Up to the light: the photographic slides of Lael Morgan

July 3rd, 2014 by Catherine Fisher



So, I’ve just laid down my gloves. Over the last couple of weeks, the soft, white cotton gloves that we use to protect precious materials from the oils of our hands have touched nearly every one of the thousands of slides contained in the collection of author, journalist and photographer, Lael Morgan. Her papers also are rich with correspondence, clippings, manuscripts, photographs and scrapbooks, but the slide portion of this processing project is a big one.

Morgan was born in Maine (1936) but has based most of her professional life in Alaska and California. These slides, now slipped into rows and rows of little pockets on pages of archival protectors, show the places she visited, the people she met, the moments she captured on film and wrote about during the mid-1960s to the early-1990s. Her stories and images have been published in the Juneau Alaska Empire, the Fairbanks News Miner, the Los Angeles Times, Alaska Northwest Publishing, the Washington Post, New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, and National Geographic Magazine.

Now, I have to say, even with the fun of the special white gloves, tucking slide after slide into the archival sheet protectors was, at times, a tedious endeavor, and so every now and then I had to lift a sheet up to the light to catch a glimpse of the stories living in there. Just to take a peek, make a quick scan, but try not to get so drawn in that I strayed from my task. But that was a challenge. Each tiny slip of film framed in cardboard is a portal to this explorer’s wide-angle view of the world—miles of ragged snow and ice dotted with dog sled teams, icy waters rocking hand-hewn whaling boats, and wide open ocean with fish processing ships—or her artistic zoom-lens focus on the hands of a basket maker, the drying hide of a polar bear, the eyes of a child in a fur-lined hood. From the most remote of villages in the Aleutian Islands to the Bering Sea, Borneo, Fiji, Tonga, Italy and California—these plastic pages with bits of film connect us with the eyes, mind, heart and hands of Morgan.


Over the course of working with the slides, I was especially struck by the absence of judgment that I found in Morgan’s images. I must confess that, in a kind of morbid curiosity, some of the slides I held up to the sunny window bore labels such as “polar bear hunt” and “cock fight” and “oil rig,” and I approached them with my own trepidation and politics. No such bias of hers is present in these images, however. Her work is respectfully curious, bearing positive witness to whatever fills her lens. A good example for me.

And speaking of the labels, so many images come to us without any identifying information, but Morgan is such a pro. She not only wrote captions on most of the individual items but also organized her papers so thoroughly before passing them to us, typing out lists and pages of information to help us navigate the rich evidence of her huge life. That she lived all of this astounds me. A woman who sailed halfway around the world with her husband on a 36-foot schooner, authored countless articles as well as 10 books (whose subjects range from Alaskan Native Peoples to Alaskan gold rush prostitutes to the art of tatting lace to a bio of an Eskimo film star), taught at two universities, edited and published a weekly newspaper, founded a publishing house, and been a private detective, Morgan has lived large. These slides tell us as much about her as they do about their subjects. Makes me want to set up a projector and take it all in…

To learn more about Lael Morgan, visit laelwarrenmorgan.com.

Susan Conley returns with her novel Paris Was the Place

June 18th, 2014 by Catherine Fisher

On a very lovely day in May author Susan Conley stopped on her way to the Black Fly Writing Retreat in Grand Lake Stream to read from and discuss her new novel, Paris Was the Place. As author of both a novel and a memoir, the latter being the award-winning The Foremost Good Fortune (2011), Conley had some engaging things to say to our group about place, about belonging, and about the “middle ground” (as she calls it) created when elements from real life are woven into a work of fiction.

The bulk of Paris Was the Place takes place in a Paris that is “more of a real Paris than a romanticized Paris. It’s not meant to be a postcard of Paris that perpetuates the myth. Still, there is a lot of enjoyment of Paris and a lot of savoring of it,” Conley said. “The characters also go to India for a brief stint,” she added.

The narrator, a 30 year-old American woman named Willow, called Willie, has moved to Paris to be with her brother and volunteer teach at a refugee center for immigrant girls seeking French asylum. She also teaches poetry full-time at the American exchange college there. From the author we learned that there is a rich middle ground between the fictional story and Conley’s own life experience. “This is not an autobiographical novel at all, really, but there are a lot of things in here that did happen to me. I have taught refugees – I do that in Portland through the Telling Room, an organization I’m very involved with. I have lived in France, and I have taught poetry, but I have never taught refugee girls in France. The refugee center is based on a lot of research but it is entirely fictive.”

Conley is a skilled and experienced teacher, and we were in such good hands as she took us on an illuminating journey through three incarnations of the book, showing us the progression of one particular passage through two drafts and on to the third and final version. She hand wrote the entire first draft in a collection of notebooks, and it was enlightening for her, too, to revisit that early prose as she read it, remarking on the multiple chapter drafts and the notes to herself, one of which said, “I feel like I’m finished with the first draft.” That was in 2010.

She then read the same passage from the second, printed out and copyedited version, dated 2011, with thoughtful comments from her editor at Knopf, with whom she also worked on The Foremost Good Fortune.

Before moving on to the published version, Conley explained her motivation for walking us through these drafts. “I thought this might be interesting because a couple of things happened structurally with this novel. The first is that it moved from a whole draft in third person to the final version in first person. A writer friend in Portland, Lewis Robinson, inspired me to make that shift. When he asked me if I was going to change it to first person, I said no, but it stuck in my head.”

Cally Gurley, Director of Special Collections at UNE, wanted to hear the first version again for comparison, wondering which parts of the final book had come out early on.

“I think for me, writing any kind of book–forgive the rather obvious analogy–is like building a house,” Conley said. “You put up your outside walls first and the structure is very rough. That’s sort of what the first draft was, sort of a sketch. And then you’ll notice that in the second draft, I focused on place and gave it a really specific location.” She really wants us to be in that little alley with the narrator as she makes her way through in the first chapter, before she knows what she’ll find at its end. From the published form:

“A high cement wall runs along the start of Rue de Metz—a one-way alley off Boulevard de Strasbourg. Four blue suns have been painted on the wall and the bodice of a woman’s lime green dress. The end of the wall is a deeper cerulean, and the graffiti here looks done with chalk—spaceships and loopy sea creatures and messy stars.”
– Paris Was the Place

All the way along, Conley knew that she really needed to capture place, even before she knew the title of the book, and she sees the first two drafts as writing she needed to do in order to start to understand it.

“I named the novel after a line from a Gertrude Stein essay,” Conley shared, “a line I only discovered when I was furiously writing the final draft in a cabin near Southwest Harbor. ‘And so when hats in Paris are lovely and french and / everywhere then France is alright. So Paris was the place.’ I thought, oh, that’s it, I finally have my title. But when I landed on that title it called for a whole reexamining of the book, to really map place in the book. I got a little crazy and created multiple maps in my little writing studio and made sure I knew every street corner and every metro stop. I felt like I had to live up to the title. But I’m always interested in place as character. [In The Foremost Good Fortune] I made China come alive as a character in that memoir. I wanted to bring the reader to China and then here I wanted to bring the reader to Paris.”

It’s in the final version that, while still focusing on the setting, Conley introduces the characters more quickly than she had in the previous drafts. “Conflict is the engine of fiction. There’s only so long you can wait before you start to introduce conflict. I felt like the guard [in the first chapter] was sort of hinting at that, and then Sophie, who runs the detention center, starts to lay out some of the dilemmas, and that had to happen pretty fast.”

Beth Dyer, Reference & Instruction Librarian here at UNE, asked Conley if she also had been to India. “I would imagine it would be hard to write about a place that you’ve never been. That would be a real leap,” Beth said.

“Yes, I had been to India for only about six weeks in the early ‘90s, but it’s one of those places that stayed with me really vividly and I really wanted to write about it. When I think of the kernel for the novel, it was actually a woman on a train in India…I had really wanted India to be a dominant setting in the book but it didn’t work to have both Paris and India be so big. How much can I ask of you as the reader? I ask a lot of you in this book, because I have three fairly distinct plot lines. So I thought, ok, this has to be a true research junket. She goes to learn what she needs to learn about this poet that she’s researching and she gets out and she still has her mind blown.”

Beth then asked, “In India, a sort of goal of Willie’s was to deliver the letter to the grandmother, and I couldn’t help wondering if the woman she gave it to might not really have been the grandmother. It seemed she kind of stopped at the first old lady she saw. But she felt good about it.

“That’s really cool to hear,” Susan said. “I like that ambiguity, actually. That character was inspired by a granny I met in a remote parish in India where I stayed for a week or so. She had a long white braid and she would come and sit by us at the little tiny store, almost like a canteen, and in one of the pictures she had taken my sunglasses and put them on, and she thought was a hysterical thing. That’s in the book, actually. Gita’s grandmother is wearing those sunglasses.”

Another group member said, “I’m curious about Willow. How would you describe her? What were you hoping to achieve with her? There were times when she didn’t behave like I thought she would.

Conley agreed. “No, she doesn’t behave like I thought she would, either. She screws up and you could almost lose your patience with her. I was interested that people could really screw up and that they could also be forgiven. Another inspiration for this was work I used to do for the Maine Humanities Council at the Long Creek youth prison. I had a grant to teach poetry to the male youth there. We’d meet in a library and everything was locked and all of the furniture was bolted to the floor. There were several times when the kids would be let out on work duty and they would just disappear. A volunteer/guard would take them out to do litter pickup or something and the kids would just disappear so easily. I was fascinated by that. What do you mean, you lost him? What do you mean, John is gone? And I thought, who is culpable? Did the guard help? It’s so easy for people to just disappear for a while, so that’s why I let Willie do that…I think Willie was naïve and she thought she was highly principled.

MWWC curator Cathleen Miller asked Conley why she chose Paris in the first place. What was compelling about telling the story in Paris?

“That’s such a good question. Aside from the obvious conceit that I lived there,” she began, “I wanted to do two things. I wanted to talk about the wave of anti-immigrant sentiment that was growing in France in the late 1980s. It’s gotten so much worse, so I thought it would be interesting to go back to the beginning of that. Similarly, there is the specter of AIDS in this book. I wanted to capture that at that time, it actually was possible to fool yourself about whether AIDS was happening. If there was someone in your life who had AIDS, you could really allow yourself to think that they were just sick. That happened to me. There have been a few reviewers who have thought that wasn’t possible–how could she not know? But we don’t know what we choose not to know. Particularly I thought, get them to France, keep them out of the mainstream, keep them out of what might be happening in the States. I’m really interested in what happens when we move around, when we get dislocated. I think we change. I think we might be more open, we might be more associative.”

Conley closed by saying what a great thing it is to be a writer in this state. She has a work of nonfiction in progress and a novel set in China on the horizon, and she added, “I grew up in Maine in Woolwich on the river, and I feel like I have a Maine story in me, too. I just haven’t gotten there yet.”

To learn more about Susan Conley and her work, visit susanconley.com.

“To see where I came from, I’m looking at stones”: Poet Betsy Sholl visits with her new collection

April 30th, 2014 by Catherine Fisher

 

“What if ruin is a good thing? What if each day is built on the ruin of the one before? What if all our attempts to avoid ruin only make us bitter or closed off from what’s around us? What if only by exploring our ruins do we become human?”

The back cover of Betsy Sholl’s new collections of poems, Otherwise Unseeable, begins with this hefty handful of questions. The poems inside show that Sholl, in mining the gritty aspects of life from many angles and perspectives, is not afraid to get in the rubble and get dirty, perhaps in an effort to come clean. She recently visited us to read from and discuss her book, and I was left wading through words like “grit,” “muck,” “rough” and “wound” for days afterward. It’s been somehow a freeing sort of mire.

Sholl began her reading by explaining that even though poetry uses the same words as the newspaper, it’s not the same language. “The language of poetry is the language of metaphor, of association.” It is intended to slow us down, to be more meditative. “It’s a language that is set up with all the speed bumps that Stevens Avenue has,” she joked.

She began by reading “Genealogy,” the first poem in the collection, and prefaced it by explaining that some of her poems are more realistic and some are more metaphorical. Some she can remember the process of writing and some just come to her.

“’Genealogy’ just came to me. If you asked me what it’s about, I don’t know if I could say.” The poem mines two aspects of Sholl’s life ruins, two essential rocks of her own personal rubble. Her father died when she was two, and she says of that, “In a way there is this whole side to who I am that was absent. My mother tried to make him present — I know his favorite foods, I know things he didn’t like — but I don’t know a lot.” The second element that appears in this and other poems is that Sholl is a stutterer.

From “Genealogy”:

One of her parents was a star already gone out,
the other a cup that she carried into the night,
convinced it was fragile.

One of her parents she drank, the other she dreamed.

In the revolving door of her becoming,
one pushed from inside, one from without.
Thus, her troubled birth, her endless stammer.

Class is also a theme in her work. “I grew up in a widow’s household, a family that had been well-to-do and fell on hard times, and I think that must be connected to this next poem, called ‘Alms.’” She described it as realistic, a true vignette about being asked for money by a woman on the street in Portland. In the poem she characterizes the woman’s meek call to her (“Miss, Miss…”) as “voice of pocket lint, frayed button hole,” and later, reflecting that she hadn’t been compelled to give the woman the totality of the seven dollars in her wallet, she reckons with her unconscious withholding. “…so clearly that voice / wasn’t small enough, still someone / else’s sorrow, easy to brush off,” and in her regret she sees it as “a failure, a lack, a lost chance.” Sholl is troubled by the panhandlers so numerous on the streets of Portland these days, saying, “There is no way not to feel indicted, in a way.”

Sholl says that many of the poems in this collection could be characterized as arguments, and the one entitled “The Argument” plays around with those debates she has with herself, when she thinks one thing and then immediately counters with the opposite. The verbal joust between her and a crow centers around her urge to celebrate the beauty of an early autumn day, and the crow’s reminder that it’s the 70th anniversary of the German invasion of Poland. The crow voice wants to bring her down, to solemn her heart “for the sake of the murdered, for the sake of the dead / for all that hasn’t happened yet…”, to quandary her in ruins that are not her own, yet perhaps might be.

“Every book of mine has to have a poem with a crow in it,” Sholl remarked, “and every book has to have at least one poem addressed to my sister. She is a musician, and growing up in a sort of grieving widow’s household, my sister would sob as she played the piano, and I thought then, ‘what a dork’. Only as an adult do I realize that all of her grief was going into that.” Sholl read “Tidal,” in which the wailing piano scales played by her sister’s fingers over and over and the wind rattling the roof of a house in a kind of emotional lock-down “…make us / unlatch our wounds, and love our ruins.

During the reading Sholl reflected on what poetry does for her, and mused about how her poems might impact the reader, whether or not what she feels in the poem comes across. “I go to poetry to be expanded in some ways…my thought, my emotions, my view of the world. It’s really hard to tell if your poems do that. Your own poems are in your face. You have no idea if they’re expansive.”

Before turning to discussion, she went on to read a poem for her mother (“Elegy with Morning Glories”); another about the primal tug to trace one’s roots (her to horse thieving Nearys in County Mayo, in “Belmullet”); two poems about sounds and music and musicians (“Wood Shedding” and “Rahsaan”); and one exploring love in the face of inevitable death (“Vanishing Act”), among others.

Once the discussion began, Sholl was asked how she got started writing poetry. “Well, it really is connected to being a stutterer,” she said. “I was the youngest of sisters, and it was hard to get my word in edgewise, and we had rules about what we could talk about; those three things sent me to words, and putting words on paper.” After college Sholl left a Ph.D. program, saying it was because she wanted to be a poet. “So then I really had to get serious,” she said. Sholl met with a friend to write late into the night, and it was then she began to try to write every day. It wasn’t until the late ‘80s, after she had married and had children and was teaching full time, that she went back for her MFA. “I’d published a couple of books and I felt like I had just come to the end of what I could teach myself. I felt like I had hit a brick wall, and either I had to quit, and just say I failed, or put myself in a position to grow. So I went to Vermont College and that was a great experience for me.”

Later in the discussion Sholl addressed the accusation that some make against MFA programs, that they churn out academic poets who all sound the same. “Before they had MFA programs poets had to write in the style of whomever they read and copy and copy and copy until they found their own style. You started as a backup singer. And if you keep at it you might get to the mic. To me it’s the same thing, going to an MFA or staying in a third floor room all the time by yourself with your books. It’s the same thing, and the work is to move beyond that.”

“Do you work at the internal rhymes in your poems? Or do they just come to you?” one guest wanted to know.

“Mostly those just come,” Sholl answered. “I do have to work at structure. When I was in a poetry workshop in Cambridge when I first began to write, most of the poets were 10 or 15 years older than I was. I was like their charity case and they were tough on me. They’d say, “Stop that chiming!” I felt like I had to. And then I began to read Seamus Heaney and I thought, ‘Well, damn, I’m Irish!’ So I began to let that come in again.”

“Do you ever work with fixed forms?” another member of the group asked.

“Well, I do write villanelles from time to time. There’s one in this book. There’s one in my last book. I write a sestina every year and pretty much erase it from my hard drive. I have a sestina and a villanelle that are both about teaching in prison. Isn’t that interesting? The form is sort of a jail…In general, I think it’s connected to class for me. Formal verse, for me, was what all those old guys did who lived in a building on the top of a mountain with a sign outside that said, “No, not you.” Free verse was what an upstart chick with no money could do…And when I try to write in form it just dies on the page.”

“What do you think the work of poetry in the world is? Why the hell write a poem?” MWWC curator and poet Cathleen Miller was curious to hear.

“I was talking about this stuff and a teacher of mine said, “Betsy, we just do what we can do.” I used to live in Roxbury, MA. My husband was a community organizer and he worked with tough kids. And I would think, why am I sitting here at my desk, doing this little stuff, when I could be out saving the world? And what I said to myself was, it’s no worse than working in a shoe factory, you know? You make a pair of shoes and people get to wear those shoes for a little while and then they wear out and they get a new pair. And doing a poem, a few people might wear your poem for a day or two and then look for another one. What more can you say?”

“On the other hand, I think the arts in general speak to our deepest soul and our deepest human roots, and they offer something different from moneymaking, and different from violence. Different from all the forces that tend to dehumanize us. We go to the arts for that expansive experience. To be bigger, deeper or more real than we feel in our day-to-day lives…Poetry is a one-on-one thing. A dialogue between souls. And we need that.”

To learn more about Betsy Sholl and her work, visit www.betsysholl.com.

(Blog post title quote is from the poem “Belmullet”)

 

 

“I want to write something that matters”: Eleanor Morse visits with White Dog Fell from the Sky

February 27th, 2014 by Catherine Fisher

 

In stark contrast to what meets our eyes as we look out our Maine windows these days, the landscape that Eleanor Morse lays out in White Dog Fell from the Sky is one where the water of the ocean is a figment only to be imagined, where “the heat, the dust, the gray-green foliage, the skinny cows, the goats…,” combine to form a backdrop that is, as she says, itself a character in this story of Africa during Apartheid.

Morse made a generous visit to the MWWC last week to discuss her book, and she began by reading from its first chapter. Isaac, a South African medical student, arrives in Botswana near death and is dumped in a dusty heap on the side of the road, having been smuggled across the border in a hearse to escape the wrath of the white South African Defense Force. He awakens to blue sky and the face of White Dog, who assigns herself as his companion for the journey that follows.

After reading from the book, Morse gave some background on the setting. White Dog Fell from the Sky takes place in Botswana in the mid-1970s, about the time that she herself lived there. Botswana was then still a young country, having gained independence from Britain just six years before, in 1970. It was a fortunate country, on a firm financial footing with an educated, enlightened first president — a good place to be in those days. Radically different, however, was the neighboring Republic of South Africa, which at that time was consumed with Apartheid. Refugees were coming into Botswana from South Africa, and though not modeled on anyone in particular, Isaac is one such seeker of safety.

Morse started the discussion with a question possibly on many minds: “How did I get to Botswana?” “Probably the way many people get to places they don’t expect to: love. I met a man from Botswana while I was going to college at Swarthmore and he was in graduate school at Bowdoin.” When they eventually married, Morse moved to Botswana and both she and her husband took on hectic jobs in national offices, working on issues of health, education and literacy. “We were both fortunate to be engaged in work that mattered,” Morse reflected.

The couple returned to the United States in 1975 with their young son, had another child and eventually parted ways. It took Morse these nearly-four decades to write this book, publishing two others in the interim. “Something in me knew that I needed more experience, that I needed a wider vocabulary of emotional range to write the story. I didn’t know what the story was when I started the book but I knew that it was going to require something of me.”

“What was that?” a member of the group probed.

“It required a good deal of courage, for one thing,” explained Morse. “It wasn’t an easy book to write because of what ended up happening to Isaac. Through a series of mishaps, Isaac ends up being sent back over the border to a prison in South Africa. Those are harrowing scenes and they were harrowing to write. I felt as though I needed every bit of courage I had in me to go there.”

Another issue gave Morse pause when approaching the project. “There was a question when I started writing this book as to whether I had the right to tell the story of a black person as a well-educated white woman…Isaac was a well-educated South African man but he’d grown up in a very different culture and in very different circumstances. There was quite a bit of soul searching before I plunged in…but Isaac’s voice kept coming to me.” Morse asked a writing buddy about her dilemma and her friend said, “That’s what writers do. They cross barriers and make worlds come alive that people don’t know or understand.”

Morse shared that during the writing of White Dog Fell from the Sky, she experienced the abrupt end of a relationship that she had expected would last the rest of her life. The pain of that loss made it “a darker book than it might have been otherwise, but also a deeper book and a better book.”

“How long did it take you to write it?” one guest wanted to know.

“It took three and a half years to write the book and then another year for copy editing, final edits, and deciding on the cover image,” which was quite an engaging process in itself.

Another group member wondered how might the story have changed in the editing process, and Morse described trimming about 14,000 words from the book. “Quite a bit of that was backstory and some broke my heart to let go of…One thing I felt really strongly about was that Botswana and the landscape really be like a character.” Morse was glad that her editor at Penguin was open-minded and honored the frequent reestablishment of setting to keep that character present. And because the editor herself was born in one country and grew up in another, she understood the recurring theme of passing through boundaries that is key to the book.

“I didn’t want the book to be overly political, even though it has to do with the politics of southern Africa at that time. I wanted to be faithful to that but I didn’t want the characters to be existing just to tell a political story.”

Morse said, “The hardest part in writing the book for me is the very beginning, because I don’t have a story that I impose on the characters. For me, a book starts with the characters, sometimes with their voices. It’s a period of puzzling things out, asking, who are they? When I sit down to write, I don’t have a firm idea of what I’m creating. I want to be true to what’s emerging. There’s a lot of listening that goes on, open-hearted listening…I didn’t know that a lot of the things that happened in this book were going to happen. I was sorry that some of them did, but that is part of the process.”

Much of the process has to do with being curious, she says. “When I’m teaching I sometimes talk about following the heat or the energy of something…I want to write something that matters. When I think back in my life, I think I’ve always wanted to get under the surface of things… If I knew what was going to happen in a story, I would never write it.”

Morse pointed out that the main characters in all of her three books have a certain marginality about them. “I am much more interested in marginal characters than in mainstream characters, partly because they are just more interesting.” She describes her childhood self as a figure on the margins, having been the new girl in a number of schools as her family moved with her father’s work as an engineer for GE.

Anne Zill asked Morse if she had a favorite of her three books, and if she saw anything in the first two that might relate to this one.

“I like them all for different reasons,” Morse says. “This is the biggest book and I think for that reason, if I had a favorite, it would be this one, because I feel as though I really stretched my legs in this book and opened my heart in a way. I did so in all three books, but I might have had more to work here with because of life experience. It all enters in.”

Learn more about Eleanor Morse and her books at eleanormorse.com.

Martha White visits with E. B. White on Dogs

December 20th, 2013 by Catherine Fisher

 

“It always surprises me how many people come out for E. B. White’s granddaughter,” Martha White commented to the book discussion group gathered here on December 10. The author and editor came to read from and discuss E. B. White on Dogs, her recent compilation of the best and funniest of his essays, poems, letters, and sketches, depicting over a dozen of White’s various canine companions. In addition to this most recent book, Martha White has edited two previous volumes of her grandfather’s work, and has over 30 years of publication credits in creative fiction, non-fiction, syndicated columns, book reviews, OpEd columns, and essays. She is a longtime contributing editor to Yankee Publishing and The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

White began by giving us some background on her relationship with the famed author of Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, The Trumpet of the Swan and The Elements of Style. By the time she was born in 1955, Elwyn Brooks White, his wife Katharine (Angell) White and their son Joel (Martha’s father) had been full-time residents of North Brooklin, Maine, for 18 years. Prior to that they had divided their time between Maine and New York, E. B. White’s attachment to the state having been formed during his boyhood summers in the Belgrade Lakes area in the 1930s.  Young Martha and her two brothers spent many happy times at their grandparents’ place, riding their bikes over for a day of chores, followed by a big family dinner. She was 30 when her grandfather died in 1985, and E. B. White on Dogs contains a number of his letters to her.


The first selection Martha White read was called “Dog Training,” a 1940 piece from E. B. White’s “One Man’s Meat” column in Harper’s Magazine. “I like to read books on dog training,” it says. “Being the owner of dachshunds, to me a book on dog discipline becomes a volume of inspired humor. Every sentence is a riot.” White explained that her grandfather didn’t only own dachshunds, but also a collie (his first dog), terriers, beagles and mutts. “They weren’t called ‘rescue dogs’ then,” she said. “Rescue dogs were the St. Bernards who carried the whiskey barrels down the street!” She added, “He would laugh today at our dog costumes, dog boutiques and the commercialism around it all. His dogs always had a place in the barn, unlike the house pets of today. I would love to have known what the dog show people thought about his spoofs.”

To illustrate, White read “Dog Show: A New Showmanship,” a short “Talk of the Town” installment in The New Yorker that everyone found very funny. The essay’s radical revamp of the traditional dog show would have each dog “be made to work for his ribbon, each breed in his own wise. Pointers should have to point, Shepherds should be required to herd a band a sheep…English bull terriers should be made to count up to ten…Scotties chew up old shoes…while St. Bernards carry brandy to anyone in the audience who feels weak, preferably us. Beagles would jolly well have to beagle, or shut up. How about it, dogs–are you dogs, or mice?” Hilarious idea, and with its own logical appeal. “Dog Show Obedience Contest” got an even bigger laugh, with White confessing her favorite line is the last one: “The Dog Show is the only place I know of where you can watch a lady go down on her knees in public to show off the good points of a dog, thus obliterating her own.”

In addition to columns and letters, E. B. White on Dogs contains poems as well. White read “Dog Around the Block” (Dog around the block, sniff, / Hydrant sniffing, corner, grating, / Sniffing, always, starting forward, / Backward, dragging, sniffing backward, /…) about a Scottie that had been given to E. B. White by James Thurber, fellow New Yorker writer and cartoonist. “If he had had his druthers, (my grandfather) would have been a poet,” she said.


Most of the questions asked of Martha White during our gathering focused on her own writing path, rather than on her grandfather. “When did you start writing?” one group member wanted to know. White explained that while she was growing up, Brooklin High School was closed down and the town’s students were sent across the bridge to Deer Isle. Instead, she left for boarding school in Massachusetts, and there “it became apparent that all I wanted to do was read.” At Mount Holyoke College she became an English major, with John Irving as one of her teachers. “What did Irving think of the fact that you were E. B. White’s granddaughter?” a guest asked. “He didn’t bat an eye,” White said. “But he did include a quote from Stuart Little in the front of one of his books, I noticed.”

White realized only once she went away to school what a prominent writer her grandfather was. “(He) was no big deal in Brooklin, Maine. And when I’m asked the question, ‘What was your grandfather like?’ I want to respond, ‘Well, what was your grandfather like?’ To me, he was like everyone’s grandfather, which was a wonderful thing.”


“Did you share your writing with him?” one person wanted to know. “Yes, some of my early embarrassments,” she answered with a smile. And she described receiving a rich literary background from her very attentive, learned grandmother who had a vast library and piled high the books for her granddaughter to read. White has “tried fiction,” she said, but ninety percent of her income comes from her non-fiction articles and editing.

When E. B. White died in 1985 (his wife Katharine White was deceased in 1977,) their son Joel White became his father’s literary executor. But when he died two years later, Martha White took over for her father. (Both her boatbuilding brothers were off on the water.) “It’s a big job,” White says, “and the first thing I did was to reread his entire body of work.” The original 1976 version of The Letters of E. B. White had just gone out of print, and White set about organizing the revised edition to include the last ten years of additional letters, published by HarperCollins in 2006. She then began to cull from all of his published works a selection of quotations for In the Words of E. B. White: Quotations from America’s Most Companionable of Writers.” Produced for Cornell University Press, it was published in 2011.

It was in the process of compiling those quotations that White noticed the dog section of the manuscript was quite substantial, enough for a volume of its own. It took Tilbury House Publishers of Gardiner no time to decide to publish E. B. White on Dogs when White proposed it. She reflects on her experience working with the material, saying that in the process she began to realize there were many questions she wished she had asked her grandfather. Dogs were such huge characters on the author’s farm, so why did they not appear prominently in his children’s books? “Perhaps he was concerned their big personalities would overpower the story,” she speculates.

“Did your rereading of E. B. White’s work influence your own writing?” was another good question posed. “After a year-and-a-half of doing the dog and pony show for this book, it does take me some time to get back to writing in my own voice.”

Learn more about Martha White at www.marthawhite.net.