the signal

In Ron Carlson‘s new novel, The Signal, a book that includes both clotheslines and abandoned places, each word counts, as each word should but often doesn’t in novels. The Signal packs a lot into its 184 pages: six days in the life of its main character Mack.

Its cover looks, as one of my children said, “like a book I wouldn’t read.” I’m not sure whether he meant it looks “sensational” or “like a guy’s book,” but I agree on both counts about the cover, not about what’s between it. In The Signal, it’s a toss-up whether the language or the story is the most alluring part of the novel.

“This was his life, riding out two hours from a ranch that itself was an hour from town and still knowing there were unknown hours ahead.”

“The tinted window went down and there was her face.”

The descriptions will give you goose bumps, and the dialogue is tight. Listen to this conversation between Mack and his father, whom he describes as “…his presence in the world was like order itself.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Are you going by your gut?”

“By something.”

“Do you think you can get a girl by showing her a bear?”

“No idea,” Mack said.

His father folded his arms and leaned on the doorframe. “Me neither. How many were there?”

Mack is also the narrator, and we’re right there in his point of view, a close third, yet without even a space break, Carlson zooms out seamlessly, giving us a little distance: “The two hikers stepped out into the high-atmosphere sunshine…”

Some will argue that there’s too much plot, but in my opinion The Signal offers a brilliant example of plot arising out of character: Mack’s choices drive the plot forward.

I’ll leave you with my favorite passage:

“The sun was weak light, and the chill was general headed for a real freeze. The watery yellow day wanted to break his heart. The season had foundered and each day was now a brave imitation of the day before. In September the year fell away and in the car you’d get a late baseball game on the radio as you drove to town sounding like it was coming from another planet, the static and the crowd noise and the announcers trying to fend off the fall shadows.”

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winter spring summer fall

Click here to start the music:

I've been on a musical kick lately...and here on the eve of another change,

I think of Carole King's words, which I first heard in 1970,

and which I think of often, as they reflect the changing and wondrous views outside my window,

for which I'm thankful as I sit inside with the light on.

waiting for me

DSC00191This leaf, propped up like it is here on its stem and all by itself, was waiting for me when I opened the front door yesterday morning. Do you think it thought I wasn’t noticing?

I moved it for a moment over by the pumpkinDSC00189

Then I brought it inside where I showed it to everyone.

“The Lesson of the Falling Leaves” by Lucille Clifton

I give

 

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I wanted to do a post today. Usually I post much earlier. This is my fourth try.

 

 

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Each time--writing about a book, about my writing process (ok, obsessed), and even about a single picture I had taken on Tuesday--I was not happy with what I was doing.

 

 

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I kept wanting to include not one but three pictures. Just a minute ago, I interrupted my last attempt to post so I could accompany my 16-year-old to the door. He was leaving for a late basketball practice.

 

 

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As I shut the door, I saw the last light of day caught in this dogwood tree. And I thought, I give, as I went in search of my camera.

 

a day in the woods

Today, Sunday, October 26th, I’m walking.  It’s a day in the woods.  An autumn ritual (because of spring snakes).  A 23-mile hike, which last year took 11 hours.  We choose the date by trying to maximize the chance of cool weather with enough daylight hours.  This is tricky.  Already we’re down to less than 12 hours.  Sunrise in Georgia these days is around 7:45 and sunset, 7:00.  And we’re a year older.  We’re taking flashlights.

We do it to prove we can.  We do it to get away from it all.  We do it to work on staying in the moment–to try to make it about the journey and not about being finished.  As you might imagine, around mile 18, this becomes very difficult.

So think of us as you go about your day…

I was walking again

in the woods,

a yellow light

was sifting all I saw.

 

from Changing Everything by Jane Hirshfield

The Lives of the Heart

 

first day of fall

September 22, 2008–the autumnal equinox–fall at last.  My favorite season. 

And it felt like fall this morning.  Canada geese flying over.  The first leaves changing color.

It’s no surprise that in two of my all-time favorite books, the authors write of fall.

In Journal of a Solitude, May Sarton wrote of a September day, “The sun is out.  I woke to lovely mists, dew on spider webs everywhere, although the asters look beaten down after the rain and the cosmos pretty well battered.  But these days one begins to look up at the flowering of color in the leaves, so it is easier to bear that the garden flowers are going one by one.”

In Light Years, James Salter wrote, “In the morning the light came in silence.  The house slept.  The air overhead, glittering, infinite, the moist earth beneath–one could taste this earth, its richness, its density, bathe in the air like a stream.  Not a sound….Autumn morning.  The horses in nearby fields are standing motionless.  The pony already has a heavier coat; it seems too soon.”

And then there’s Edith Wharton in The House of Mirth:  “The afternoon was perfect.  A deeper stillness possessed the air, and the glitter of the American autumn was tempered by a haze which diffused the brightness without dulling it.  In the woody hollows of the park there was already a faint chill…” 

That’s what we had in Columbus this morning, a faint chill, presaging the lovely fall days ahead.  Only one hundred days left in the year.  Here they come and there they go.  Catch as many as you can.