What the Week Was Like

I'm sitting here in the kitchen watching the kitten climb into the dog's food dish as the dog lovingly tries to squash him flat, and just the fact that I can translate this scene into words is proof that I'm feeling more rested. At the Frost Place so much of my energy is channeled into listening and reading and talking and writing that the interstices become mute. Every year the power of this week seems impossible to describe, and this year was no exception. Sixteen teachers found their way to a plain brown barn in the mountains of New Hampshire: they came from Dallas and New Orleans, from Indiana and Maine; they came from prep schools and vocational schools, an Ivy League university and a fifth-grade science class. And we read and wrote together, cracked jokes, ate really great cake, played music together in the mosquito darkness. Some of us wept.

These were our catchwords, which arose without forethought and circled among us throughout the week:

conversation
imperfection
what if?

We spoke of Donald Justice, of the psalms, of Shakespeare and Frost, of Kunitz and Wiler and Keats, of Milton and Herbert and Clifton and Gilbert, of more, of many more. We talked about bears and the bands we loved and admired each others' shoes. We listened to Baron Wormser read his poem "Jerry Lee Lewis at Nuremberg," with these lines:

It’s about not being human and enjoying not being human
It’s inhuman and that’s the last thing that’s on Jerry Lee’s mind,
Which always has a naked woman and a right hand going
Crazy on a keyboard in it, which is what a mind should hold,
So that when Göring starts in with his witty repartee
Jerry Lee says, “You are one sad motherfucker.”

And Baron felt like one of the elect, and we, too, felt like the elect because we trusted him and trusted ourselves and each other and this mousy damp barn, and no one, not one single person, ever upstaged another. And I went home with a love note in my hand that was a love note from the place and the moment and our own vulnerable hearts.

I'm home, I'm exhausted, and I'm very, very happy. The conference participants were wonderful, the weather was manageable, the guest faculty members were both practical and inspiring, and my directorial partner Teresa Carson was a boundless source of intelligence, enthusiasm, and wisecracks. At the moment I feel like something the cat found under a snowbank, thanks to a week of sleep deprivation and the intense pressures of attention. But I'm so happy, and perhaps tomorrow I will also find more interesting words to explain what the week was like. In the meantime, here's a link to guest faculty member Terry Blackhawk's article on the Huffington Post blog.

What I was doing last night.

Robert Frost's Internet connection is broken, so that's why you never hear from me. The weather feels like 105 degrees, but at least we had this view from the front porch:

Plenty of fresh strawberries, the ladies at Polly's Pancake Parlor remember me, and the participants are devoted, enthusiastic, and hilarious.

Wish you were here.

Got back from New Jersey at six o'clock last evening; leaving for New Hampshire this morning.

Things I noticed:

The horrible coffee at the Holiday Inn Express in Hightstown

Two callow youths discussing noise philosophy on the commuter train platform

The sandy red earth of central New Jersey

The fact that the graveyard in Cream Ridge is overflowing with not only my ancestors but also Imlays (i.e., descendants of Gilbert Imlay, adventurer and philanderer, father of Mary Wollstonecraft's older daughter, and namesake of Imlaystown, New Jersey)

That it's an odd feeling to live in a town where many of the places are named after families who aren't mine

That it's a similarly odd feeling to visit a town where many of the places are named after families who are mine

For example, at the Allentown Presbyterian Church, you have to walk through the Potter Room to get to the bathroom

That my son is the world's best grandson, evincing patience beyond measure with the sighs and distractions of his elders

That reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking during a week of family mourning was either a mistake or not a mistake

I'm baking pies at the cafe today, flying to Jersey for a funeral tomorrow, flying home Friday, and driving to the Frost Place on Saturday. My presence here for the next ten days will be scrappy, but I will do my best to check in when I can.

The gleam in this highly stressful schedule is that I'm flying to Jersey with James who is (1) extraordinarily competent and (2) extremely entertaining. Since we managed to have fun even when he was critically ill in the hospital, I am optimistic that on this occasion we will also find something to laugh about, despite the tears.

Here is a very small sample of James's thinking, circa 1998, when he would have been four years old. Though he's almost nineteen, the bright certitude persists--

James denies the reality of death, November 1998 

It’s true that nobody dies.
Just wonderful ants crawl up from the earth
and make us live again.

Is it wrong to admit that I lost interest in The Diary of Anne Frank? Not in the book's terror or poignancy, of course, nor in the details of daily life in hiding, nor in the sweetness of her character. But the "no one understands me!" refrain is wearing me down, and I'm sure this is because the "no one understands me!" refrain is ringing from my own rafters. Such is the burden of being the parent of an adolescent who is full of feelings.

So now I'm at loose ends. Shall I read Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking? Shall I read a history of the crusades? Should I ignore my "recent finds at the Goodwill" shelf and go back to a nineteenth-century comrade? I'm not feeling at all decisive, partly because my week is already in such an uproar. Will I be going to a funeral in New Jersey? Will I be baking pies at the cafe? Will I be typing out my Frost Place notes? Will I be toting children to drivers' ed class? Will I be editing or writing or applying for grants, or will I be nauseous in an airplane? Will I ever remember how to use the word nauseous correctly?