Chapter Four: Exercises

Chapter 4: Exercises

Item #1:

I believe I will try to work with the family situation I began in the Chapter Three exercises – Mom and Dad. I have in mind to explore a generational conflict in the family, but from two directions, upward and downward. I’m thinking this will result in one protagonist – Dad – and two antagonists: the young brother-in-law in art school, and Dad’s own father, an octogenarian politician losing his grip but unwilling to accept reality. Dad becomes a central figure representing stability in the family, but discovering huge conflict in becoming the “father” to his own father, while ceasing to be a “father” to the young brother-in-law he has raised, but whom now questions his authority and rectitude in all things. Although Mom would in the real world be a major player in all this, I have in mind to keep her more in the background in order to examine the dramatic relationships between the three generations of males in the family.

DAD:
…goddamnit, what’s wrong with that kid. I busted my ass all the way through the Depression just to keep this family afloat. Shit, I was the only one with a job in my whole family…if I hadn’t taken them in their family would have starved too…my deadbeat father-in-law couldn’t hold a job when I found him one. For chrissakes, what is going through his head? Art school. Christ. Maybe I’d liked to have gone to art school, or run off to Paris or some damned thing…but I didn’t…I brought that paycheck home every damn week, no matter what…kept my nose to the grindstone…so they could all eat and have a roof over their heads. It wasn’t easy either. And now my own father is giving me a hard time…he’s so out of touch with reality, thinking he can go back to the General Assembly…or maybe he’s just not thinking any more…blind, he can’t drive, drinks too damned much…does he think I’ve got time to run him back and forth to the capital and still make a living to support him…Jesus

BROTHER-IN-LAW:

…I don’t know what he’s complaining about, I don’t ask him for money…well, not any more anyway. Does he think I’m going to be a child forever? I didn’t need him to tell me what to do when I was overseas and I don’t need him to do it now…I hate the way engineers think…everything is so damned linear with them…and I’d rather be dead than be one…I do love him, and he’s good to Sis, but I have to live too…he can relive the Depression as long as he likes, but I’ve got to get out of here before I suffocate…he’s so security conscious, I want to just cast my fate to the wind; if I can’t make it as an artist, I can always find a job of some sort…”You should start putting away some money right now, just a little at a time, and get a solid education; start thinking about your future now…” God, how I get tired of hearing that. I want to live now, the future will take care of itself. But I do love him, I guess we would have starved if he hadn’t taken us in, God knows Pop couldn’t support us….

GRANDFATHER:

I’m just going to have to straighten him out. He better show a little more respect, I’m his father. I’m just not going to put up with this. I’ve already announced for re-election and I’m going to be re-elected no matter what he wants. I have the respect of the people in this county even if he doesn’t respect me. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, my own son acting this way. These last ten years have been hard…my business lost, my land gone, I can’t see, can’t drive, can’t...can’t...can’t…damnnit! And now my own boy trying to tell me what to do. Well, I survived the Depression and I’ll get him straightened out too. What’s that quote…h’mmm “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an ungrateful child”? Shakespeare or somebody had that right. I was proud of him, putting himself through engineering college, but damnnit, that doesn’t make him my boss…he's my son.

Item #2:

DAD: Tom, it just doesn’t make sense. Artists don’t make any money, at least, not many of them do. You have the G.I. Bill, why waste it? You could go to school right here in town and get a degree in Civil Engineering, or maybe Mechanical. You have a good mind. You could succeed in either one. And when you got out, you’d be almost guaranteed a good job.

TOM: I know that. And I know you’re thinking about a good future for me. I appreciate it, I really do. But its just not what I want to do with my life. Overseas I began to realize that life can be pretty short – I had friends that didn’t come back. I love to draw and paint, and I want to see if I can make a living at it. And, if I don’t, I’ll always find something to do…

DAD: Really? You forget quickly. Can’t you remember your own father walking the streets looking for work? For anything? Any kind of work? And there wasn’t anything for a guy without a practical skill; guys like your dad were a dime a dozen. There weren’t many engineers in bread lines back then, and there won’t ever be. Those days could come again. In fact, I think they will. Couldn't you be an engineer and draw and paint on the side?

TOM: I suppose i could be, but its just not for me. I’m going to go to Ann Arbor. I’ve been accepted there and I’ve made my decision. I hope someday you’ll be proud of me…maybe I’ll be famous, get one of my pictures on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post or something.

DAD: (sigh) … I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, I really did. But I’m going to have to put my foot down. I want you to go to school here. I’m not going to give you another dime if you go off to Michigan. I’m sorry.

TOM: I’m sorry too, I guess. You’ve been awfully good to me, and Sis. But I’ve just got to do it. I’ll have my G.I. money, and I can work part time…I’ll make it somehow. But, I’d feel better if I knew you were behind me.

DAD: I just can’t do that Tom. If you leave here, you’re on your own.

TOM: I guess that’s it then, and I’ll never forget what you did for us … but I’ve got to go.

Item #3:

I think there is some universality in each of the character’s motivations. The young man has the angst of youth, the desire to get his life started, and on his own terms. The grandfather is the man that most of us will become inevitably, debilitated by age, yet unwilling to let go of his independence. Dad is square in the middle, awash with a sense of responsibility, the need to be the rock of his family’s security. He is somewhat in a denial of his own, not really wanting to be the adult his father needs, but wanting to keep that exact role over his brother-in-law. Finally, he will realize that he cannot have everything his way and be forced to accept both eventualities – but he will not yield easily.

Item #4:
Dad probably doesn’t realize it, but his real goal is to not have things change. He liked being the anchor for his family during tough times. He does think like an engineer, and he feeds on responsibility. What will frustrate his goal is the fact that the boy is now a man; having been a soldier he won’t be a child again. And he is abetted in his desires by the fact that he has no family to support and no fear of not having money. In his having nothing, he is free to pursue his dreams – and will. Dad really has no power to stop him. With regard to his father, Dad will be frustrated in his goal because things will change no matter what. Grandfather will continue to become increasingly debilitated with age, and can no longer be the father figure that Dad would like him to be. For all his own steadiness and responsibility, Dad liked his father’s being a man of repute and standing, and it disconcerts him to accept their changed relationship. But their relationship will change, and Dad will have to confront this problem with it's somewhat Oedipal aspects.

Chapter Three Exercises: Part One

Item #8

The man wasn’t particularly old, although gray. He could walk a step or two, limping heavily, but he mainly sat in, and got around in, an odd looking contrivance. Not a wheel chair, but a sort of “walker” thing, made of a tubular aluminum frame with small black wheels on each of the four legs. A canvas seat, in which he sat, was slung from the top frame and his feet barely touched the pavement. He used his feet to propell himself, scooter-like, pushing on the ground. His face revealed little emotion, ranging from blank to wistful and back again, becoming slightly animated when he spoke. He was attending a hiking trail meeting.

“…damnit, I don’t know why I come to these things. They make me feel as bad as good. Why the hell me? A stroke. I exercised , did every fucking thing I was supposed to do and now this. Shit. I guess I like being in on planning the hikes, but at the end of the day, they all hit the trail, and here I sit. Goddamnit, why me? They are all so damned solicitous, but the nicer they are the worse I feel. The next time Gloria bends down in my face to ask how I’m feeling, I think I’ll just grab one and see how she feels. Bitch. She couldn’t care less how I feel, as long as she makes a nice impression on everyone…"so fucking concerned, she's such a lovely person"...“pet the little mascot, throw him a bone”…I’d throw her a bone if I could. Sonofabitch, I’m not coming to any more of these meetings…but then...its as close as I ever get to a trail…shit…”

Item #9

It’s a small, fired clay statue, perhaps 12” high, with a rounded base about half that wide. It is the figure of a seated woman, nude, with one leg extended and the other tucked beneath it. One arm is by her side, the other in her lap. The head is held high, the gaze – if there was a face – into the middle distance. Although she is clearly nude, her surfaces are featurless, only textured gray clay, and all forms are rounded and without detail – mitten hands, club feet, ovoid head. My uncle made it in art school in 1946.

MOM: He’s sending us a naked woman for the garden.
DAD: WHAT?
MOM: The telegram says he’s sending us a naked woman for our garden. Railway Freight.
DAD: Jesus Christ. That’s all we need. …Railway Freight! How big is it!?
MOM: Doesn’t say. Just a naked woman coming Railway Freight. It might be at the depot already. If its sitting on the platform, I hope its decently crated. Oh, and her name is Isolde.
DAD: Well, the neighbors are going to love this one. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with that boy? He joins the army, goes off to war, and does he come back all rough and ready? Nope. He comes back “artistic”! I just don’t…
MOM: Oh, don’t be so hard on him. He always liked to draw, and the army made him artistic on purpose. They sent him to school for it. Remember how proud you were during the war? …him working right in General Eisenhower’s headquarters drawing maps and charts for the general himself.
DAD: That was during the war; war’s over now. Why can’t he just get a job like everybody else and settle down. Art school. Jesus.
MOM: Please don’t be that way, dear. I was so proud of you, as hard as times were…after Mom and Pop died. You let me take in both of my little brothers…worked so hard to support all of us…and I loved you for it. Still do…
DAD: And I love you too, but … for Chrissakes, a naked woman in the garden? And he’s just frittering away his G.I. Bill in Ann Arbor. If he’d just settle down he could have a serious degree in two more years. Hell, he could become an engineer, really make something of himself.
MOM: He doesn’t want to be an engineer; he wants to be an artist. Maybe you’d better run down to the depot and see if “Isolde” is here yet, we shouldn’t keep her waiting…this is exciting.
POP: (mumbling) Jesus H. Christ!

Chapter Two: Exercises

Item #2:

it's on a hillside, the grassy meadow. and i lie in the tall grass in the dappled shade of a large old oak. it's always either october or early june, because although the sun is warm, the air is cool. the air is moving, not a wind, only a gentle breeze that fans the grass and deliciously, gently kisses my face and stirs the hair on my forearms. puffs of cloud dot the azure sky, and sometimes the twittering of birds sounds lightly in the oak.

i could lie here forever, and maybe someday i will. only the essence of me would soon be infused into the grass, and carried to the very top of the tree, among the birds, with a beautiful view of the valley beyond...

Item #3:

…in the rain

The boy walked hurriedly down the street, as the sprinkling rain began to come down harder. His windbreaker was already beginning to show the dark speckles where drops were soaking into the fabric. He glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching clouds -- dark thunderheads massing into the sky -- and picked up his pace. Before he had made many more steps, the sky opened with a crash of lightning and the rain began to come down in sheets, blown by the wind. The rain was driving directly into his face now, his hair hanging over his forehead in wet strings, his wet socks drooping over the tops of his black Converses. He pulled off his backpack and, in a fruitless gesture, held it on top of his head with both hands. In desperation, he glanced in every direction for any possible shelter. Spotting the old house with a big front porch, he vaulted over the hedge, sprinted across the yard and up the steps, the soaked windbreaker flapping wetly around him. With a sigh of relief, he took the backpack off of his head, and pulled at the clothing clinging to his body. A quizzical look began to cross his face as he looked slowly upward at the rain that had continued to drench him – although he was on a porch, surrounded by columns and railings, the derelict old house’s porch was only the remnant of a porch, the roof being long gone. He was standing under the same open sky he had been under while in the middle of the road. With a look of blended chagrin and disgust, the boy slowly stumbled down the steps and slogged across the oozing grass, the useless book bag drooping at his side.

petting the cat...

hello little buddy…so afraid…so curious…can I touch you?…no way?…he wants to be petted, but he’s afraid…just like some people…afraid of what he wants…hop up here…no? ok, just take your time…maybe a little ignoring will help you decide…the sky is pretty today, so blue…aha just the tiniest pantleg brush…i can’t touch you, but you can touch me…i’m going to just hang this hand down there, you can touch it if you want…I knew you couldn’t resist that…now that’s rubbing, not touching…I thought you’d like that…listen to your motor running…odd hearing him purr and feeling it at the same time… onomatopoeia…no, not union of sound and concept…tactile sensation and concept as the same thing…wonder if there’s a word for that… helenkellermatopoeia?…that’s not funny …hey! who’s petting who…whom…you're pushing as hard as I am…women do that sometimes…wonder if petting my hand with your head feels as good to you as petting your head with my hand feels to me? …little bud, we’re in perfect isostasis…equal forces in direct opposition…you're pushing just hard enough so I don’t move your head down but you don't lift my hand up either…you really got this thing figured out…as the good book says, one hand washes the other...shakespeare?…oh, so now you decide to hop up here…too bad. you were too cautious for too long…now i have to go, little buddy. the bench is all yours…

grumpy wake-up...

not again!…who in the hell decided to call that ‘snooze’?…seven fucking minutes isn’t a snooze…it’s hardly worth pushing the button…seven cheesy minutes, and ... there it goes again…jesus christ! that was seven minutes?…give me a break…a snooze is fifteen minutes or its nothing…i’ve pushed that thing four times already and still haven’t gotten enough sleep to … damnit!

Item #4:

As one approaches the Guibord-Valle house, it's 18th century Creole origins are immediately apparent. The long dimension of the house facing the street -- and nearly on the line of the street at that -- the enclosed garden to the rear, and the open gallery across the front all give evidence that this house is not akin to its later Victorian neighbors. The most telling sign of all is the broken slope of the roof; steep at the ridge, then flattening out to extend over the gallery.

Viewing the house from the street, one wonders if the gallerie once extended around all four sides in the earliest French tradition. At present, the roof lacks the distinctive "witches hat" sillouette that would have been the inevitable result of hipping the roof in four directions to cover a porch surrounding the house on all sides. Only a thorough inspection of the attic will tell us if the roof was later extended on each end to cover new rooms made by enclosing the galleries; or whether the house was built originally as we see it today.

In any case, the house with its white clapboards; grey, textured wooden shingled roof; and boxes of blooming flowers hanging on the gallery railings present a pretty picture of early Ste. Genevieve transported somehow to our own time.

We can be certain that the clapboards are covering an unusual feature of Creole construction. Although each board has a bead along its lower edge -- applied by hand with a beading plane -- that indicates an early fabrication date, these boards are sheltering from the weather an even earlier and more interesting feature. The earliest houses in Ste. Genevieve were constructed of hewn logs, but in a manner not common in Anglo settlements. Instead of being stacked horizontally, Creole log houses have the logs set vertically. In the earliest French houses, the ends of the logs are buried in a trench in the ground, called logically, poteaux en terre. Later and more sophisticated houses had their vertical logs mortised into a sill log, a style known as poteaux sur sole. We know that this house we are looking at is of the "sole" variety because we can see the limestone foundation the sole plate sits upon, well above ground level.

Entering the house, our vertical log hypothesis is confirmed by an opening created in the wall plaster that reveals the logs in the interior of the wall. The interior is unexpectedly modern; never restored to its period of construction, the house sheltered many generations of the Valle family, each one updating it to the period of their own use. As a result, the interior is vaguely "modern," reflecting the tastes of its last owner -- the plain white walls and painted ceilings could date from nearly any time in the mid-20th century. Jules Valle, the last of the family to live in the house was a world traveler of varied interests, and the furnishings and decorations demonstrate his ecleticism -- trinkets and souvenirs from countries around the globe, photographs of family ancient and contemporary, odds and ends of theatrical ephemera, and furniture that in large measure almost any of us might have in our own home.

It is not until we venture up the steep attic stairs that we truly come within the 18th century in our exploration of this house. We stand in awe at the massive trusses that support the roof. Put together from a forest of hewn timbers, each perhaps 6 inches by 8 inches in cross section, there is enough lumber in this support system to build a whole small house of today. This support system is difficult to unravel visually, the gloomy attic lighting not assisting the process. After study we see that it is composed of a series of large timber frames resembling capital "A"s that run across the house the short way. And linking the "A"s tightly together the long way down the length of the roof are timber units that somewhat resemble "W"s -- that is, each of the "A" frames are braced against the spine of the house by timbers on each side tying it to the main beam at 45 degree angles.

We needn't be an engineer to appreciate the massive strength of this support system, easily strong enough to carry the weight of this roof many times over. We glow with self appreciation when we finally deduce that we are seeing the architectural equivalent of the human appendix -- a system that had outlived its function. This idea of roof construction was brought by immigrants from Normandy, through Quebec and into Missouri -- they built what they knew, a system devised in medieval France to support the tons and tons of weight embodied in a thatched roof, nevermind that in the new world no such massive trusses were actually needed to hold up strongly the light wooden shingled roofs they would learn to make from the local forests.

Reluctantly leaving the attic, we return to the main floor, and out the back door onto the rear gallery. From this rear porch we take a stroll through the pretty, walled flower garden, noting the interesting blacksmith-made iron cross on the garden shed wall. The thing that may interest us the most here, is the stepping stones in the garden path -- the tombstones of a generation of Valles brought from the local cemetery. It would seem that the eclectic collector, Jules Valle, had accquired the toute ensemble for this one collection; the very beginnings of the house are visible in its walls and attic, and we feel the end of our visit is somewhat oddly evidenced by the tombstones of the people who built it.