Huh.  I thought for sure those brilliant Herzog memes would get some fan mail.  Oh well.  This morning, I thought I would just commemorate the “Suttree Walk” some people from my grad Appalachian Lit class took yesterday.  It was great fun.  A couple months after reading Suttree, we finally made it happen.  (I’m avoiding working on my syllabus & lesson plans & random infuriations for Pedagogy, currently.)

We started at the plaque in Market Square that has a quote from Suttree on it.  Mostly it’s about putrefaction.  The putrefaction and green slime in the gutters on 1951 Market Street.  Also the street preachers, and the “pariahs adorning the sidewalk”—remembered that line.  Oddly, I had never read that plaque before, even though I’d probably walked on it five hundred times.  Anyways—we checked out the tromp-l’ouiel of the old Market House painted on the Miller Building, and then headed to the southwest corner of Market Street and Union, which, Dr. Hardwig informed us, street preachers have favored for decades.  This was probably where the street preacher who was “blessed” with a turnip took that tasty bite.  Preaching to all the market-goers.

We walked over to the Post Office, a building Suttree slipped in and out of on occasion, and where the goat-man grazed his goats on the lawn.  (And was run off by a cop.)  There was the old courthouse with its handy clock, and the old jail.  We tried to imagine what Front Avenue must have been like, with its row of shops and businesses, before Neyland Drive and Calhoun’s.  Down at the waterfront we gazed at the space between the old train bridge and the Gay Street bridge—Suttree’s fishing-grounds, where his houseboat probably was—and Dr. Hardwig apologized for not being able to take us to Michael’s (the Native American guy who caught the massive catfish) cave, which is apparently to be found via the Scottish Rite Park.  Over yonder was the junkyard (where Harrogate found the eyeball), and ragpicker’s abode (under the Henley Street bridge).

We passed the former stinking marshes, where Mother Jones and Ab Jones lived.  (Still stinks.)  Made our way up toward Hall of Fame and Hill Street, where there had been a varied and vibrant African American community before it got … moved?  Don’t know that story.  Would like to.  But coming up that hill, looking at the Women’s Basketball H. of F., you can see where Harrogate got into his ridiculous pig-killing escapade.  And the guy who owns the pig comes out looking for it—ha—one of the funniest parts of the book.

Speaking of Harrogate, we went in through some parking garage and climbed over a fence and got into Harrogate’s digs underneath the Hill Street viaduct.  Would you believe that “pillbox” is still there, and still—from the looks of it—occasionally inhabited by other migratory folk.  Maybe not so much has changed in 60 years.  We stood around for a few minutes thinking about the Harrogate’s pigeon-electrocuting set-up, and looking down to the river through the “aisle of arches.”  Which I guess refers to the Henley bridge, but this one has arches, too.

Back up on Gay, we saw the hotel (former hotel) above the Bistro where Suttree and Joyce hung out, and Dr. Hardwig wished we had time to see the hotel they moved to from this one, down near Regas.  But anyways, we saw where Comer’s Pool Hall was, above the revamped East Tennessee Historical Society, and we learned how the statue of the guy in a rowboat was not meant to be Suttree (thank god!), among other things.  Actually, Dr. Hardwig said that Hank Williams died in our very own Andrew Johnson hotel.  Did everybody else know this?  How come I had no idea?  I kind of feel bad about this.

So that’s basically the short version of the walk.  Apparently, the last one Dr. Hardwig went on lasted three hours.  Whew.

Dr. Wes Morgan, who, according to Dr. Hardwig, “knows more about Cormac McCarthy than anybody else in the world,” also audited this class and did some lecturing on Child of God, Suttree, and old Knoxville / old East Tennessee.  I thought I’d post a link here to his website in case anybody was interested and wanted to see some other Suttree sites of interest here in town.

Ok, now I’m going to slaughter that Pedagogy stuff.

Lastly, Marshall and I are going to see Chicago tonight at the OR Playhouse.  So exciting.

 



from Burden of Dreams (1982)

Burden of Dreams (1982)

from Burden of Dreams (1982)

from Burden of Dreams (1982)

Yes,  it’s been a great day.  Here’s some photojournalism of it.


I’ve been needing to propagate the roses from the old house, and I did it today.  HOPE IT WORKS.


Incidentally, cornflowers and cosmos and two (2) Bells of Ireland are coming up.  Grieved about the Bells.  Ah well.


As long as I’m talking about the garden: this is the Soviet team.  Unbelievable—they get 12 hours of exhaust and road fumes (though, granted, they also get practically 12 hours of direct sun).





Since the raised bed didn’t work out (in shade), we tore up a new bed.  Here at the front.  I just set everything a few days ago, so they’re all still tiny, but it’s amazing how they spring to life basically as soon as they get in “real” ground.  Purple tomatoes, basil, beets, kale.


(very small kales)


Anyways, one of the reasons it’s a great day is that Marshall is making a brown beer, and is working his way toward “all-grain” brewing by working with a mash tun, this time.  A mash tun that he made.  So cool!!  You can see it in the next photo:


The mash tun is the Lowe’s cooler.


A further reason for the greatness of today: since I recently broke our French press, I got a new one, and it makes me feel like I can really, really relearn French this summer.  A shot in the arm.  Also, I had this beer and it was so good.  That’s it in the Yazoo glass.  It was the New Belgium “Dig” seasonal.

In the background, you can see some of the 40 books I have out from the library, currently. And this is also great: yesterday was the last day of classes (though I have one more class, unofficially, next Thursday), so now I get to read those books instead of looking at them with guilt and sinkings of the gut.


Carla and Adam are coming over for cookies and coffee soon.

 

 

 

So those two “crap” projects I turned in?  Actually not crap.  I found that out yesterday, at which time I also found out that another “crap” project I turned in for Appalachian Lit in March was also not crap.  What a shot in the arm!  Maybe I don’t need to be always walking around among all these 36 year-old Phd. students apologizing for being young, and dumb.  Well, I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being young and dumb, but I may not need to forever apologizing.  Take the seriosity a little less seriously.  (Great word I learned from Philip Larkin—I believe—via Charles Wright.)

So.  Both workshops over (“teacher research project” on composition students’ perceptions of whole-class workshops, BLAAHHHH, and my Appalachian abstract on the sophisticated and shockingly neglected poetry of James Still, <3 ).  All classes except one are over.  My mentor has even graciously excused me from having to grade any of our students’ final papers.  Basically, now, I get to settle into the real, pure joy of graduate school: reading and writing.  These two weeks before the end of the semester have always been my favorite part of the semester, even in college, but graduate school exercises even less control over one’s time during the last two weeks than undergraduate.  I get to focus on my stuff, the stuff I love.  (With the exception…does this post have too many exceptions?…of Pedagogy.)  Only to write, now, to write and read and writes.  Still, Berry, Powell; Szymborska; final portfolio of my own writing.

Incidentally, Appalachia, the first and only Charles Wright collection I have ever read, has changed my world yet again.  I hope to post some poems from it next chance I get.  I think I have a lot to say about those poems.  I just can’t say them until I’m done saying what I need to say about Szymborska and Still.

The sun is coming into the kitchen so blondly.  Today, I’m wrestling with the hard knowledge that both projects I just turned in are crap.  But they’re done (for now), and I’m in the kitchen, and the sun comes down so blond.  I’m wrestling with severed connections, how shaped I continue to be (in more complex ways) by different small losses.  I would rather loss was not part of this universe—or any universe.  How strange it is to be walking around, making a daily life out of my new living conditions, and feel those losses like small recesses scraped out of my side.  Put my hand in there, feel around.  (They’re gone.)  (No doubt.)

But I’m trying to create, too.  (Not just lose.)  I have now planted all seeds and all seedlings in my possession.  They fill with sap, stand straighter every day.  Flower sprouts appear, appear, appear.  (How I need the flowers to appear.)

This is all for now.

 

I had a really nice weekend.  Would you believe I took a nap?  Came home from church yesterday, sat in the kitchen watching Marshall make curry fried rice, the kitchen filling up slowly with smells all around us.  Ate so much of it — a new favorite recipe, which is saying a lot, since this sweet potato-quinoa thing we’ve been making is also a frontrunner — and we decided to lie down for an hour or so, before Marshall had to leave for his soccer game.  And it’s been chilly, so we piled the blankets on.  There’s nothing sweeter than that.  It doesn’t make me want to quit school, or hate the work-week, it just hollowed out a magical space.  Lying with Marshall, whom I love, in the middle of the day, for an hour.  Sleeping some, waking some.

Of course, it’s not Sunday anymore.  It’s Monday.  And I have to write an abstract and revise a paper by Thursday.  Also other random stuff.  And it’s freezing cold outside.  All these are reasons that I’m having such a hard time getting started this morning.

I wish I was done with school already.  And we were packing up for our Ireland / Belgium trip next summer.

In due time.

1.  Marshall is making a mash tun, and

2. I’m learning about magical realism.

 

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