Innocence...and a garden..

Candide and Other Writings by Voltaire

I like to read....and I'll read almost anything I can get my hands on. Sometimes when I say I'm reading a "classic" I get the feeling that people think I'm pretentious. But when I do read a classic, such as Candide, I realize that there is little difference between the writers of centuries past and the modern author. Both have something to say, and many books that are now considered classics are just as readable as any current bestseller.

And Voltaire surprised me with how simple his stories are. I'm sure I miss a lot of the irony, since I have only a passing acquaintance with the politics and history of his time. But going beyond the satire the stories and short novels that I've read so far have been delightful, witty and applicable to the life that I've been striving to live for the last ten years.

I'm only a quarter of the way through the book, which is a Modern Library collection edited by Haskell M. Black. The first section is Voltaire's fiction, which I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy the most. The first story, Zadig, or Destiny, tells about the trials and tribulations of a truly wise man in Babylon. Part of my interest in this tale is Voltaire's use of deductive reasoning by his character, who gets in terrible trouble as a result. The charm of this story is that it reminds me of a book I was given as a child, called Watermelons, Walnuts and the Wisdom of Allah. This was also about a wise man who could sometimes be very foolish.

Candide is probably the most famous of Voltaire's stories. The main character is named Candide because he is a complete innocent, and considered simple-minded by his peers. Honest and gentle, he is the victim of an injustice that sends him out into the world. Throughout a long series of adventures and misadventures, Candide tries to cling to his love of a beautiful girl and to the philosophy of his old master, who said that everything that happens is for the best. In the end, after many trials and sufferings, Candide concludes the story with the words "But we must cultivate our garden."

He arrives at this as a philosophy that I think more and more people are understanding. Candide's garden was cultivated in order to accomplish the goals that Voltaire sets out in his book, which are keeping at bay the evils of vice, boredom and need. A garden will certain help prevent hunger, and hard work certainly will help prevent boredom and temptation. But for me the garden, and the way of life I try to follow, keeps me focused and connected. Connected with the past, with the earth, with the women that came before me and the women that will come after me.

I value the fact that in watching my mother and grandmother garden I learned skills that seem to come to me naturally now. While I learn something new every day from my garden, I also know I'm building on the traditions passed down to me, just by my observation of their work. I know what those half-runner beans should look like, when to replant the lettuce and how to tell when the tomatoes need staking or watering. And I know how to weed.....

I'm not sure it's necessary to have a physical garden. As life gets more and more complicated and technological, however, I think more people are coming to a place where they need to feel connected. To something. Maybe that's why Internet social sites like Twitter and Facebook are so popular (and you can farm on Facebook, among other things!). There seems to be a social function in almost everything on the Internet these days.

So. What's Voltaire saying? Plant a flower and you'll feels peaceful? As I said, I'm sure I missed a lot of the sharp satire in this story, but at the same time, why wouldn't this be as good an interpretation as any? It's not that simple, of course, because life doesn't work that way. But a few hours in the garden, a few stitches on a crochet hook or knitting needle, a few pages of a book....none of these will solve all your problems and magically give you happiness. Maybe....

Loss and Memories

When I was working on the family genealogy I quickly realized that the stories of the people in the family were much more interesting to me than all the family charts in the world.  While it's wonderful to know my roots, and where I came from, the best thing was the many stories that have been handed down through the generations.  Funny stories, tragedies, simple tales of quiet life in the mountains, adventurous moves to new horizons...all of the stories made my ancestors a part of my life and memory, even though I never met most of them.

There was a sad lack in stories about the women in the family, though.  I grew up surrounded by strong women and I have no doubt they inherited their strength, talents and skills from the women who came before them.  On both sides of the family women stepped into the traditional roles of their mothers and also broke the molds as the generations passed and they broadened their horizons by working outside the home.  Some of them ventured out before it was acceptable, often due to necessity when a husband died or was too wayward for the responsibilities of hearth and home.  

I grew up watching the women in my mother's family become more beautiful as they aged, despite hard times and sorrow, which come to every life.  They were quiet mountain women, most working as mothers and housewives all their lives.  Gardening, canning, making quilts and rugs, knitting and crocheting, cooking meals that nourished body and soul, church on Sunday morning and family made up the circle of their lives.  As times changed and the next generation became working women, they were also my models and mentors, as I saw what women could accomplish in so many ways. 

 

When we gather as family, which is usually on the sad occasion of a funeral, it's hard not to smile or even laugh.  A family gathering is a time to celebrate memory and story, even as we mourn the losses both past and present.    It's a time to meet a new generation and pass on the tradition of story and memory.

The names of my family's women were simply wonderful though the generations....Loucinda, Addie, Ocie, Clarice, Winnie, Ruby, Virginia, Opal, Jewel, Thelma, Arlene, Libby....each name calling up a face and personality so unique.  So many of them have slipped away with time, reminding me that I'm almost fifty and the generation of my childhood has long been gone.    I remember one of my great-grandmothers on my mother's side, and I learned to spin on her spinning wheel.   One of my cousins remembers seeing Grandma Lou working away at her knitting at an advanced age. Some no longer grace Meadows of Dan, but the memories of their beauty and strength, and even of their faults, live strong in those of us descended from this family.  These women are part of my heritage and my strength, and my memory. 

Stories

Alix's Prayer Shawl

Where does a story begin?  Take this shawl, for example.  Does the story of the shawl I'm making for my mother begin with her request that I make it?  Or does it start with the book that Debbie Macomber wrote, Back on Blossom Street, that my mother loved and seems to make her realize something new about knitting.  Or does it start with the designer, Myrna A. I.Stahman, who created a beautiful piece with clear instructions that even I could understand.  Or does it start with the yarn, chosen and purchased awhile back from Mosaic in Blacksburg, with the careful help of Gina and the other girls?

I've been thinking a lot about story lately.  Or, rather, perhaps I've always thought about story.  In the mountain communities where I've lived most of my life, story is important.  When you meet someone here you quickly figure out where they belong in the story of the community...who their parents and grandparents are or were and where they lived.  Who they are is much more important than what they do or what their economic bracket might be.  As soon as you hear that "Oh, Mama was born down in the Bent and her mama was a Bowman" you know exactly where that person fits into the scheme of the community.  I'm sure it's funny to hear us angling for information when someone unknown crosses our path.  

And with the information there often comes a story.  How Daddy and Mama moved to Draper back when the textile mills opened, or that funny story about great-grandpa and the possum that was passed down through the generations.  Along with the stories of the people come stories about the places.  Old houses, stores, names for creeks and mountains...all of them have a story of some sort attached to them.  I once went with a native of the Buffalo section on a ride through the area....he had a story to tell about every curve, tree and bank.  The odd thing about mountain people and story is that they aren't just stories that we experienced ourselves.  I know family stories that have been passed down since before the Civil War, thanks to family members that preserved and told them.  

 This prayer shawl project will be a story.  How my mother read the book and saw the pattern, how she asked me to knit it.  And part of the story will be my determination to make this shawl....despite the fact that this is the first time I've attempted anything so complex.  The story will include the softness and fineness of the yarn and the dainty elegance of the stitches.  Part of the story will be the warmth of the Springer Spaniel at my feet as I knit the pattern, and the curiousity of the Labrador as he watches my concentration.  The tidy black paw of a playful cat will be a chapter in which the knitting bag is overturned.  It won't be an exciting story but it will be a comfortable one...and comforting, as a prayer shawl should be.

Gone Too Soon

Buford C. Wood

June 7, 1943 - June 4, 2007

Little Stories

Beautiful Bentley

I went down this morning to walk and to meet my friend's new dog, Bentley. Does he remind you of anyone you know? Bentley is a little nervous, since he hasn't been a house dog before but I think he's going to be splendid, as soon as he figures the house thing out. He's seven months old and should be a big boy. Lily is going down with me tomorrow for playtime, and to show Bentley it's OK to go IN the back door.


Patrick County Mug

I cleaned up the kitchen yesterday; things had gotten to critical mass and I just couldn't stand it anymore. While I was tidying, I ran across all sorts of things that I've kept to remind me of special people and special times. Each one of them has a little story. The Patrick County mug was a gift from our tourism director for one of the events I participated in. She's become a special friend and I like seeing this mug every morning by the kitchen window. And I love cobalt blue!


Lady Salt and Dame Pepper

I bought this pair of salt and pepper shakers at the store where I used to work, and they are a fun reminder of all the good times I had there for so many years. Dame Pepper has a couple of chips because she took a fall or two from the kitchen table.


Little Hen on a Basket

Mom bought me this little darling when I was pretty young, at the "Craft Shop" here in Meadows of Dan. I used to love going to visit with the delightful, and oh-so-patient owner of the interesting little place. It must have been a pain to have me wander in so often, but she never let me know. The old building is gone now; it was once a home, then the shop, and was torn down to expand a restaurant. There were some lovely old lilacs in the yard and I wish I had been able to save one of them.


Little Map Plate

Favorite cousin gave me this not long ago, but I remember that it has been one of the treasures of her house for a long time. When we were small my grandfather used to take us down to visit; he thought a great deal of both favorite cousin and her father, who was my grandfather's uncle. The men would talk in the cozy living room; Uncle in his big chair with the old clock ticking over his head and Grandpa sitting nearby so he could hear the conversation. My brother and I would clamber into the old daybed and watch birds outside the cunning window beside the fireplace, or play in the kitchen with the cat, who acted more like a dog and would romp with us like a small lion. Favorite cousin always had stories to tell and something interesting was always going on. There have been a few changes to the old house over the years but it always feels just like stepping into another century, a time that was warm and inviting where every visitor is special.


Blue Willow Platter

Aunt in Connecticut gave me this not long after I moved into the old family homeplace. The pattern is one that has always been popular with country women and there is a story that goes with the pattern, although the legend is probably apocryphal. When we were small my grandmother took care of us while our parents were and work. My aunt and uncle were teenagers at the time. Aunt was brilliant and active in high school but she still had time for a bratty little niece. I remember being invited into her room upstairs, where I was in awe of her special treasures and scrapbook. She loved cats and books and, along with her mother, she was a big influence on me when I was young.