Whatever you say

OK here's the deal: I've got something to say here and, as is my wont, I'm just going to haul off and say it.

If it offends you, do feel free to click out. Pirate or no pirate, it's our policy here at IHATH not to keep anyone against their will.

Allow me to first lay some groundwork.

My TG collects books like a black dress collects lint and dog hair.

The shelves are groaning. There are piles beside his chair. Tome towers rise on nearby surfaces. His bedside table is littered with various volumes.

I look at the books sometimes and think: Where do they all come from?

(On account of, I fail to notice him actually bringing them into the house, and he seldom receives a package at the door or in the mail.)

The materials seem to simply ... materialize.

So I asked TG: Where do all these books come from? 

Oh I just get them, he replied. Vaguely, as per usual. (A man of few words, if you don't count the millions on his hoarded pages.)

Anyway. Recently I spied a smallish book sitting by itself on the ledge of a built-in. I picked it up. I read the pretty, beachy cover:

A Lowcountry Heart: Reflections on a Writing Life by Pat Conroy.

OK the Pat Conroy part I got right away; Like TG, the late South Carolina man of letters was a graduate of The Citadel. He even wrote a book about The Military College of South Carolina: The Lords of Discipline.

You might say TG is a fan. So am I, as it turns out. I've read The Lords of Discipline. Meh. I read The Prince of Tides twenty years ago. I found The Great Santini difficult to read, however, and didn't finish it. Ditto My Losing Season.

Conroy's writing can be too sad for me to endure. His autobiographical works are the worst in that regard. Naturally. His young life was insanely painful and he wrote of it with excruciating honesty. At least I think so.

All I can say is, it rings true to me, for personal reasons I won't divulge. And I can tell you that when I stood at the grave of Colonel Donald Patrick "The Great Santini" Conroy himself a few years ago, in Beaufort National Cemetery, I was uncomfortable.

I go with my gut. I believe Conroy's account of brutal abuse at the hands of his father. Enough said.

OK so I understood the Pat Conroy part of the mysterious new book decorating my ledge. What I didn't get was the title. TG is not known to read books about the craft of writing. That's my bailiwick. You might say I collect those types of titles.

Yes; I'm guilty of amassing books too. Mea culpa. So sue me.

Before I thought to query my beloved regarding the provenance of Conroy's book on writing, one fine day I was coming up the driveway from the mailbox when my next-door-neighbor spoke hello to me.

Hey, I said. I kept walking. (We're not exactly close, except in proximity of our domiciles.)

Did you read that book I gave Greg? She brayed.

I looked up. Uh, no! I said, feigning interest. What book is that?

The Pat Conroy one! Mrs. Botherton bellowed.

Oh, that's yours? I wondered, I said. We love Conroy. We actually met him one --

I only bought it because my (mah) child (cha-ald) went to The Citadel, she interrupted. Maybe when Greg's finished with it, he'll let you read it.

(Let me? Haaaahaha ...) She knows me not at all.

Hey but have you ever known someone who wants to talk at you but has no interest whatsoever in talking to you? They'll yammer on and on, never caring to stop and listen for as long as it takes to draw a breath?

That's my neighbor. Just let's not talk about her anymore, shall we?

Good fences and all that rot.

Intrigued, I went back indoors and sought out the little book. I examined it more carefully. Turns out Conroy's wife convinced him to keep a blog in his latter days, when he was too ill to travel and interact with his readers as he once had done.

(Conroy was famous for writing his novels in longhand on yellow legal pads, and only embraced technology in his latter days, when he was forced to do so or be cut off from his public.)

The book consists of many of Conroy's blog posts. It looked good to me and I set it aside to read.

A few days later, I picked up the book. I always read (or at least skim) introductions, and this time was no exception.

Said Introduction had been written by Pat's third wife, his widow.

Now, at the risk of being too wordy here (like I said; if your mind is inclined to wander or if the laundry needs folding or the fried chicken's about to burn, click on out. I don't blog all that much these days), I'm fixing to pull over and park for a mo.

Heaven forfend that I, of all people, should speak ill of the dead. 

I don't say that I never would. Some people, alive and/or dead -- no matter -- truly deserve to be spoke ill of. Be that as it may, this is not that.

The disclaimer is provided because I'd be hurt, dismayed, nonplussed, perturbed, and deeply grieved if anyone read this post, took an errant turn, and ended up at the wrong conclusion.

So don't.

This observance falls solidly under the heading: Just Saying.

Because that's really all I'm doing: Saying.

In reading Mrs. Conroy's introductory words to the volume of her husband's selected blog posts, I learned that the late great Pat wasn't the only member of the family given to lush hyperbole.

The widow describes her husband as someone who effervesced throughout his many book signings, greeting everyone "as though he were running for mayor." According to her, Pat was a virtual paragon of charm and charisma unequaled in the Western Hemisphere for his ability to effortlessly connect with his fellow humans.

Rather than heed the directives and pleas of his publisher's representatives at promotional events to, for the sake of time, sign only one book per customer, to their chagrin Pat would gleefully invite his readers to "Bring all you have!"

And they would. As Mrs. Conroy tells it, a reader would approach the table where Pat was holding court. Clutching several Conroy titles, they would instantly burst into tears and commence to tell him their life story and what his writings had meant to them, and maybe even ask if he had the time to read their manuscript.

He'd let them gush for as long as they had a mind to, not even marginally concerned that two hundred people waited behind the sobbing reader to tell their own moist, painfully personal tales to South Carolina's answer to William Faulkner.

When visiting a bookstore for a signing, Pat "knew each of the staff by name ... asked after their families ... even if it had been many years since his last signing there."

Could you do that?

Mrs. Conroy insists that her husband, who was a diabetic, many pounds overweight, prone to crippling hand cramps, and a sufferer of severe back pain, would sit for five to eight hours signing books and greeting his public non-stop, refusing to take "even the quickest of breaks" -- to visit the men's room, for example, or to eat a bite of protein.

Pat Conroy's book signings are described by his wife as "more than anything else ... lovefests between him and his readers." Emphasis mine.

I could go on. You know I could. And I will thank you not to snicker.

For the sake of this exercise, just imagine a hale, hearty, rotund, larger-than-life, Santa-jovial, white-haired, silver-tongued devil bursting with love and energy and the desire to share himself lavishly with all comers, never once glancing at the clock -- and you have conjured only a pale adumbration of the man described by Mrs. Conroy as her beloved husband, the once-living embodiment of the absolute indisputable best of all late-twentieth and early twenty-first century literary figures combined into one beaming, blinding light of joyous generosity and limitless passion for life.

Except -- as I mentioned earlier -- I once met Pat Conroy.

It was January of 2007, and Pat was a guest lecturer at the University of South Carolina here in Columbia. One of the lectures was given in the evening, and TG and I attended.

You who know me already know that I was entranced and enthralled to be in the presence -- as in, occupying the same room -- as a famous author of the caliber of Pat Conroy. It was a dream come true. Conroy's way with words had brought him the kind of success all writers secretly hanker for.

My mind's eye can still see the stout and aging Mr. Conroy standing at the lectern, talking about writing, showing us the long ink-filled yellow pages upon which he spilled his characters and the incredibly detailed, emotionally-charged imagery for which he was known.

I don't remember much of what he said; I took a few notes. I recall that he was an interesting speaker, funny and engaging if not necessarily lighting up the room like a klieg, transforming the cold January dark into blessed blazing day. I enjoyed the lecture but its contents are not burned into my brain.

I remember being thrilled when, at the conclusion of his talk, it was obvious Mr. Conroy was in no rush to get away. He took a seat at a small table and an instant long queue formed.

I got in it, clutching my copy of The Prince of Tides upon the flyleaf of which I'd long ago written my name and the date of acquisition: December 1986.

My turn finally came. TG took pictures of me meeting Mr. Conroy, who stayed seated while I bent down and smiled toward the camera. Pat signed my book, and when I asked him to write a special inscription, he obeyed.

Only, he didn't make eye contact and I had to say it three times.

I have pictures of that transaction, somewhere. I took pictures of his yellow legal pad pages, too. To be fair, they spoke to me about as much as their writer had. It was a brush with greatness but far from overwhelming.

I didn't burst into tears upon entering Mr. Conroy's aura, and I felt no urge to tell him my story. But if I had done either thing, I'm confident that he would not have encouraged me to take my sweet time. Don't ask me how I know; I just do.

And that's fine; I didn't have anything to tell him.

TG '74 had a turn too, a few minutes in which to introduce himself to Pat Conroy '67 as a fellow graduate of El Cid, and share a reminiscence or two.

But here's the thing. And just so you know, before going off half-cocked I checked with TG to see if his memory jibed with mine.

It did. In case you haven't yet picked up what I'm putting down, I'll elaborate:

When I met and spoke with Mr. Conroy, he came across as old and sick, gray and faded. He seemed doddering and nearly deaf. I would even go so far as to say that he appeared a trifle confused. Maybe it was only fatigue, but still. His demeanor was light years from the description provided by his wife in her introduction.

Well, he was old, you might say. He was old and, as you said, sick there at the end.

But it wasn't the end. This was a decade ago. Mr. Conroy died last year at the age of seventy. When I met him on that January night in 2007, Pat Conroy was a mere sixty-one years old.

Which, I think you'll agree, is (at least relatively) young. As in, I am sixty. And on my worst day, I wouldn't come across as seventy and sick.

I wish I could have attended a "real" book signing and interacted with the silver-tongued devil who threatened to blot out the very sun with his brightness of being, his personality bursting with light and love.

I wish I could have been even a witness to one of the "lovefests" between Conroy and his readers, in which he sat transfixed by joy for five to eight hours without taking a potty break or consuming so much as a saltine cracker, signing books far into the night while hapless helpers looked on in impotent amazement.

I also wish I could write a single sentence -- much less a paragraph, chapter, or whole book -- that someone might describe as Conroyesque.

He knew he'd been blessed with "a natural lyric gift" and he knew how to use it. That's enough for me.

May he rest in peace.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Tuesday :: Happy May

Comments

[Luna Crone]

Let's just say...... His "Mrs" had one heck of a pair, of Rose Colored Glasses!!!!!

<evil giggles>

Luna Crone

[Jennifer]

@Luna ... Pirate apols for editing your offering. Hate to be so prim but expletives are always deleted on IHATH. That said, I'm inclined to agree with you and to ADD that the widow Conroy has what I call Fakebook Vision: You know ... she lives in that virtual "place" where everyone is beautiful (both inside and out) and where all and sundry lead lives of impossible glamour and charm. Blah blah blah. xoxo

[Mari]

Yes - I've met a few people who have "delusions of grandeur" regarding their family members... Seems Mrs Conroy did too! Glad you got the book signed though!

[Luna Crone]

Edit away, my Dear!!!!!!! This is your blog. And we each, have a perfect right, to only allow what we want, in it.

Plus, I should have re-read your info, below.

You have Comment Mod on, so I do not need to add my SPAM Warning, here. I found 2 SPAM this morning, in my Comments. :-(((((( So I had to put my Comment Mod back on. And thus, I am being "The Town Crier" and adding the SPAM Warning, to all my comments today.
-sigh-

Oh and don't you just love (Not!!!) all those social media places, where the people live in "Perfect Land"??? Never a strand of hair, or a pillow, out of place. -grin- That is why, I sometimes leave something in a posted pic.... Like the kitchen garbage can, which one would usually crop out. Etc. -grin- I call it "Truth In Blogging."

[Jennifer]

@Luna ... You're a gem. I'm probably more idealistic than you in editing photos but while I don't give loads of negative information in blog posts, I also don't sugarcoat much of anything. Truth will eventually come out -- at least to those who have eyes to see, and are actually interested in truth (it's sad but not many are). As for Fakebook ... excuse me while I gag. xoxo

[Cheryl Arment]

Oh, now you have my attention! People who go through life wearing "Rose colored glasses" I can hardly tolerate. It may be because I am a person whose glass is half empty. I admit that I need to keep a balance. However, my friend who always has a glass full to the brim, caused me to go through a with surgery with a doctor who nearly killed her consequently I live with disabilities. She thought it was wrong and negative to tell me how he treated her. I'm sorry, but this hit a NERVE!

I did have to giggle over your cemetery language.........tome towers!?!?! You spend too much time in the cemetery! Hahahahaha! Just Kidding, my friend. I absolutely love you!

[Jennifer]

@Cheryl ... haaaaha now, I'm an admitted pessimist but I refer to myself as the most optimistic pessimist you're ever likely to meet. And I have a philosophy about that "glass half full/empty" thing. The glass is as full as it is; period. It has nothing to do with how full or empty it is. It's called REALITY. In reality, you're not a negative nellie; you're simply someone who isn't afraid to speak the truth. And I'll be a book lover from the tomes to the tombs. xoxo