Regarding Small Matters

In the preface to his semi-autobiography, My Life and Hard Times, James Thurber writes about being an "aging" writer (though he was actually only in his 40s) and says that he finds himself talking "largely about small matters and smally about great affairs." I think I know what he is talking about. As I consider myself and my writing, I realize that, for better or worse, my strengths are primarily in writing things like this, blogs in the 21st Century, "casuals" when Thurber wrote them in The New Yorker.

My take on things that don't matter much in the larger scheme of things. I'm fascinated by the politics of this era, appalled might be the better word sometimes, but my real interest is in the little things, the way my rabbit friend follows my footsteps through the snow or that he always finds himself to our back door. Or the squabbles between the finches and juncoes. Or the hiss of falling snow, the sudden sharpness of a winter wind, the mud of March, and the flow of melting ice when spring has finally arrived. The towering menace of thunderheads, the pelting of hail, the hot humidity of the Great Plains, the clearness of dry western skies, the smell of sage, the whir of grasshoppers, the screeching of jays. Those things touch me.

What I say or don't say makes very little difference to the larger world. I'm not indifferent, just realistic. Another of my favorite writers, H.H. Munro, a/k/a Saki, wrote a short piece called "The Mappinned Life,"in which an aunt and her niece discuss the Mappin Terraces at the London zoo, and how they give the animal inmates the illusion of freedom and the idea that they control their own destiny. The niece says it reminds her of her uncle, the way he always goes on and on about world affairs but never pays attention to things closer to home. The aunt angrily denies it.

At the end of their discussion, the uncle comes in and starts talking about the situation in Albania and how he has to go to the local tavern and share some new ideas. He can't understand why his wife suddenly bursts into tears. (I recommend reading the story itself, it's only a few pages).

I haven't yet decided what really matters to my writing life. The local paper in the city where I grew up had a human interest columnist (let's call him "Bob" since that was his name) who was very good at what he did, and was very well-read. One of his ongoing themes was that while he was writing his daily column he was also in the process of writing his version of The Great American Novel, and used to tease, and be teased about it, on a regular basis. As he grew older, his column tended toward the sadder side, as he shared his grief first about the passing of the family dog, then his mother-in-law who lived with them and had provided a lot of grist for the column, then the passage of his wife of many years.

After he retired, he kept in touch through his successor columnist ("Mike"). Bob had been a drinker and gustatorily indulgent man, and his health suffered accordingly. When he was hospitalized for what would likely be the last time, he asked Mike (also a good friend) to come see him at the end, so Bob could share what it was like to die.

Mike got the call and came in. The two men looked at each other, then Bob turned his head away, and died. He never got to write that final column.

Nor did he ever write that novel.

I wonder if I will end like that.