More from the WESTERN MONTHLY (1830)

The conclusion of this 10-page article:

Let it not be said, that we do not cordially respect a competent legislator; or that we do not consider it the duty of every man, to obey the distinct intimation of the will of the country, that he should serve it. But when we see what miserable timber is wrought into the political ship, how many bipeds are sent to our legistatures, who ought never have aspired to any thing, beyond finding the way from the bed to the fire, we cannot but feel a certain humiliation in this degradation of our country's character, apart from its bearing on the point, for which we contend. Our consolation is, that every thing changes in our country. The fashion of belles lettres, literature and the fine arts, will come round in its turn; and mean while, knights of the quill must toil on, with what courage they may.

Given that the condition of our electioneering and politics in 2011 seems so similar to that of 1830, I conclude that either our political life hasn't changed or the final prophecy that a better character will "come round in its turn" has come and gone and is to be hoped for again at some point in the future.

What follows is an excerpt from an article appearing in the May 1830 issue of an American journal called Western Monthly. The context of the article is an attempt to refute exaggerated negative impressions of all things American appearing in the British periodicals of the time. (Sorry about the archaic gendered language.)

Though in travelling through our land, little interest or excitement is seen in any thing, but electioneering and politics; that is on the surface of society, although the columns of our newspapers are occupied with little else, we know, that there is in our country a numerous body of men, isolated though they may be, and personally unknown to each other, who view this order of things with the deepest regret; who would rejoice to see a regard for literature, the fine arts, the lesser morals, and the charities of life, replace this barbarous and Gothic public taste, this relish born in a tavern, nourished with whiskey, and developed and matured in the electioneering arena. If these men, who would rejoice to see another and an infinitely higher interest excited among us, could know each other, and become possessed of each other's views, and could unite their bearing and influence, they would not be without their effect, in kindling a better excitement, a more refined national taste. We know, that there are thousands of the most talented and respectable men, who are worn out, and disgusted with the nauseating and incessant clatter of electioneering and politics. Would, that their voices could be heard, that their influence could be felt, and that we had a great national society, to keep peace, and put down babblers and demagogues; and that papers, which inculcate literary taste, and diffuse literary information, and a regard to the lesser morals, and the domestic charities, could come into favor, instead of the thousand vehicles of fierce and noisy politics.

65

Some of this will be disjointed, fragmented, based as it is on fleeting night-thoughts and dreams.

Fifteen years ago, my dad died suddenly at the age of 65. He was a quiet man, and we were never that close, especially if closeness is in part measured by the words that pass between. Maybe it's because of that clear space between us that he has never really faded that much in fifteen years. I think of him often. Sometimes we talk in dreams, but as is often the case in the aftermath of these I can't remember the words.

During the night just passed, I was with him in the living room of the old house in Walnut. I actually don't know if this was a dream or if I was just thinking about it on the edge of sleep and in the context of a possible poem I was musing on. My mom's loud crying—a wailing—could be heard from behind her closed bedroom door. I must have been young, or maybe in my teens, because Dad's words came to me in a comforting tone: "She'll be all right. She just needs to cry." And he would have said this without looking at my grandmother, whose words under her breath—maybe about the length of my hair or the holes in the knees of my blue jeans—most likely brought on the tears. But then maybe the comment, whatever it was, was innocent, offhand even, and Mom took it the wrong way, either accidentally or willfully. He sat there, able only to bear with the situation, his jaws clenching and unclenching.

But don't get me wrong—such incidents, although somewhat chronic, were nevertheless not common.

Then in the early hours of this morning, after I'd been up once at four o'clock trying to get our computer working again (which I think I did!), I dreamed of Dad. We were in, of all places, a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Not that it looked like a KFC, not that we were eating that childhood treat—you know how it is in dreams when you just know the place you're in or you know that a person in the dream is a particular person in your life, even though in the dream he might not look anything like he does in your waking life. Anyway, we were eating something that looked like a flattened bologna and egg biscuit—don't ask me why—and talking, but I can remember nothing of what we said. Then suddenly we were in a car, he in the passenger seat and I behind the wheel, finishing off some French fries. Again I don't remember what we were saying. Then I was still behind the wheel, but he was sitting on a porch above me. The only words I remember from the dream were only thought, not spoken. I wanted to ask, "Do you miss the baby I was?" Phrased just like that. But I never said it, because as I was thinking it I was rolling backward, turning, rolling forward, leaving.

I suppose that my missing my younger son as a baby, now that he's grown and mostly gone, made me wonder if my dad missed me in that way.

But maybe that's too linear a thought process for such a dream.

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80

My mother turned 80 years old yesterday, 5 August 2011, and tomorrow, on the 7th, we'll have a birthday party for her. I'm sure it'll be a fine event, as my aunt, Mom's sister, younger by three years, is good at putting this sort of thing together. I wish my uncle, her brother, older by two years, could be there, but he's down in Shelby, NC, and not doing all that great. Still, she should have lots of guests.

The only unfortunate thing about the day is that she will have to celebrate at the Brian Center in Weaverville, NC, a nursing/rehab facility where she has been since the 5th of July. The day before, she was getting dressed to celebrate our nation's 235th birthday and did something screwy to her right arm that resulted in a hairline fracture in whatever bone is cuddled in between her bicep and triceps. So, for over a month now, she's been at the BC, as my brother calls it, watching TV and doing rehab and talking to her roommate (she's had two so far) and her caretakers and physical therapists and waiting for visitors.

I'm saddened to think of her there, but as I'm writing this I realize that, as sure as I am that she wants to go home, I'm sure that at some level she's enjoying the company. At home, she lives alone, and she is alone most of the time. One Saturday afternoon when I was at the house with her, she wished she had somebody there all the time to talk with and laugh with, but that's not possible these days. But since being at the Brian Center, she has had that. It's got to count for something, but I doubt that it makes up for not being home.

Her current roommate is leaving within the next day or so. I hope she's able to stay for the party, but I know she's anxious to get out of there. Imagine being there in Weaverville, having come down from the west coast of Michigan to visit relatives, and suffering a heart attack, going through surgery and being placed in the Brian Center for rehab before she can leave to go back home. Fortunately, many of Mom's brothers and sisters moved to Michigan, the east coast (in the thumb), to find work in the 1940s and '50s, so she's had plenty of experience with that northern state, the character of the people and their accent. I think Mom'll miss this woman.

Her first roommate was a local woman who moved to the assisted living wing of the Brian Center, where she's now a permanent resident. She and Mom got along well too. My favorite quirk about her was that she is obsessed with the local channel 13 weatherman. Old enough to be his grandmother, of course, she had pictures of him on her wall. She had a signed note from him that she had received at some point in the past. And she watched the news casts all evening for a glimpse of him. (Mom understood to some degree, but she said that watching the local newscasts every day from 5:00 till 6:30 was a little much.)

I'm now 52 years old, three years younger than my dad when he had multiple by-pass surgery, thirteen years younger than he was when he fell asleep one Wednesday night in November and never woke up. Although this world can be wearying and it's certainly troubling most of the time these days, I think 80 sounds better to me than 65. I think I'll go for it!