It's no secret that I come from a family of writers. Coursing through the paternal side of my DNA is some long woven thread that insists on connecting brain to words to page.
I was teaching my English 12 class recently, going through the book The Help, and trying to guide my seniors towards understanding a 1960's era that I admittedly 1. didn't live through and 2. never studied in school. All I can offer are anecdotal stories told to me by folks older than myself, most of whom have fuzzy-at-best memories, and the research I've done myself using second and third-hand sources.
So I turned to The New York Times, and introduced the teens to the wonderful world of online-archived articles. As they were tumbling through the vast offerings, their black flatscreen computer tops glowing, I decided to go on a search of my own. I knew several family members had written for the paper, as critics, guest authors, etc., and I typed in the Caldwell name on my laptop. What popped up first was an article, written for The Vineyard Gazette, and reprinted with their permission, by my great uncle, William A. Caldwell.
Now, we all have family members we hear stories about- legends of great athletes, outstanding brains, drunkards, and debutantes. Mine was of a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaperman, one with a Wikipedia page devoted to him, who wrote commentary columns, and managed to make a living out of it.
What I remember of him (he died when I was seven) are moments from my time at his house on Martha's Vineyard. It was a clapboard ranch right on the bay, with it's own dock, small beach, and thick, punishing rose bushes that smelled sweet and sharp at the same time. I can picture his large hands, almost as big as my small head, gracefully drawing out notes from a grand piano that sat on thick, gold, wall-to-wall shag carpet in his living room. There's also an image of him on the splintering, grey deck out back, stoking the grill while his pipe, which was perpetually in the corner of his mouth, puffed out tiny plumes of smoke. He had white, thinning hair on top of his weather beaten head (often covered by a floppy white hat), and a hearty laugh.
I know him through the stories I've been told- his late wife regaling us with his efforts in a hurricane back in the early 80's (or maybe the 70's- I was young when I heard it). "He boarded up every damn window of that house, the wind whipping the nails right out of his hands, and just as the last board went up, the storm died away, and he had to take all the wood down again."
I know him by reputation, absorbing information from On and Off The Record, a history of The Bergen Record (the paper Bill worked for when he won his Pulitzer), and reading mentions of him in various papers and books I've located throughout the years.
But most of all, I know him from his writing- I have his book, In The Record, which is a collection of his columns- and it is his writing that inspires me. As I examined the piece I found, I was struck by how much I strive to emulate my late uncle's style. This isn't to say I can come close- but someday, I hope to at least be at a level that demonstrates our shared DNA.
I note his sarcasm, his sense of humor. I recognize the family traits in these, that biting wit that was rampant on my dad's side of the family (and rears its head any time my sister and I are in the same room). I sense the need to find the good, no matter what the circumstance, and try to impart a bit of honesty and enthusiasm about the world we live in. He had a grace with words, sorting through their syllables to find the perfect means of description (like F. Scott Fitzgerald, but without the pompous-assery that occasionally bled into F's work).
Most of all, I'm aware of how many of his stories center on my family- aunts and uncles, cousins, parents, grandparents. My dad's family- his whole generation, and the ones that came before- were all wiped out by the time I reached true adulthood. And so, I'm left wanting more.
Bill's columns help me to know the people they were long before I came along, and the folks they grew into when I was a child. I was too young to really understand what was being said late night on the Vineyard, as the elders gathered around the glass table for cards, but I was conscious of a camaraderie of spirit as kings, jacks, queens, and a decent amount of whisky, shuffled their way from hand to hand.
Now, flipping through Bill's writing, I have the opportunity to embrace the people that are now just ghosts in my head, spirits whispering off the pages, and echoes that I hear in the laughter of my generation. I see his notes on the world he lived in, and I want to raise them with the world I'm surrounded by now. He inspires me to want to record the moments I don't even realize are changing me until after they've happened, the people that have touched my life (whether they realize how important the've been to me or not), the decisions (mine and others') that have altered the course of my reality.
Reflection is a funny thing. It's impossible to diagnose until after it happens, and then, the examination is the interesting part. I'm reminded to choose the path that leads to the better story, take the risk that will inspire me later, and recognize when the mundane is actually the glimmering diamond in the rough. I need to remember this, and write accordingly.
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