I saw Fannie Flagg when I was young. Not as young as my husband, (who remembers her stint as the local weather girl) but in the early 1970’s, when Nixon was still president, my family got to see her on stage in a road-company performance of “Mame” with Bea Arthur supporting her as Vera Charles. It was a night of transcendent joy. Mame is a terrific show and Fannie took over the lead as if it had been written for her, my father forgot he hated all musicals and at the end of the performance the company got the longest storm of applause I’ve ever heard. Seriously, we beat blisters onto our palms that night clapping for that flame-haired woman who insisted life was a banquet and most poor suckers were starving themselves to death. That night, I decided no actress could inhabit Mame’s character well without understanding and supporting this philosophy. Ms. Flagg’s The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion has me thinking I underestimated her years ago. Fannie Flagg understands Everyone and Everything.
She certainly understands Sookie Poole, the central character and perpetual mother-of-the-bride in AGFSLR. Sookie’s a member of the sandwich generation, still trying to fill the needs (and put up with) her overwhelming mother, Lenore, while watching her own children step into their own lives. Sookie can only define her self in terms of others (Earl’s wife, De de’s mom) and when life-shattering news arrives, Sookie is forced to re-evaluate every part of her life, starting with the relationship with her mother.
Fannie also understands Fritzie Jurdabralinski, the pretty Polish-American girl from Wisconsin who wants a life as fast, free and fun as the guys in town. Fritzie has the courage and drive of any boy her age and those traits come in handy during WWII, when all the adult males are called up for service. A pilot already, Fritzie and her sisters join the WASPs, a group of lady fliers recruited by the U. S. Army Air Force to fly planes on non-combat missions in the U. S. so the male pilots were freed for combat flights. Fannie captures the war-time patriotism that brought out the best in so many people and the post-war backlash that forced independent women back into domestic roles. Fanny even understands Lenore and the demons that push a strong woman into a the termagant. Understanding, in the hands of Ms. Flagg, is the first step toward transcending the damage of childhood and enjoying a happy adulthood.
Maybe life is more than the banquet that Mame described all those years ago. For The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion, it’s a beautiful piece of music and all the living contribute a tune, be a polka, waltz or march. It’s clear Fannie Flagg listens to all the singers and she loves the music she hears.
I am not a Narnia nerd. When my sister and I were young and used to arguing about everything we would debate the literary merits of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien’s fantasy novels. It was a war of worlds and words, the Chronicles of Narnia v. The Lord of The Rings. (The things sisters argue about!) Without angering the full and affectionate hearts of Mr. Lewis’s supporters (including my sister) , my estimation is unchanged: with its created languages, and mythology, LOTR is a broader, more-original creation than the Narnia series. That being said, I am a fan of the work of C. S. Lewis and my favorite is The Screwtape Letters.
Screwtape, if you haven’t heard of him, is a demon and mid-level administrator in Hell who writes to his nephew, Wormwood, a newly-minted, entry-level fiend, about the true tie that binds: their work on Satan’s behalf. It seems Wormwood has been assigned to guide some human to despair and a rejection of faith and the rookie needs help from Uncle Screwtape. Screwtape’s advice is sort of a theology in reverse because the guidance is to keep Wormwood’s “patient” from redeeming grace. Screwtape suggests that direct attacks against the human’s religion are inappropriate tactics because, “By the very act of arguing, you awake the patient’s reason; and once it is awake, who can foresee the result?” Instead, it’s better and easier to distract the human with “real” life, calling his attention to the newspaper headlines, the line at the bus stop and the behavior of the people at the next lunch table. If you can get a human to accept that as the “real” and “important” existence, Screwtape suggests, he won’t think about about any other life. The same goes for the pernicious habit of prayer. If Wormwood tries to keep his human from prayer altogether, the human will realize he’s being tricked. Instead, let him pray for his disagreeable old mother but suggest the prayers should be for her behavior (which irritates the human) instead of her rheumatism (which pains her). In other words, whenever humans are obsessed with their own comfort, they are paving the way down to Screwtape and his boss.
It’s interesting to see what activities infuriate Screwtape’s boss. Music is referred to as “that detestable art” and laughter, because it connects to fun and joy are looked down on (except when they distract the Humans from real problems) but, more importantly because music and laughter encourage people to live in the present. This, according to Uncle Screwtape is a dangerous place. Let someone live in the present and they accept life as it comes. Get them to live in the future, constantly postponing pleasures and worried about possibilities, and they’ll miss the improvements they could make today, Screwtape says. Let them focus exclusively on the rainbow’s end and all humanity will create is a mountain of regret.
There’s a lot to what Uncle Screwtape says even with the author’s reminder that, “the devil is a liar.” It’s a fascinating read for anyone, religious or otherwise because it speaks about humans and humanity. Whether the devil exists corporeally or not is debatable; man’s inhumanity to man is not and those actions and inaction are what condemn us in the end, according to Screwtape and there’s reason to believe him. However charming or clever Screwtape is, no reader can believe he has our welfare at heart.
As for me, Screwtape turned me into a permanent C. S. Lewis fan. My own views may vacillate from time to time (a regular practice among humans, according to the demon) but this book acts on me like the song, “Walking in Memphis” During the song, a gospel singer asks the observant Jew Marc Cohn mid performance, “Tell me are you a Christian, child?” He replies, “Ma’am, I am tonight!” When I read The Screwtape Letters, I believe in it all.
No one seems to recognize the name of Betty MacDonald any more. When I was little, her humorous books had a place of honor on my mother’s shelves and her series of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle books were staple of kid lit in primary school. She was even responsible for a Hollywood film series. These days only Google and Wikipedia can find her.
If you aren’t familiar with mid-20th century pop literature, Betty MacDonald was a phenomenon. Her first book, The Egg and I (Yeah, I bet you thought that name only belonged to a restaurant franchise!) came out the year the war ended and sold a million copies in less than a year. It has the single greatest dedication I have ever read (To my Sister Mary, who always believed I can do anything she puts her mind to) and some seventy years later, it’s still good. Not flawless, but very, very good.
The story is simple. Betty Bard is raised in a family of fascinating people and learns her mother’s guiding principle for a good marriage is, “whither thou goest, I will go.” When she was twenty, Betty married Bob, an insurance salesman twelve years older than herself. Sometime around the honeymoon Bob told Betty he had a dream: instead of selling insurance, he wanted to farm chickens and sell their eggs. Following her mother’s dicta, Betty followed her husband to start a chicken ranch on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington.
Now farming is a hard life, no matter what you raise or who you are. It takes a lot of physical effort, the chores never end and you can’t count on a good result. It’s a lot harder if you weren’t raised in a farm family, like Betty wasn’t. It gets really hard when little things like electricity and running water are missing and it’s darn near impossible if, like Betty, you live for the Great Indoors, Office Jobs and Paved Streets. Betty loved the glorious natural beauty of the area (she cites one profane, patriotic soul who insisted “Every #$*&!! thing in this @#$#*&!! place is purty!”) but loathed the back-breaking housework, the farm hours and the rotten, mean-spirited, foolish, quarrelsome chickens who behaved for Bob but pecked at and died on her. Bob insisted Betty should perform autopsies on the stricken birds and keep records of her findings but he didn’t like Betty’s “cause of death” diagnoses like Suicide, Eczema, and Chicken Pox. After four years, Betty was finished. She packed up their two girls, moved back in with her mother and filed for divorce.
I think it must take a real optimist to begin life over again at the start of the Great Depression but all of the Bards seem to be optimists and many of them became writers. Betty’s mother wrote for publication and her sister Mary had a string of successful books. During the Depression Betty worked at a bundle of jobs (memorialized in one of her other books, Anyone Can Do Anything), caught and managed to survive tuberculosis (recounted in The Plague and I which is far funnier than it sounds) and remarried, just in time for America’s entry into World War II. One night at a party Mary told a publisher that her sister had a book finished and ready for publication (a HUGE lie) and Betty came up with a pitch for The Egg and I overnight to satisfy the publisher. The book was a smash, staying on the best-seller list for three years and spawning a Hollywood movie, or rather a chain of them, but that only led to more problems.
Of all the personalities Betty threw into The Egg and I, none are more memorable than the Kettle family who lived down the road from Betty and Bob in Puget Sound’s version of Tobacco Road. Mrs. Kettle may once have cherished the hope of living a gentler, more gracious life but she married Mr. Kettle, whom Bob described as “a lazy, lisping, S*B.” The Kettles lived in squalor, their animals lived in squalor and the house was falling around their ears but everyone thrived on Mrs. Kettle’s brilliant cooking and her general philosophy of, “I itch, so I scratch; so what!” Betty maintained the Kettles were creations of her imagination along with the rest of The Egg & I‘s characters but a local family named Bishop believed she was satirizing them, so they sued. (By then Universal Pictures had started a series of Ma & Pa Kettle pictures and the Bishops may have been mad about the unflattering descriptions or they have believed they deserved royalties). The Bishops lost.
Betty wrote one more adult book (Onions in the Stew) about her life on Vashon Island plus her string of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books but died far too soon at the age of 50 and half a century later, her books are discussed by half a handful of individuals who probably remember their mothers reading the books aloud to them (my mother certainly did.) Perhaps that’s reasonable; I’m not sure. The book’s not perfect. Betty’s observations on the Native-Americans in her area are (at best) dated and at worst, downright offensive. I also know humor is the red-headed stepchild of the literary world and humorists, like Rodney Dangerfield, “Get No Respect.” I know some best-selling books are not great and don’t really deserve to be remembered and some wonderful writers like Zora Neale Hurston live and die in obscurity and it takes a miracle like Alice Walker’s article to resurrect their literary reputations. Life’s not fair. Still, I will re-read The Egg and I and Betty’s other adult books for her glowing descriptions of the Pacific Northwest, for her affectionate view of the world and because she makes me laugh. That’s what I expect of a humorous book and all I’m really due. When the book’s done well, that is more than enough.
It seems half the world loves Julian Fellowes. A few mangy souls, like me, remember when he played Kilwillie in “Monarch of the Glen” but once he penned the screenplay to “Gosford Park” his acting days were numbered and his creation of of Downton Abbey and elevation to the House of Lords probably mean we’ll never see him in character again. Oh well. A wise person once wrote that authors, at their best, seem to pull back the curtain for their readers and introduce us to a world we wouldn’t otherwise know. What Julian Fellowes reveals is the inner workings of the British class system and if you think that’s a thing of the past, you need to pick up his novel Snobs. As of 2009 at least, the aristocracy still owns the most boring, exclusive club in town and the excluded are still trying to get in.
The plot is a simple one: Edith Lavery is one of those very pretty British girls with a weathy, untitled father and a mother with social ambitions. She makes the acquaintance of Charles Broughton, an unmarried earl and heir to the Marquis of Uckfield. (That’s mid-rank in British nobility, lower than a duke but well over the knights, viscouts and barons.) He’s attracted to her, and she’s been taught from birth to be attracted to his status and every thing that goes with it. It’s all very exciting for Edith until after the wedding when she realizes she’s married into a rather insular, well-intentioned but dull group of people who live the same type of lives. Once the novelty of being referred to as Lady Broughton wears off, Edith is ripe for some distraction. This arrives (unfortunately) in the form of a good-looking actor whose film is being shot at Broughton Hall. Edith falls from grace, then (socially) on her face when she learns that being an actor’s bit-on-the-side doesn’t carry the same social cache as a well-married countess. Edith has to consider what her priorities really are and who will make her happy. Now that that’s aside, here’s what Fellowes says is true of the blue-bloods, if you haven’t guessed it already.
1. Dreadful nicknames. To the rest of the world, they may be Lord This-a-Whatchit and Lady Whoosis but amongst their own kind, the elite are known by the dreadful nicknames they picked up ages ago, at school. Knowing and using those nicknames marks you as a member of the Inner Circle. Imagine declaring your real friendship for a middle-aged Marchioness by continually referring to her as “Googie”. Yeah, that works.
2. Hideous decorating skills. Part of the nice bit about being an aristocrat is supposed to be the generations your family has possessed titles, houses and the ability/money to furnish said houses but according to Julian Fellows, some of the nobility don’t feel really noble unless they’re surrounded by all the souvenirs their ancestors picked up through the ages. If Lord Uckley’s great-great-grandsire sent home a frozen husky before he went off adventuring with Robert Falcon Scott, well the husky still stands mute and stuffed by the fireplace today even if the taxidermist didn’t do that great a job and the moths and cinders have made hash of the husky’s coat. I’d love to see what Extreme Clutter could do with a house like that.
3. Questionable hospitality. I live in an area where every person is supposed to be hospitable to house guests, even if your home is a rented single-wide trailer. We create the best meals we can afford, serve the guests the tastiest parts of the chicken and put them to sleep in the most comfortable room in the house. Not so in England, not if you’re staying with nobility. This part, I’ll have to quote:
“I have been shown into bathrooms that could just about manage a cold squirt of brown water, bedrooms with doors that don’t shut, blankets like tissue and pillows like rocks. I have driven an hour cross-country to lunch with some grand relations of my father, who gave me one sausage, two small potatoes and twenty-eight peas.”
Not what you expected, right?
Fellowes goes on to say that not every member of nobility makes their friends suffer like this, nor are they all idiots. They’re just people who’ve been raised differently and if they’re not the brightest kids in school, they can still become decent, loyal friends. In the end they’re like the rest of us, trying to do their best, even when they make a right mess of everything. So try Snobs if you want something frivolous and fun that has just a touch of class.