Since our screened-in back porch has been changed into a sunroom, I can’t stay out of it. Before dawn, on and off throughout the day, and even at dusk (like now), I find myself coming out here to read, write, do schoolwork, watch the neighbor’s cat, look at the trees (pine, cedar, magnolia, river oak, and so forth). I can hear the cicadas and birds. One day three deer dashed between our property line and the neighbor’s.
It’s a perfect setting. It lets me enjoy nature’s beauty without her fluctuating temperatures or windblown allergens.
That said, yesterday, I spent most of the day out here reading (rereading) Ethan Frome. “Why?” you may wonder. That’s the question my friend asked me with a quizzical look this afternoon. It’s hard to articulate why except to say that sometimes a book can affect a person so much that she can recollect not just the plot but also the emotions, environment, and hopelessness of the characters even after fifty years. Bear in mind that this is not a book I often think of unless someone mentions it specifically. And yet, Sunday an event took place that immediately brought Mattie Silver to mind.
It happened at church—or rather on the way in to church. Head down and eyes glued to the iPhone screen, I didn’t see the high curb and ran right into it, tripping and beginning to fall on the concrete sidewalk. This can’t be happening, I thought, and tried to stop the process. It semi-worked, meaning that I didn’t end up immobile on the sidewalk. I was able to get in a crouching position that lessened the impact when I eventually “went down,” scraping palms, knees, and chin. My chin got the worst of the fall and began to bleed profusely. Fortunately, I was wearing a multicolored duster that camouflaged the blood. Embarrassed, weak, and a little dizzy, I walked into the building, down the hall, and into the restroom to do a little doctoring up. After a few dabs with a wet paper towel, I walked into the chapel where my daughter-in-law applied a Band-Aid.
All was well for a few minutes. Then my jaw began to ache. Next my neck felt stiff. That’s when the panic set in. A vision of Mattie Silver (Matt to Ethan) appeared in my mind’s eye. One moment in her life changed her into an invalid forever. Forever. What if I could no longer move my neck? What if my jawbone was not only bruised but broken? And what if my teeth fell out? Would Urgent Care be open when church was over?
I’m not an alarmist. I am, however, becoming increasingly aware of how one quick moment in a person’s life can change him or her evermore. I’m also increasingly aware of how literature, especially by the pen of someone like Edith Wharton, can affect someone’s thinking and feeling for years. As I told my friend today, I can’t imagine being able to write like Mrs. Wharton. Not to worry, she said. Only one in a million can do that. We were just chatting; there was nothing scientific about our numbers.
What I’m trying to say is that literature counts. Words are powerful. Stories affect us and come unbidden into our minds even after decades. I’ll never be able to write like Edith Wharton, but does that matter? We all have stories to share that can help others to gain insight, feel inspiration, or get up and moving again.