From A River of Stories Book
Notes from my journal
about a trip I made to Tennessee:
Left in Jeep with the top down in July heat
headed for Hohenwald, Tennessee. I hoped to meet and visit with author William
Gay. I read his Provinces of Night and was mesmerized. When I saw a photo of
the author beside a crude painted poster of Jimmie Rodgers, I knew there had to
be some type of connection between us. I had heard he was somewhat reclusive,
so my chances were doubtful. To give my pragmatic left brain an excuse for
chasing such a wild goose, I told it that I was going to do some family history
research. My maternal great grandparents came from Maury, Tennessee.
Spent first night
in a real fleabag motel. A driving overnight rainstorm (6 inches) filled the
Jeep floorboards overnight. Yes, I had a cover, but it just served as a funnel
to pour water inside the Jeep. I pulled into a covered service station bay and
managed to get the top up and Velcro the side windows in the pre-dawn dark.
Jeep windows
fogged up quite a bit as the temp dropped about thirty degrees when I headed
into the mountains. Discovered ballpoint pens had rolled off and blocked
defroster. Smoke boiled out of tall
trees as temperature dropped. Road very winding, up and down and I was
constantly threatened with log trucks, but held my own. Jeep handled well. Kudzu
everywhere. Must have crossed six or
seven rivers including the Beech. Crossed the Tennessee River on Alvin York
Bridge (hero of First World War) from Tennessee. Over Coon Creek, Rushing Creek, etc…
Finally made it to
Hohenwald and checked into only motel in town. Pretty crummy and worn out, but
paradise compared to first night. Took
the precaution of examining the room before I gave up my credit card this time. Also checked for ice machine, which was
second only to cleanliness in importance.
Don’t need chocolates on my pillow, but I require ice.
Next morning, I
drove down to old house that had been converted into coffee shop/bookstore just
off the square. Looked for William Gay’s
books and did not find a one. Asked owner about him and the guy turned up his
nose and told me to ask his wife. When I
did, she just said, “He’s a hermit.”
They told me he had moved to another part of the county. Hohenwald is in Lewis County (named for
Explorer Meriwether Lewis, who is buried here).
Went to Chamber of
Commerce and picked up some info. and maps.
Nice lady there said Gay comes to library quite often, but is reclusive
and strange. Of course, I already knew
that from seeing pictures of him and from reading his stuff. Made me want to meet him even more. Said she would give my cell number to lady at
library when she returned. Maybe she could
help.
I drove up to
Columbia, Tenn., county seat of Maury County, where my maternal grandmother was
born. Had to almost strip and give up my pocket knife to get into courthouse
where county clerk (called by different title there) seemed unfamiliar with the
concept of marriage licenses and birth certificates. Finally, someone told me that archives were
kept in the old jail across the street.
Great old restored building and helpful people there. Found marriage license for great
grandparents. Their old farm is now a state park in Maury County and in
Marshall County, (Lewisberg County Seat), Nathan Bedford Forrest (Civil War
Hero) memorial is also on their old farm. Satisfied to have accomplished at
least something, I headed back to Hohenwald, taking a little side trip on
Natchez Trace Parkway. Very, very, nice
Jeep ride. Close to Choctaw country and
more ancestors.
Back in Hohenwald,
I learned it’s common practice to name roads for residents, so I located
William Gay Road in late afternoon. Only one house on the road’s dead end. Beware of dog and Trespassers will be Shot and Survivors Prosecuted
signs. Dogs would not let me get out and
knock. They literally tried to chew the tires off my Jeep and tried to jump
inside (the top was down), so I turned around and came back disappointed. Wish I could have taken a picture, but camera
was back in motel room. The house was
built with rough-hewn timber, not logs, and had several different types of
rusted sheet metal on the roof. Gay was
a carpenter by trade, so I wondered if he had built it. Interesting place. Would love to have seen the inside. I settled
for a Jeep ride through Tennessee Hill Country and lucked on Grinders Creek, a
place mentioned often in Gay’s novels. Looks just like he described in his book.
The next day, I walked downtown
to the chamber again and found that the librarian had called Gay on my behalf.
The reclusive author told her that he might call me. Went to library and the
librarian gave up his correct number (after I gave her one of my own
books.) I called. He confirmed that he had tried to call me but
lady had given him one digit wrong on number. Told me to drive on out to his
house. Seems his wife divorced him and
took the house on William Gay Road.
Followed his
directions to Little Swan Creek. His house is up a slight hill just before the
bridge that crosses the creek. He shares
a road with other folks that live up the hill behind him. William Gay looks just like what he was most
of his life, a drywall man who may have drunk and smoked a little too
much. However, this drywall man is
brilliant. Hair hangs in ringlets as if
it had never seen a comb, over his collar but not as long as I have seen in
pictures of him.
House is logs with
red metal roof. Nice enough, but he has
not abandoned his hillbilly heritage. An
abandoned pickup sits in front of a small shop, the bed full of V-8 cans and
assorted trash. Think he was sipping V-8
the whole time I talked to him, alternating with drags on cigarettes. Said he and his son are trying to quit. Interesting that I also consume a lot of
V-8. End of his left index finger has
been pinched off. Mine, too.
Room filled with
books. Hundreds. Fireplace and wood stove in the room, but no overhead
light. Room very dark (just like I like
my office). Paintings scattered here and
there. (Yes, he paints, too.) A few guitars and a few books on how to
compose music. Big books on Van Gogh art and lots of DVD’s and all kinds of art
books. While he talked on phone to his daughter, I perused the shelves and
found our tastes a lot alike, especially in movies. (I offered to leave so he could talk in private,
but he motioned for me to stay).
I kept offering to
end my intrusion on his privacy, but he urged me to stay and talk. We talked
about his writing and some funny stories.
I told him that the scene with Albright and the hog was the funniest I
ever read. Asked him about characters in Provinces of Night, Fleming, E. W.
and Boyd, etc… Told me he was a little bit Fleming (a seventeen year-old boy),
a little bit Boyd (the boy’s father), and a little bit E. W. (the
grandfather). Same answer I give when
people ask me if I am Jake in my books.
He had a
director’s chair with the name of his book of short stories on it. They made a
movie recently based on one of the stories in Hate to see That Evening Sun Go Down. Hal Holbrook
plays the old man. I have since seen the movie and really enjoyed it.
He got a call from
his agent while I was there about another book Twilight. It
has been optioned for a movie, also.
Don’t like it was well as Provinces,
but still a very good read. After my
visit, I learned that Provinces would
be made into a movie starring Kris Kristofferson called “Bloodworth”. I also
learned that his publisher for The Lost
Country is having trouble and holding up its publication.
I told him I had
written him in the first part of 2007 after reading Provinces. Said that was about the time his wife kicked
him out and he never got the letter. He
seemed impressed that I brought along a copy.
He’s won numerous prestigious awards, primarily for his magazine short
stories, but also for his books. He’s a
visiting writing scholar at Sewanee, University of the South. Oxford-American magazine commissioned him to
write an article about his experiences going to a college campus as a scholar
when he never attended college. He has
read himself into brilliance. Though I
expect there was something genetic going on, too.
A lady in town
asked him if he got help with his writing.
He asked, “What kind of help?”
She said, “Well,
your people was never very smart and you wasn’t either. Figured you got some help.”
Based on his
stories, his family was both poor and violent, doing everything wrong to the
excess. Although he had a huge appetite
for books and magazines and regularly entered writing contests, he followed the
same path as the rest of the family for most of his life until he started
winning competitions for his stories.
I was a reader as
a kid, but always felt guilty about it and never read any heavy stuff unless I
had to. Wish someone had told me reading was never a waste of time. I recall
reading a comic book (we called them funny books) when Daddy ran a service
station in Commerce. I was about ten and
was supposed to watch the front while daddy did some mechanic work in the
garage behind. A customer went to get him because he could not get my attention
to take his money. Daddy had to shake me I was so engrossed in reading what was
probably a comic book. Don’t think that
has happened before or since, but I get the impression that William Gay lived
his life inside books because his outside life was so bad.
I praised him for
the dialect in his writing because I consider it perfect. He said he listened
to folks around there a lot. Recently, a
man on a construction job complained, “My old lady ain’t put a hot meal on the
table in weeks. The bitch will be laying on her ass when I get home
tonight.” When asked what he would do if
he she did have a hot meal, he replied.
“I won’t eat a damn bite.” I
found that hilarious and so typical.
I told him I had
met Flannery O’Connor once when she came to ET. He asked which year and I said
62 or 63. I think he was trying to catch me in a made-up story, because he knew
that she died in 64 at 39. He asked if she was frail when I saw her. He said he
had always wanted to meet her. He told me of many writers who had influenced
his writing and life, including a fellow who wrote stories for the Progressive
Farmer magazine. Gay has an incredible
memory for authors and book titles. Wish I did. I can remember details inside
books, but have trouble with titles and authors.
I left after a
couple of hours and drove up the Natchez Trace toward Nashville. Got off a
little early and headed toward Grinders Switch (home of Minnie Pearl). There is a water tower and an abandoned
depot, but little else there. Really
great Jeep riding though the winding hills and across winding railroad
track. Back down through pretty mountain
scenery and to Hohenwald by bedtime. A good day.
William Gay
William Gay first came to the Sewanee Writers
Conference in 1999 as a Tennessee Williams Scholar. Later that year, Gay
published his first novel, The Long Home, which received the James A.
Michener Memorial Prize. Gay returned to Sewanee in 2000 as a Walter A. Dakin
Fellow and served as the Tennessee Williams Fellow for the 2000-2001 academic
year. Gay then published another novel, Provinces of Night, and a
collection of stories, I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, which
contained stories that had been published in the Missouri Review, Georgia
Review, Oxford American, Atlantic Monthly, and Harper's.
His stories have also been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, New
Stories from the South, O. Henry Awards Prize Stories, Best New
American Voices, and Best American Mystery Stories. In 2006, he
published his third novel, Twilight, and was named a USA Ford Foundation
Fellow by United States Artists. *In 2010, MacAdam/Cage will publish his new
novel, The Lost Country.
*Note: Gay died before his last novel was published. Nobody
has found his last manuscript (or will admit to it.)
