Beginning today, I will blog here frequently during the summer. Most of the blogs will appear under the title Wolves In the Attic. Some others will refer to a recent book I wrote and published, Movies Make The Man. The summer will bring political storms and stresses, and I hope, with possibly a few exceptions, to avoid writing about those. Readers will find plenty of political commentaries at other sites online. In Wolves In The Attic, you will find only some objects, some bits of reflection, some opportunities for amusement, and with any luck, some insights into your own lives.
The photograph above is of my apartment and will make sense once you begin reading Wolves.
Thank you for being here. And remember--it's summer. Take some pleasures in life. I'll do the same.
The photograph above is of my apartment and will make sense once you begin reading Wolves.
Thank you for being here. And remember--it's summer. Take some pleasures in life. I'll do the same.
Wolves In The Attic: Memory, Time, and the Objects of Everyday Life
“A history through things is impossible without poets.”
Neil MacGregor, A History Of The World In 100 Objects
“Memories are like wolves. You can’t lock them away and hope they leave you alone.”
Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop
Dedicated to my children and grandchildren
Preface
The events associated with the objects below are as I remember them.
Some of the names I have changed.
Wolves In The Attic sounds sinister. Not so. I just like the quote from Nina George. I also enjoyed her novel.
I have deliberately refrained from arranging these objects and the various memories they evoke in chronological order. Memory meanders like a low country river, and time as chronology is an illusion. Pretend, if you must or prefer, that you are on tour in an enormous attic and I am your guide.
Introduction
In May of 2004 my wife Kris died from a brain aneurysm.
Two years later, I rented an apartment in the Montford neighborhood in Asheville, North Carolina. The apartment contained two bedrooms, one for me and one for my youngest son, who was ten-years-old. Between the two bedrooms were a small living room and a tiny kitchen.
Jeremy and I were moving from the nearby town of Waynesville, where I had lived for twenty-two years in a house of nineteen rooms, excluding the ten bathrooms, the basement, and the attic. For most of that time, Kris and I had operated a bed-and-breakfast and bookshop in that house. There we had raised our four children. Though we ranked among the world’s worst entrepreneurs—we were always just a step ahead of our creditors and were never without debt—our children today remember with fondness their lives in the Palmer House, as the place was called after its original owner. The memories of my children make those years of struggle worthwhile.
Two decades, nineteen rooms, and four children collect a lot of stuff. With the exception of the enormous kitchen stove and the six dining room tables, the new owner of the Palmer House wanted the bed-and-breakfast emptied of all contents. And so, in the winter and spring of 2006, I set to work ridding myself of the vast majority of my possessions.
My two older children, one married, one engaged, took a few of the nicer pieces of furniture, and it is a pleasure today to visit their homes and see items like the dining room breakfront or the vestibule seat with its funky hooks for hats and coats. They also snagged a few of the Christmas decorations—Kris loved her decorations, which filled a dozen attic boxes—and some of the books.
But the rest of the stuff had to go, and go it did. My children and I held three yard sales. We made dozens of trips to the Salvation Army store, which fortunately was only four blocks from the house. We cleaned out the attic, getting rid of shoes (my wife loved shoes as much as she liked Christmas lights and ornaments), baby clothes, strollers, and dozens of other items. I sold off hundreds of books from our dwindling bookstore inventory. I sold the aluminum canoe, the piano and the curved church pew from the living room, the front porch rockers, the washer and dryer, a dozen rugs, toys, sheets, blankets, and towels. I gave away twelve mattresses and sold bedframes and bedroom furniture. From the basement I carried up tools, watering cans, paint, and insecticide, and sold or gave these away.
By May, when we moved to Asheville, all that remained were the things that mattered the most to me in this life.
The importance of these belongings became apparent a few years ago, when I moved to my Cumberland Avenue apartment, also in Montford, which is where I now live. The exact day of this revelation is lost, but I do remember sitting at my desk, writing just as I am now, and looking around the apartment and realizing that nearly every single object had a special meaning for me. Each object tugs fiercely on my memory. Each one tells me a story every time I look at it.
Like many of you, I have traveled and lived in dozens of places. I have encountered thousands of people and met with many adventures. I have strolled on sun-bright American beaches three thousand miles apart. I have visited Mexico, Canada, and several European countries. I have lived in the city and in the country.
But these are travels through space. Here in my apartment are objects that take me back through time. I look at a sword on the wall and am dropped through a well of years to Staunton Military Academy in 1963. The pre-Civil War iron kettle by the closet door sweeps me to Boonville and my boyhood. The two chalk drawings on the walls beside my desk return me to to Waynesville and a neighbor, Sue Willard Lindsley.
And on and on.
In Wolves In The Attic: Memory, Time, and the Objects of Everyday Life, I will be sharing these objects and their stories with you through this blog. Though I am aiming my reminiscences at my children and grandchildren, I am hopeful my readers will find in my little stories whatever it is they are looking for. Amusement. Edification. Joy. And for those of you who are broken-hearted or who are simply broken, a balm for your wounded spirit.
Let’s begin our time travel with a polished heart.
“A history through things is impossible without poets.”
Neil MacGregor, A History Of The World In 100 Objects
“Memories are like wolves. You can’t lock them away and hope they leave you alone.”
Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop
Dedicated to my children and grandchildren
Preface
The events associated with the objects below are as I remember them.
Some of the names I have changed.
Wolves In The Attic sounds sinister. Not so. I just like the quote from Nina George. I also enjoyed her novel.
I have deliberately refrained from arranging these objects and the various memories they evoke in chronological order. Memory meanders like a low country river, and time as chronology is an illusion. Pretend, if you must or prefer, that you are on tour in an enormous attic and I am your guide.
Introduction
In May of 2004 my wife Kris died from a brain aneurysm.
Two years later, I rented an apartment in the Montford neighborhood in Asheville, North Carolina. The apartment contained two bedrooms, one for me and one for my youngest son, who was ten-years-old. Between the two bedrooms were a small living room and a tiny kitchen.
Jeremy and I were moving from the nearby town of Waynesville, where I had lived for twenty-two years in a house of nineteen rooms, excluding the ten bathrooms, the basement, and the attic. For most of that time, Kris and I had operated a bed-and-breakfast and bookshop in that house. There we had raised our four children. Though we ranked among the world’s worst entrepreneurs—we were always just a step ahead of our creditors and were never without debt—our children today remember with fondness their lives in the Palmer House, as the place was called after its original owner. The memories of my children make those years of struggle worthwhile.
Two decades, nineteen rooms, and four children collect a lot of stuff. With the exception of the enormous kitchen stove and the six dining room tables, the new owner of the Palmer House wanted the bed-and-breakfast emptied of all contents. And so, in the winter and spring of 2006, I set to work ridding myself of the vast majority of my possessions.
My two older children, one married, one engaged, took a few of the nicer pieces of furniture, and it is a pleasure today to visit their homes and see items like the dining room breakfront or the vestibule seat with its funky hooks for hats and coats. They also snagged a few of the Christmas decorations—Kris loved her decorations, which filled a dozen attic boxes—and some of the books.
But the rest of the stuff had to go, and go it did. My children and I held three yard sales. We made dozens of trips to the Salvation Army store, which fortunately was only four blocks from the house. We cleaned out the attic, getting rid of shoes (my wife loved shoes as much as she liked Christmas lights and ornaments), baby clothes, strollers, and dozens of other items. I sold off hundreds of books from our dwindling bookstore inventory. I sold the aluminum canoe, the piano and the curved church pew from the living room, the front porch rockers, the washer and dryer, a dozen rugs, toys, sheets, blankets, and towels. I gave away twelve mattresses and sold bedframes and bedroom furniture. From the basement I carried up tools, watering cans, paint, and insecticide, and sold or gave these away.
By May, when we moved to Asheville, all that remained were the things that mattered the most to me in this life.
The importance of these belongings became apparent a few years ago, when I moved to my Cumberland Avenue apartment, also in Montford, which is where I now live. The exact day of this revelation is lost, but I do remember sitting at my desk, writing just as I am now, and looking around the apartment and realizing that nearly every single object had a special meaning for me. Each object tugs fiercely on my memory. Each one tells me a story every time I look at it.
Like many of you, I have traveled and lived in dozens of places. I have encountered thousands of people and met with many adventures. I have strolled on sun-bright American beaches three thousand miles apart. I have visited Mexico, Canada, and several European countries. I have lived in the city and in the country.
But these are travels through space. Here in my apartment are objects that take me back through time. I look at a sword on the wall and am dropped through a well of years to Staunton Military Academy in 1963. The pre-Civil War iron kettle by the closet door sweeps me to Boonville and my boyhood. The two chalk drawings on the walls beside my desk return me to to Waynesville and a neighbor, Sue Willard Lindsley.
And on and on.
In Wolves In The Attic: Memory, Time, and the Objects of Everyday Life, I will be sharing these objects and their stories with you through this blog. Though I am aiming my reminiscences at my children and grandchildren, I am hopeful my readers will find in my little stories whatever it is they are looking for. Amusement. Edification. Joy. And for those of you who are broken-hearted or who are simply broken, a balm for your wounded spirit.
Let’s begin our time travel with a polished heart.
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