Having Everything Right. Kim Stafford

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СКАЧАТЬ Hearth,” one of the truly great kids-in-nature works (pre-Geography of Childhood, pre-The Thunder Tree, way-pre-Last Child in the Woods), Kim testifies for the kind of freedom, encouragement, and self-organizing wanderment and wonderment that rendered his childhood the perfect springboard for seeking the way toward having things right forever after. Plus, he sprang from a house of poetry, and later lodged in an academic program of Medieval Literature, studying the very origins of our storytelling tools and traditions. None of this can have impeded his wish or ability to meet the very World Itself with words that might possibly do it justice.

      Time after time I have taught with this book. I’ve brought several of the essays to my students, and the whole book, when there was time. I sometimes put forth “A Few Miles Short of Wisdom” or “The Barn and the Bees” along with Brian Doyle’s “Van” (about Van Morrison) as examples of The Perfect Essay: “Now tell me why,” I assign. But in dozens of classrooms and workshops I have read and parsed the book’s introduction, “Naming the Northwest.” This short essay is a small masterpiece of concision, precision, and incision. It is also witty, elegiac, and wise. Kim contrasts the old ways of naming the landscape drawn from its own features and stories, as practiced by the Kwakiutl: “Two Round Things Meeting Now and Then,” “Having Coho Salmon,” “Place Where Dzonoq!wa Cried Out Oh,” with the names of the “new white tribe”—“Cannery,” “Courthouse,” “Cemetery.” He tells that the Kwakiutl named several kinds of places he-lade, meaning “Having Everything Right.” Kim says this is “a portable name, an expandable place. It could be what we call earth. But it will not,” he continues, “unless we sift from our habits the nourishing ways: listening, remembering, telling, weaving a rooted companionship with home ground.”

      Now, this is gorgeous writing. But it is also wonderfully aphoristic. “Weaving a rooted companionship with home ground” is right up there with Pattiann Rogers’s phrase, from her poem “The Family Is All There Is”: “The grasp/ of the self on place,” and means, as I read them, the same thing. Which reminds me of a time when Kim and Pattiann and I were all traveling and reading together on one of the Orion Society’s storied “Forgotten Language Tours,” along with Scott Sanders and Ann Zwinger. We were in Ohio, kitting up to drive down to Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. We’d been out for days already. Kim was seeking a perfect piece of pie he imagined that some old cafe along this stretch of back road would hold out to us. Pattiann and Ann were getting tired of all the boy-talk in the van.

      Suddenly, and unexpectedly, we came upon the museum-home of Gene Stratton Porter, the naturalist and wildly successful novelist of an earlier era, whose Girl of the Limberlost wooed a great many young readers to think about the lost swamp where the story takes place. Each of us was swept up in our own way with the life and lore of the writer, her artifacts, faded specimens, once-upon-a-world, and life in a gentler, wilder time. I think we all felt that this was a woman with a grasp of her self on her place, with a true rooted companionship to her home ground. It filled our long, wilting trip with fresh new life. And we were all thrilled a couple of days later to learn of a movement underway to bring back the Limberlost.

      On these multi-author barnstorming tours, Kim acquired a special role. Early in the morning or whenever we were at rest and at will, he would wander the town where we had gone to ground for the night. He’d fill two or three of the special little pocket notebooks he constantly creates from single sheets of paper, with observations, snatches of overheard conversation or found poetry, and his own refraction of his spotful encounters. Then, on the last night, he would conclude the final reading with a poem constructed from the elements he’d concocted from his little notebooks. We all felt that this poem caught the essence of our gypsy band and its travels better than any number of snapshots or journal entries.

      I mention this, because it is just how Kim goes about illuminating the Northwest and the broader concerns beyond in each essay of Having Everything Right: through lyric distillation of the Field Notes he is forever gathering, refinement of the ore mined from his many human encounters (whether intentional for oral history, or deliciously random), and loving attention to minutia that most would not even notice to dismiss. In other words, he writes out of utter devotion to story, and an unshakeable belief that story lies everywhere, and never lies.

      Kim Stafford’s other published writing makes a large and eclectic corpus. Both before and after Having Everything Right, he wrote compelling books of poems, collected in A Thousand Friends of Rain. Lochsa Road: A Pilgrim in the West is a haunting love song to the land expressed through a journey up the famed Clearwater River and beyond. For Wind on the Waves, he was asked to write text to accompany the seascape photographs of Ray Atkeson and responded with fifty indelible short stories. He has written beautiful, gut-gripping memoirs of his brother (100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do: How My Brother Disappeared) and his father (Early Morning: Remembering My Father, William Stafford). And there have been others. Kim is also a singer-songwriter with CDs I have worn out, a remarkably perceptive photographer, and lately, a digital storyteller. But for as many readers and listeners as all these have reached and touched, he has probably reached and touched even more through his legendary teaching—as long-time director of the Northwest Writing Institute at Lewis & Clark College, mainstay from the start at both Sitka Center for Art and Ecology and Fishtrap, and elsewhere. It’s hard for me to think of anyone who has had as much of an impact on the Northwest literary landscape as Kim Stafford.

      Yet this work is not Cascadian alone, any more than E. B. White belonged solely to New York or Maine, or Peter Matthiessen to Long Island or Florida. Kim’s subjects and settings frequently lie in Oregon, it’s true. Yet his actual topic is the human heart and how it situates itself in place—any place where it finds itself, or better yet belongs, but never truly displaced, or unplaced. Before there was a discipline called “place-based writing,” there was Kim Stafford. Not that the loci his genius explores are all balm, tonic, or posies. Kim knows heartbreak and loss, slaughter and exile, and cruelty, oh, yes, cruelty, to self and others, humans and non-. The stories he excavates and adumbrates touch every base of emotion and experience, but good humor, love, and the kindly fruits of the earth almost always enter in such a way as to save the day, or at least salve it.

      Kim says “I want to learn place, custom, and story for my home. I want to name it in my own tongue, ‘Having Everything Right.’” To my eye and mind, his work, in seemingly every medium, especially these essays, has met his desire. It could stand for any place where humans make their way among the roads, rivers, pines, firs, battlegrounds and burying grounds, misfits and perfect fits, old-timers and astronauts, bees, bears, and barns of the whole wide world: call it h′lad.

      —ROBERT MICHAEL PYLE

      CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION: NAMING THE NORTHWEST

OUT OF THIS WORLD WITH CHAUCER AND THE ASTRONAUTS

A FEW MILES SHORT OF WISDOM

      THE STORY THAT SAVED LIFE

      DECEMBER MEDITATION AT CAMP POLK CEMETERY

      A WALK IN EARLY MAY

      THE SEPARATE HEARTH

      PINE, FIR, CEDAR, YEW

      THE GREAT DEPRESSION AS HEROIC AGE

      LOCAL CHARACTER

      RIVER & ROAD

      DANCING BEAR OF THE SIUSLAW

      THE BARN AND THE BEES

      ROOT FEAST

      A NOTE ON SOURCES

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