently published "The Man in the Red Coat," a biography of Dr. Samuel de Pozzi, a leading physician during Paris' "Belle Epoque" era from the late 19th century until the start of World War I.

A member of the sophisticated upper classes captured in Proust's novels, Pozzi was an obstetrician known for his medical innovations. He also gained a reputation as a sexual pirate from his many affairs with women, including the actress Sarah Bernhardt.

Sargent was also a member of Paris' dazzling high society. His "Portrait of Madame X," showing the young wife Virginie Amelie Avegno Gautreau, caused a scandal with its revealing dress and her voluptuous figure, a shock even for sophisticated Paris. The artist was forced to move to London, where he was a close friend of Henry James and Oscar Wilde.

I fell in love with Sargent's work when I saw his beautiful portrait of "Lady Agnew of Lochnar" at the Frick Museum in New York City several years ago. The painting's sumptuous colors made me want to look at it for hours, like the lady in "This Is Us."

Later, I was amazed at viewing Sargent's World War I battlefield drawings in an exhibit at Nashville's Frist Museum. The drawings capture the brutal reality of battle as well as Goya's "Disasters of War." Moving away from the vivid colors of Sargent's portraits, the World War I pieces have a somber tone that reveals the horror of soldiers' life in the trenches.

Sargent's reputation declined with the advent of modernism and abstract painting. In recent years, appreciation of his work has grown. He's a master whose haunting portraits capture the fragility of human life, ravaged by time.

David Talbot finds hope in stroke recovery

San Francisco writer David Talbot's recovery from the stroke he suffered in 2017 led to spiritual rebirth and renewed political activism.

Talbot's "Between Heaven and Hell" recounts his experience as a stroke survivor, from agonizing days in the hospital to coping with physical difficulties when he arrived home.

The author of the San Francisco history "Season of the Witch" and founder of the Salon news site says his recovery heightened his appreciation of life and tolerance for others.

Rooted in Facebook posts, the book remains lighthearted in recounting his challenges. Humor and appreciation for care-givers and family members are dominant themes.

Not free from baby-boomer self-absorption, the book highlights small triumphs and gratitude for daily blessings. The pleasures of food, music and literature lessen his struggles.

As his healing progresses, Talbot renews his commitment to political activism, expressing hope that citizen involvement can bring progressive change. While touching upon the Trump administration's assaults on the Constitution, Talbot focuses on his beloved San Francisco's increasing economic disparities and loss of bohemian spirit.

Biographical vignettes include a brief overview of his founding of Salon, his struggles with Hollywood producing films from his books and details about his family. He looks back on the up and down career of his father, character actor Lyle Talbot, and his late marriage to Talbot's mother, the singer and actress Paula Epple.

Talbot's wife, Camille Peri, gives unwavering, heroic support. His siblings, New Yorker writer Margaret Talbot, documentary producer Stephen Talbot and doctor Cynthia Talbot, also step up. Talbot's also buoyed by fatherhood, expressing pride at the critical acclaim his son, Joe, receives for his film, "The Last Black Man in San Francisco."

Talbot holds on to his optimism in a closing chapter about he and his family fleeing San Francisco when wildfires make the city's air hazardous. They stay in a cramped hotel in Carmel, Calif., joining others enjoying the beach despite the apocalyptic threat. Talbot extols the resilience of the human spirit rather than succumbing to pessimism.

Their return to San Francisco gives hope that the city and its people will build a bright new future.

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving

It's time to give thanks for our blessings.

This year has dealt me highs and lows. Here are a few snapshots from my 2019 album.

Eight days in the hospital. I'm thankful for the doctors and nurses who helped me feel better again.

A trip to New York City to see Jeff Daniels' masterful performance as Atticus Finch in Aaron Sorkin's theater adaptation of Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird."

The Miro show at the MOMA, before the museum closed to receive a new look. Miro's stance against Fascism in the 1930s gives us courage to resist Trump and the GOP's assaults on truth and human dignity. I was overwhelmed by Picasso's "Guernica" when I first visited MOMA nearly 50 years ago. I'm looking forward to visiting yet another new MOMA.

Trips to Portugal and Amelia Island, Fla., two places where rivers join the Atlantic Ocean. Both are threatened by rising sea levels and the crush of tourism. Like distant cousins, they are battling to preserve their proud cultures.

The Braves' rush to the pennant. Joe Burrow and the Tigers. Anne-Marie and I getting together with our children Sara, Luke and Ruthie in Nashville, Tenn. Learning to play Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" on the piano.

We'll soon turn the calendar to another year, which looms as one of history's crossroads. The personal decisions of millions will determine whether the nation follows the course of freedom or an American totalitarianism.

No matter what happens, truth and beauty eventually will prevail.

 

Farewell, Ernest Gaines

Many writers look back from exile at their origins. Ernest Gaines was different. To tell the stories of the illiterate, impoverished black people he knew growing up in rural Pointe Coupee Parish, he had to return to his native Louisiana.

Gaines, who gained international recognition for his books about his small plot of earth, died in his sleep Tuesday at his childhood home. The revered Louisiana author was 86.

As a child,  he worked in the fields among people a few generations removed from slavery. From his meager schooling, he'd learned to read and write, and composed letters for his co-workers and family members.

Along with many other blacks fleeing the South's racial violence, he moved to California as a young man. For the first time, he found himself free to read in a public library, and discovered Turgenev and other 19th century Russian novelists.

Loving the bohemian life of San Francisco, he graduated from San Francisco State, then received a prestigious Stegner fellowship to study writing at Stanford. The voices he knew in childhood remained with him.

Struggling in California to finish a book based on the strict, wheelchair-confined aunt who raised him, Gaines returned to Louisiana at the height of the civil rights movement. Back in Louisiana, he gained a clear vision of the plantation life he knew growing up and quickly finished "The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman," his breakthrough novel.

Tracing how history echoed in a life of quiet dignity, the book gave the world one of its most enduring characters, a woman raised in slavery who lived to 101 and saw the changes of the 1960s. Cecily Tyson gave a memorable performance as Miss Jane Pittman in a TV movie that won nine Emmy Awards.

Gaines further drew upon his memories of the black community in "A Gathering of Old Men," "A Lesson Before Dying" and other lauded books. He received a MacArthur "genius grant," and traveled the world. He always returned to his childhood home close to a body of water known as False River that had once been part of the Mississippi.

A genial, warm-hearted man who spoke with Louisiana's French-inflected cadences, Gaines revealed how the love of family and community overcame bitterness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boo! Halloween begins holiday rush

Halloween decorations in my neighbors' yards signal the rush to the holidays is on.

On my daily walks, I'm amused by gray tombstones, skeletons, even one of a dog, witches and pneumatic ghosts and goblins. Death seems so jolly this time of year.

Halloween used to not be so big, but now it's almost like Christmas. When the trick or treating's over, the holiday season crashes upon us.

Christmas carols play in stores beginning in October. On my walk last night, I saw what suspiciously looked like holiday lights.

Thanksgiving is a quick speed bump before the Christmas season hits full gear. October to year's end rushes by so fast.

I'd like for it to slow down. But the world won't stop for me.

Thinking about climate change at a luxury beach resort

I tried to enjoy our visit to a resort on the Atlantic Ocean last weekend.

Before our trip through Georgia to north Florida, a U.N. report said that the world's oceans are endangered by climate change. The oceans have exhausted their capacity to absorb carbon. As the oceans warm, acidity rises, threatening sealife. Melting ice will raise sea levels, eventually flooding the luxury condos and hotels at places like Amelia Island, where we stayed.

Witnessing the Atlantic's majesty gives the illusion that the ocean is invulnerable to human activity. But Islands of plastic foul the Pacific. The Atlantic is warming. Coral reefs and fish are dying.. Already, cities like Miami experience regular flooding. Unable to break my habit of reading a newspaper, I saw something about right whales dying after hurling themselves onto dry land.

Like the other guests, we enjoyed the ocean, the swimming pools, the restaurants, the luxury shops. We walked along the golf course, which requires gallons of water to stay green.

On a cruise to Cumberland Island, we saw dolphins, a shark, ospreys and other birds, and Cumberland's feral horses. The tour guide said wild shrimp flourish. Long polluted, the Amelia River is now clean, and oyster beds have returned.  Nature seemed fine.

Looking at the waves crash against the beach, I couldn't stop thinking about that U.N. report.  The ocean, from where human life emerged, is in serious trouble.

We kept seeing small children, newborn babies and pregnant women. Congratulating a mother with a 4-week-old infant, I realized that the child likely wil live until 2100. If the world doesn't act soon to stop climate change, the baby during her life will experience a far more desolate world than ours.

I did well enjoying the luxury surroundings until I saw sprinklers spraying an abandoned tennis court, which received more water than the surrounding shrubbery. Gallons of water wasted.

Before heading home, we filled up with gasoline. As we reached Atlanta, the gas tank was almost empty. Along with the others hurtling down the highway, we had sent emissions into the atmosphere. A radio talk show said that a country plans zero carbon emissions by 2050. I said to myself, "2050? We don't have that much time."

The 90-degree days march into October.