A closer look at flyover land

The Music of Failure

Really? Twenty-five years have come and gone since this was first published, and I still hadn't read this remarkable book? I'd better offer up thanks to the wonderful people at the University of Minnesota Press, who asked if I'd like a review copy of the recently reissued classic. I mean, it's not as if I didn't know about Bill Holm, or hadn't read some of his work, or didn't feel sad when he died last year. 

Still, I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting when I cracked the (lovely) cover of this slim volume, a collection of essays Holm wrote on many topics: life on the prairie, the evolution of immigrants in Minnesota, why failure is not necessarily failure--or why it may turn out to be better than success--and a brief history of Minnesota political opinion.

None of which sounds all that great when I describe it, but let Holm do the talking, and it's a different matter. At turns reverent about the world of beauty surrounding him and wryly chuckling over human nature and immigrant assimilation, he's never at a loss for words:

"As a mountain is high, a prairie is wide; horizontal grandeur, not vertical."

"When people we love die, we swallow them down inside us, and speak with their voices. Those who love the dead are mediums already, move tables around in darkness everywhere they go."

"Catholics married in mysterious and interminable ceremonies with incense, bells, and gold robes, conducted in smoky southern language no one understood. Married in the morning, they drank whiskey, ate ham, told stories through the afternoon, and finished off by hiring a band, drinking more whiskey, dancing the polka, schottische, and old time waltz all night, ending up at dawn with hugging, lovemaking, well-wishing, and a divine ecstatic hangover. When Lutherans married, they read St. Paul, issued warnings, drank coffee in the basement, shook hands, and went to work the next day. That, presumably, was why so many more Catholics were always getting born."

"Strangers complained about the prairie's boring monotony, mile after mile of flat farm fields, but to a native even a single section of land was a microcosm of the continent: a cornfield, cultivated, civilized, straight, and square, next to a stony pasture full of those strange visitors from another planet--cows; next to that, a rolling gully, or cattail slough, and if you were lucky, a coffee-colored river with its dark willow, cottonwood, and boxelder grove along the bank; then a blue-blooming flax field stretching up to meet that intimidating, magnificent sky full of tornadoes, thunderstorms, stars clear as sword points heading toward earth on summer nights."

I don't think this is a book of interest only to Minnesotans. It's very specific to time and place, but anyone with any interest in the natural world, or immigrant history, or human nature--and anyone who appreciates beautiful writing--would love this book.

Memory of Trees

A while back, the University of Minnesota Press was nice enough to send me a review copy of this:

Memory of Trees, by Gayla Marty, is a memoir of growing up in a tight-knit farming family in rural Minnesota. As a description, that doesn't sound like much, and definitely doesn't do justice to this beautiful book. It started slowly for me, but long before the 50-page rule kicked in, I was hooked and had a hard time putting it down. This isn't a "poor little me" memoir, destined for an Oprah sticker. Not that all of Marty's life was easy, but her passion for the family farm (begun by her great-grandfather) is so strongly felt that, as the book draws to a close and it appears more and more inevitable that the farm is going to be sold, her pain was palpable.

Plus, she can write. Her descriptions of life on the farm are wonderful, down to earth and very visual:

"Uncle can spot good places to look for agates, but agate hunting doesn't require going anywhere, really. The county road grader passes by every other day to turn over and rearrange the gravel on our roads, and once every year or two, a new load of gravel is spread from a dump truck--a fresh supply of hope to find a truly perfect agate. The perfect agate would be round or oval, with rings around a glassy-looking center. Once, on a trip up north, we stopped at an agate shop where we saw agates polished to a glassy finish. But most of the agates we find are no bigger than a fingernail. Sometimes we spot them through a layer of dust and give them a good spit to reveal their stripes."

She also manages to stay out of the various cliched traps that could happen in a memoir of this kind. She loves farm life, but makes no bones about the fact that it's an enormous amount of work and risky. The people who, for generations, have farmed this land are intelligent, hard-working people, but she doesn't glorify them--they have plenty of human faults. And as the younger generations move away from farming, breaking her heart, she still understands their reasons.

I loved this book. Marty is also deeply religious and ties Bible verses in to tell her story, but she does so without any preachiness. That may be because a difference in religious beliefs fractured the two families who farmed the land she grew up on, and she's careful not to demand readers believe what she does, just that they understand where she's coming from.

I've never been someone who wishes I'd grown up on a farm or wanted to live that life now. But after reading this book, I can see why others would, and do, and why it's sad that family farms have become such an endangered species. It makes me think of something I read somewhere (sorry, I can't put my finger on just where yet) about the Hmong in Minnesota, how the older generations are incredibly hard-working and talented farmers, but the younger generations, raised in the U.S., are turning away from farming. It's a way of life, an art, that could be lost, and what a shame if it is.

Grace Flandrau

I forget where I first stumbled across the name of Grace Flandrau and the notes that she was once a high-ranking member of Minnesota's literati, around the same time and with the same regard as F. Scott Fitzgerald. She published steadily through the 1920s and 30s, but sometime in the 1940s she stopped publishing and remained quiet, becoming obscure and dying in 1971.

A while back I found a copy of the Memoirs of Grace Flandrau on a clearance table at Common Good Books. 

A slim volume, only 117 pages, but I thought it might be an interesting tale of Minnesota history in the early 1900s.

Well, yes and no. Flandrau lived in upper-crust society in St. Paul, but her position there was tenuous at best. Rumors of her illegitimacy dogged her all her life, and for once, with good reason: her mother was actually her father's mistress, not her father's wife. The family's fortunes rose and fell, with lavish dinner parties being held one day while fear of losing their home would surface the next. As a child, Flandrau was sent to Paris to attend school, not because it was the best school, but because it was actually cheaper to live and educate there at the time than in St. Paul. The bulk of this memoir talks about her schooling in Paris, and she's not particularly complimentary of the experience. That section of the book is interesting, but also, in today's memoir-obsessed culture, rather dry--there are some interesting anecdotes, including a headmistress's determination that all students would be converted to Catholicism, even the daughter of a Norwegian Lutheran minister. The same headmistress once cornered Flandrau and kissed her passionately, and then shunned her.

No abuse, other than the kiss and bad food, no excessive bullying, none of the kinds of things we've been schooled to expect in a memoir. That too may be a reflection of the times; in the introduction, editor Georgia Ray notes that Flandrau had exchanged letters with legendary editor Maxwell Perkins on the topic of publishing her memoirs, and his advice was to present them as fiction, because memoir simply wasn't as popular.

How times change.

For me, the best part of the book was the final short section. Flandrau met William Blair Flandrau, who was from St. Paul but owned a coffee plantation in Mexico. A very short courtship (consisting mostly of her reading his brother's book about Mexico and determining she wanted to go there) was followed by the newly married couple leaving for Mexico, against the advice of both sets of parents, who noted that she was perhaps not the best equipped for such a drastic cultural change.

One thing I know about Flandrau: she could write, especially in the last section. I had a devil of a time choosing just one passage to quote, so let's do two:

About one of the passengers on the ship to Mexico: "He was a man of several vocations, two of which were poetry and cooking. He read poetry and he wrote it. He was always sitting on deck with a small volume of poetry in hand unless he could get somebody to listen to him, and then he talked about cooking. He talked especially about a small club of gourmets of which he was a member, and it seemed to me strange that people would form a club for the sole purpose of cooking and eating and talking about food. It was an exclusive circle composed entirely of men as, he assured me, the high practitioners of the arts and other mysteries must be. And from the way he talked it seemed to me that the dishes they prepared must belong altogether outside the realm of what I had then considered food. Super dishes--the alter ego of nutriment."

About arriving in Havana and comparing it to other tropical coastal cities "They have an indescribably aspect in common--the liquid golden quality of the burning heat, the windy coconut palms leaning toward the sea, the chalky white and pale blue and pink sugar-frosting villas tarnished and blistered by the great winds that blow upon them, and the rains and the sun...The scent of the too-sweet flowers stealing from wet gardens behind high iron grilles, and there is always the slow roaring, the velvety, hushed crashing of the waves along the snow-white beach."

Sadly, the memoir in this volume ends with her arrival at the plantation. A note at the end says there are more pieces to the Mexican memoir in Flandrau's papers in Tucson. How I wish someone would publish them--I'd read them in a heartbeat. For now, I'll have to make do with requesting her out-of-print books from the library.

5th Annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam

It used to be known as the Bloggers Silent Poetry Reading, but gotta change with the times, I guess.

For this year's entry, I give you a poem (with the poet's permission) from the recently published I Wish I Had a Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman by Jude Nutter. (Note: this remarkable book is a finalist for a Minnesota Book Award this year!)

After Watching Television
I Step Outside

            away from facts, into
the indecisions of half-darkness because I
have just seen the survivors of Beslan weeping
and repeating the story of how the hostaged children
began eating their flowers, passing
along petals to those who had none.  From his post
in the black oak the horned owl swings the calm
disc of his face toward me.  And who
started it?  Whose heart opened first, like a hand?
Whose hand a dish of petals?  The flesh
would not survive long on gifts such as this, but the spirit
could sustain itself forever.
We could say that the children taking off their clothes
in the heat were flowers stripped of their petals,
except there are moments we must refuse
to trade for metaphor.  Even if the world is a fiction,
some facts are literal.  Fact: the children ate their flowers.
Fact: those with flowers shared them with those
who had none.  Which version do you prefer:
the one in which each flower is eaten
down to its very last petal; or the one in which a few
petals are lost, knocked out of hands
and scattered, so that the women and the men
wandering later in the rubble discovered the heart's
wafer-thin, bright sustenance among the wreckage?
Both stories end the same way.  Fact: We stumbled,
they said, through the wreckage,
over guts and body parts.  God, forgive us,
they said, we could not help them.  A sudden flush
of movement in the small harbours of the body
            where grief gathers.  It is dark now.
The long, slow bloom of an owl's call deep in the wood.

Literary scavenger hunt, questions and answers

I promised answers, and so, without further ado:

Week 1: What was the name of the restaurant housed in St. Paul’s storied Hungry Mind bookstore?
Table of Contents

Week 2: Name the author who has been known to write longhand drafts of a popular mystery series at the St. Clair Broiler in St. Paul.
William Kent Krueger

Week 3: In 1898, a 13-year-old boy named Harry ran away from his Minnesota home to serve as a drummer boy in the Spanish-American War. He didn’t make it out of Sauk Centre that day, but later, as the first American to win a Nobel Prize for Literature, he traveled widely. What was his name?
Sinclair Lewis

Week 4: Which Pulitzer Prize-winning poet wrote a poem that references the Walker Art Center, the Guthrie Theater, and the former Minneapolis Artificial Limb Exchange, and what is the name of the poem?
James Wright, The Minneapolis Poem

Week 5: Which rock band, whose lead singer grew up in Minnesota, has songs populated with literary figures from William Butler Yeats to Nelson Algren to Minnesota’s own John Berryman?
The Hold Steady

Week 6: Which Minnesota poet ran for president five times and once said “if any of you are secret poets, the best way to break into print is to run for the presidency?”
Eugene McCarthy

Week 7: Name the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, with deep Minnesota ties, described by this rhyme:
      Pianos, trains, and a guy named Joe,
      All brought to a stage of lust and woe;
      They seized on this life, and it took a toll,
      But learning and laughter warmed the soul.
August Wilson

Week 8: Most of Alison McGhee’s Julia Gillian stories take place in which Twin Cities neighborhood?
Uptown

Week 9: This Twin Cities novelist, poet, and professor is known for teaching a course on the “Poetry of Rap.” Nationally, his talents are more notably recognized for his work alongside Steven Spielberg for the movie Amistad.
Alexs Pate

Week 10: In a beloved series of books, which author chronicled growing up in “Deep Valley” (Mankato, Minnesota) from the age of five to the time she was married in Minneapolis?
Maud Hart Lovelace (the Betsy-Tacy books)

Week 11: Name at least two great Minnesota authors and their famous works from the following initials: TGG by FSF; MS by SL; GITE by OER; LM by LE; GAC by TO.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald; Main Street by Sinclair Lewis; Giants in the Earth by Ole Rolvaag; Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich; Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien

Now go forth and READ!

Literary Scavenger Hunt, Part Final

Right before Christmas, I completed the 11-week literary scavenger hunt. I have to say, I've loved exploring all these bookstores, and love that the Twin Cities has such a strong, varied book-loving community.

The final question was this: Name at least two great Minnesota authors and their famous works from the following initials: TGG by FSF; MS by SL; GITE by OER; LM by LE; GAC by TO.

The final two stops were at stores that are really shining stars in the bookstore world. One was Magers & Quinn, a 15-year resident of the Uptown area, selling new and used books. Unfortunately, my camera battery gave up the ghost when I tried to take an exterior shot, but I did get an interior photo:

Really, now, you have to love a bookstore that has ladders. Also? Tall shelves and a twisty-turny layout that makes exploring books fun. As if exploring books wasn't fun all by itself.

Finally, I stopped at one of my favorite places of all, Micawber's Books. 

Can you beat that for a welcoming entrance? I think not. I've tried to put my finger on just why I love Micawber's so. I can use all the old words that I've tossed about here before: quaint, cozy, charming, good selection, knowledgeable staff. They're all correct. I think it comes down to something more intangible, that devilish notion of personal preference.

So there you have it. Many, many thanks to all the people who worked so hard to put this scavenger hunt together--it was excellent, enlightening, and enjoyable.

Tomorrow I'll post a full list of the questions--and the answers!

Literary scavenger hunt, part 10

Wow--the next-to-last week! Here was the question:

In a beloved series of books, which author chronicled growing up in “Deep Valley” (Mankato, Minnesota) from the age of five to the time she was married in Minneapolis?

This was an easy-peasy one for me, as the books were some of my favorites from childhood. Two Minneapolis shops handled this week's passport stamping.

True Colors Bookstore. A neighborhood institution for decades under the name Amazon Bookstore, the shop recently underwent a name change; I'm guessing you're all smart enough to figure out why.

The shop specializes in women's studies and writings and GLBTQ materials, including publications for children, but you can also find a good amount of general interest books, including a good fiction section and a decent poetry section.

Across the city is Birchbark Books. 

Birchbark is owned by novelist Louise Erdrich, one of my favorite writers, and the shop is a charmer. Just look at the sign on the outside.

And indeed it was. It's also conveniently located adjacent to (and has a door into) a little coffee shop/cafe.

The store itself has a wonderfully eclectic set of collections, from a fine fiction section, to Native American works and issues, to a divine kids area:

That's a loft up there, where kids can climb and sit and read. I would have been entranced with that as a kid.

But there are things of an irreverent nature to tickle grown-ups too.

You have to love a section labeled "Cleanliness" that has all kinds of fun stuff about nuns and boyfriend training.

Or the shrine:

With the note: "Please do not enter (our insurance does not cover damnation...)"

Irreverent, funny, deeply literary--yup, it's Louise Erdrich's store, all right.

One more week, only one more question...

Name at least two great Minnesota authors and their famous works from the following initials: TGG by FSF; MS by SL; GITE by OER; LM by LE; GAC by TO.

Literary scavenger hunt, part 9

Coming down the home stretch. This week's question:

This Twin Cities novelist, poet, and professor is known for teaching a course on the “Poetry of Rap.” Nationally, his talents are more notably recognized for his work alongside Steven Spielberg for the movie Amistad.

Two fun stops this week, with rather diverse audiences.

The Red Balloon Book Shop, on St. Paul's Grand Avenue, caters to the young ones (or at least those who like young people's literature). 

Not the world's best picture, but you can get a sense of the homey-ness of the shop, with its cheery displays and fun illustrations.

Across the river, it was time for a visit to the Walker Art Center, which, like all good museums, has an excellent gift shop. And this one is particularly loaded with books:

With only two more weeks to go, I'm starting to feel very educated about the local literary landscape. Here's the question for week 10:

In a beloved series of books, which author chronicled growing up in “Deep Valley” (Mankato, Minnesota) from the age of five to the time she was married in Minneapolis?

No doubt in my mind here--these were some of my favorite childhood books.

Literary scavenger hunt, part 8

Thought I'd wear out, did you? Ha. Ha, I say, ha.

The question for week 8 was: Most of Alison McGhee’s Julia Gillian stories take place in which Twin Cities neighborhood?

I had the pleasure of stopping at two fun places this week.

Wild Rumpus Books, which, as you might guess by the name, is a bookstore geared towards kids, including its kid-friendly entrance. That's not to say they don't entertain adults, though--they have shelves dedicated to the grown-up side too. But kids are the primary focus, and they are so good at what they do. I'm hard-pressed to think of any bookstore more knowledgeable about their niche than this one, and they're friendly to boot.

It was somewhat fitting that the second stop, also in Minneapolis, was here:

The Minnesota Center for Book Arts, located in the Open Book space with the Loft and Milkweed Press. It's a fitting combination with Wild Rumpus in that, if you have elementary-aged kids, they've probably been here--this place does fantastic field trips. (I should also note that they also do great summer camps, including some in conjunction with the Loft, combining creative writing and bookmaking.)

The Center is all about books in a production sense--how books are made, how paper is made, and how those processes can be turned into an art form. This isn't just kid's play; there's plenty for adults to enjoy too. Especially in the shop.

Handmade papers. Or how about a bookshelf made out of books?

By the way, for an interesting past project, go read about the world's longest book, created by the MCBA and strung along the Stone Arch Bridge.

The question for week 9 is: 

• This Twin Cities novelist, poet, and professor is known for teaching a course on the “Poetry of Rap.” Nationally, his talents are more notably recognized for his work alongside Steven Spielberg for the movie Amistad.

This one I knew off the top of my head. How about you?

Literary scavenger hunt, part 7

Wow--I'm impressed with myself. I thought for sure I'd have given up by now. But no. Seven weeks in and still going strong.

This week's question:

Name the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, with deep Minnesota ties, described by this rhyme:

Pianos, trains, and a guy named Joe,

All brought to a stage of lust and woe;

They seized on this life, and it took a toll,

But learning and laughter warmed the soul.

This week's question took me to two fun places, including this one, which arguably has the best view out its front door of any bookseller in the Twin Cities:

The Bookcase in Wayzata (for you out-of-towners, that's pronounced Why-zetta), which looks out at Lake Minnetonka.

I've been to so many small, cozy, intimate, charming bookshops that I'm running out of ways to describe them. What a bad problem to have.

The second stop of the week was on the other side of the metro, in St. Paul's Cathedral Hill neighborhood.

Hard to see, but it's Common Good Books, the shop owned by Garrison Keillor. I happen to really like this little basement shop; it's crammed full of books, with tall shelves, and then books crammed between the shelves and the ceiling. I've heard the comment that it's claustrophobic, and I can understand that--but as long as books are what's crowding me in, I'm fine. Plus, you have to love a bookstore that has a huge poetry section, as well as this:

The question for week 8 is: Most of Alison McGhee’s Julia Gillian stories take place in which Twin Cities neighborhood?

Tricky question, this one. But I believe I have sussed it out.