Looking for Me/Beth Hoffman: Reflections

I'll be honest: You can lose your hope out here. You can stare at the pile of books you've written and wonder about the smallness of it all, wonder how anyone still lets you publish, given the miniaturizing nature of the journey you've been on, given how some people say, sometimes, that you might do a better job of figuring out just who you're writing for.

You keep working because words bind and heal you, because you can't stop yourself, because some part of you still hopes, you won't deny it. You keep working because along the way you make friends you are ever so grateful for, because you sink into conversations you can't believe you're having, because an editor, generous, says she believes in you, because the readers who have found you cloak and care for you, steady you up, throw you a line.

A few weeks ago I published a mini-memoir called Nest. Flight. Sky.: on love and loss one wing at a time with Shebooks. I'd written my heart out on this first work of memoir in years; I'd gone so far; and as soon as the e-book had gone up for sale, as soon as I'd (blushing) sent my announcing note around to friends, I thought, Oh, Beth. What did you do that for? The making of the thing is gift enough. Let all else be. Leave them alone.

Then came Beth Hoffman over Twitter, sending me a photograph of Nest. downloaded on her device. Beth Hoffman, author—I'll say, though of course you know this, of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt and Looking for Me. I hadn't sent a note to Beth. We'd never talked before. Somehow she had found me.

Generous? Absolutely. Kind? She does have the southern in her. She said we had birds in common. She said, Read Looking for Me; you'll see.

Well, I have just finished reading Looking for Me, this enchanting novel about southern legacies and the things that get passed down over time. I have slipped into Beth Hoffman's world of feathers and bald eagles and goldfinch shimmer and raven wisdoms. I have given my imagination over to Teddi, who tells this story about growing up on the edge of a national forest, on a large stretch of land, with a brother determined to save the wildlife from the people who do wildlife harm. That brother, Josh, will get lost in time. Teddi, now running an antiques shop with a sure hand in Charleston, will keep on believing he's alive. Signs will float toward her. Skies will speak some truths. She has to know. She can't know. She worries her secrets in private.

Hoffman's story is fluidly, so engagingly told. Her characters are the kind of people we'd like to know—good, but hardly perfect; occasionally jittery with shoulders up, but capaciously tenderhearted, too. Hoffman, who was an interior designer before her first book debuted, knows furniture and odd odds and ends. She knows rare books. She knows birds. Here, in one of my favorite scenes, she introduces a part-albino hawk:

In a powerful rush and flash of feathers, Ghost lifted into the air, building speed as he flew over the field. He flew cockeyed at first and then straightened out, gaining altitude until he became a perfect silhouette in the sky.

But Hoffman also knows the landscapes both of old southern shops and deep forest crevices, and I found her evocation of place transporting, enveloping. I went right there and stayed. I also kept thinking, as I read, of all we have in common—not just those birds, but ballroom dance as well (you'll see), and a deep curiosity about men who go deep into the woods and don't come back out, for that is precisely what my own great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, did years ago—leaving his family behind in St. Louis so that he might travel into a part of the world he would ultimately fight to preserve as the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The Smoky Mountains aren't far from Hoffman's Daniel Boone National Forest. The spirit of her renegade Josh and my renegade great-grandfather could be the very same, one spirit.

My life is full of books I mostly have to read—as a reviewer, as a teacher. I rarely get to stroll through bookshops and say, Yup. I'm reading this one through. I'm so glad, for so many reasons, that Beth Hoffman somehow (inexplicably) found my own small treatise about my obsession with birds in the wake of a major loss and that she (so graciously) wrote to me.

Beth, that photo up above is taken on the hill about Bryson City, North Carolina. It's my great-grandfather's grave. He's watching over your Josh.

 

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In which I at long last travel to Bryson City, home of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have written of my great grandfather here on this blog and elsewhere (Tin House magazine) many times. Horace Kephart has been credited with helping to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  He was an author and a campcrafter, a brilliant librarian who left academia to live among the Appalachian people, to understand them.  He has been the subject of countless articles, at least one novel, a stunning song cycle, a lengthy segment in the recent Ken Burns series of National Parks, theatrical productions.  He is celebrated yearly during Horace Kephart Days (an event largely organized by my cousin, Libby).  He has been praised by Barack Obama.  He has been lovingly attended to by George Ellison, a biographer of heart and intelligence.  He has been discussed, parsed, debated, and he continues to be the subject of ongoing scholarship and interest.

I had never had the opportunity to visit Bryson City, where Kephart lived for many years and where he is buried.  I hadn't been able to go, in fact, until this past Sunday, a misty day in the Carolinas.  We had been in Asheville for a glorious wedding.  My husband drove the mountain roads.  When we found Bryson City, we stopped and walked.  Seeing the Historic Calhoun Hotel and Country Inn, I made the decision to be bold.  To knock on the door and see what might happen, for I had heard that this innkeeper had a Horace Kephart library and a respect for Kephart's work.

We were in the south, and so politeness ruled.  Mr. Luke D. Hyde, the Calhoun innkeeper and a key player in the ongoing sanctuary that is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, didn't just open the door; he invited us in.  He told us his stories, shared images, took us up to his Kephart library (see the portrait of my great grandfather on that wall), even gave me a copy of Kephart's work on the Cherokee Indians.  Then he sent us on our way, and I will always be touched by the time he took and the generosity he showed.

Kephart is buried on a hill beside a small church.  He is buried no more than a half mile away from one of my best friends' childhood homes.  I heard from Ann as we were walking the incline.  I saw her home in the near distance.  I felt her spirit beside me.  Ann has visited Kephart's grave for many years; members of her family are buried nearby.  I wish I was with you, Ann wrote.  And how I wished, too.

Finally, as I was making my way through Bryson City, I heard from my dear friend Katrina Kenison.  I have known Katrina since the beginning of my publishing time (truly) and written of her often here.  Once, years ago, Katrina, who so deeply understands and loves the natural world, sent me a copy of Kephart's Camp Cookery, which sits right here on my shelf.  I had written of Katrina's gift when it came.  On Sunday I was the recipient of yet another kind of gift, for Katrina was reading Handling the Truth and there in the hills of Bryson City, I read her thoughts about its early pages for the first time.

Blessed.

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President Obama Speaks to the Horace Kephart Legacy

Today my cousin Libby sent me the transcript of a talk recently delivered by President Obama—a talk centered around America's Great Outdoors Initiative.  Tucked within those remarks are these words about my great grandfather, Horace Kephart, about whom I have written here many times on this blog, as, for example, here.

President Obama's words, which I reproduce here, make me, might I say it, proud?  They also make me hopeful.  (Added as a postscript, in my bronchitis haze:  I allude to legacies here, but I don't make a very persuasive link to the photograph.  And so, a correction:  In addition to the land my great grandfather helped to rescue from plunder, he sired the children depicted here.  The young, soulful-eyed man on the left was my grandfather, who sired my father, who is a continuing great dad to my brother, sister, and me.)

So conservation became not only important to America, but it became one of our greatest exports, as America’s beauty shone as a beacon to the world.  And other countries started adopting conservation measures because of the example that we had set.

Protecting this legacy has been the responsibility of all who serve this country.  But behind that action, the action that’s been taken here in Washington, there’s also the story of ordinary Americans who devoted their lives to protecting the land that they loved.

That’s what Horace Kephart and George Masa did.  This is a wonderful story.  Two men, they met in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina -- each had moved there to start a new life.  Horrified that their beloved wilderness was being clear-cut at a rate of 60 acres a day, Horace and George worked with other members of the community to get the land set aside.  The only catch was that they had to raise $10 million to foot the bill.

But far from being discouraged, they helped rally one of the poorest areas in the country to the cause.  A local high school donated the proceeds from a junior class play.  Preachers held “Smokey Mountain Sunday” services and encouraged their congregations to donate.  Local businesses chipped in.  And students from every grade in the city of Asheville -– which was still segregated at the time –- made a contribution.

So stories like these remind us what citizenship is all about.  And by the way, last year Michelle and I, we were able to walk some of the trails near Asheville and benefit from the foresight of people that had come before us.  Our daughters, our sons were able to enjoy what not only Teddy Roosevelt did but what ordinary folks did all across the country.  It embodies that uniquely American idea that each of us has an equal share in the land around us, and an equal responsibility to protect it.

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In Praise of George Ellison, the Horace Kephart biographer

Every once in a while I get a phone call from a southern gentleman.  His name is George Ellison, and he has been my great-grandfather's biographer since 1967, when he was asked to write the introduction to Horace Kephart's Appalachian classic, Our Southern Highlanders.

A brilliant librarian, a devoted outdoorsman, a conflicted husband, and the father of the six children pictured here, Kephart had retreated to the Carolinas following a mysterious breakdown.  There he outposted in a cabin, read and reflected, fished and hunted, and began to write about the people he met and the things that happened to him.  He had one blue eye and one brown one.  He was a force behind the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, as was recently documented in the newest Ken Burns film.  His life story has inspired and goaded authors, artists, and musicians; brought me unexpected and long-sustained friendships; and been transformed in the service of such novels as Ron Rash's Serena, where Kephart appears (unfortunately) as a mere cartoon version of himself.  Last year, Kephart's own novel, Smoky Mountain Magic, was re-released by the great Smoky Mountains Association, with prefatory material prepared by my cousin, Libby Kephart, as well as George Ellison.  Soon, Kephart's Camping and Woodcraft will be re-released, and once again, George Ellison has been at work on an introduction that incorporates interesting new material about my great-grandfather's time in St. Louis, where he reigned over one of the greatest libraries in the land.

This past week, I was again talking to George, who wanted to share with me an early version of his newest work.  It's beautiful, as it always is—respectful to both the facts and to Kephart himself, and written with more than a touch of poetry.  I wondered how George could keep going, more than forty years on, finding the new and finding new ways to phrase it about a single man who refused, in his own lifetime, to do much explaining about or for himself.  In an e-mail, George wrote the following—words that testify to the kind of man he is, words that make me grateful that one small part of my own history has been entrusted to such a worthy soul:

It's a terrific story from a literary point of view . . . and it has become somewhat personal now that I have grown close to various family members.  My job has always been to help people appreciate the unlikely accomplishments that emerged from what were, at times, chaotic situations: Camping and Woodcraft; Our Southern Highlanders, Smoky Mountain Magic, and a role in the founding of a national park.

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Myself, Today

Today: Awakened at 1:35 AM, I come downstairs and do not sleep. A few lines make their way to a blank page; I do not know if the lines are good.

Morning, then, and at the gym, I find Ann, an old friend, long lost; I'd once thought forever. In the large group room Teresa, leading the Body Pump class, has chosen the music of men. She turns her barbell into a guitar and sings her Aerosmith loud; the rest of us abide her antics, need her antics, love them. We don't scream the pain we feel. Many times a week Teresa leads this class and yet on Saturday it is as if we are her only students, her passion just for us.

Mid-morning and in my in-box I find the first official review of The Heart is Not a Size. I am overcome. The reader has found within my work just precisely what I hoped a reader would. A faster plot. The smell of dust. The have-everythings who learn from those who possess little.

Noon, and while shopping for the small dinner party that I'm throwing Sunday, I find my father at the Farmer's Market, sit with him while he eats his lunch. Then there is the frenzy of deciding and shopping. Yes, the serrano ham and the lavash, the strange apples from the Lancaster trees, the fatter berries and the insanely rotund scallions, and why not those tomatoes, which cannot decide what size they wish to be.

Mid afternoon, and I sit with the work of my fantastic Penn students, who move me to tears with the way that they think; I sit with Patricia Hampl. And then time alone with the Horace Kephart segments of the Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea" (go to episode four, plays segments five and eleven). I don't care what you want to say about my great-grandfather. He did this country good. He saved what remained of the Great Smoky Mountains from the avaricious loggers, all the while knowing that once the park was made, it would not be his homeland anymore.

Later, a conversation with Andra. An email exchange with my friend Buzz. A note from Alyson Hagy, perhaps the grandest writing teacher of all.

Later, dinner.

Later, now.

Myself.

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Horace Kephart in Words and Pictures (America's Best Idea)

The image above is drawn from the new Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea," and introduces the words and images of my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, who (as I've said previously here and elsewhere, forgive me) played a pivotal role in the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Those of you who might interested in reviewing a brief segment from the film can go here, to the WHYY web site. I never heard my great-grandfather's voice, obviously. It is fascinating to hear it rendered by this voice actor and to see photographs that I have long had in my own personal trove revealed to the wider world.

Thanks to Libby, for sending along the link.

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