Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir

by Mayes, Frances

  From her fate, I know that friends and loves can take over if the abyss of family drops off. Her attitude toward money sank in. Nothing convinces me that it’s not to spend and give away. And, grazie mille, for her force of life that propelled her to age ninety-two, against all odds. Her lit fuse. From her I have fierce currents of energy, a river in full tilt that I have reveled in all my life. She—and not only by negative examples—gave my sisters and me the fervor to thrive.

  I’ve kept with me the feel of Willie Bell’s strong fingers clutching my arm as we crossed a street. Her hand holding mine tight as she rubbed cut walnuts on the ringworm between my fingers. She had a big, toothy smile and I watched for the glints on her gold fillings. “You got wings back here,” she said, tapping my shoulder blades. “You gon’ fly, little girl.” We never saw Willie Bell again. My sisters and I still miss her. “Swallowed by the North,” Frankye maintained. “Swallowed whole.”

  In the future, I plan to be braiding the garlic, reaching up to cut leaves from the tall holly that is right now waist high, harvesting bushels of heritage apples, gathering the last roses of the year. The garden will be burgeoning, and my dream realized of a pond below the parterre garden, just large enough for a blue canoe. We’ll long since have remodeled the barn into—what? Exhibition space, guest quarters, or a library, adding a long screen porch for summer dining.

  At that table, may Frankye be invisible to everyone but me, though the blue of her eyes looks straight at all of us from my daughter’s and grandson Wills’s sunnier glances.

  From her, I understand in the marrow Yeats’s line A pity beyond all telling / Is hid in the heart of love.

  Frankye, who didn’t raise me in that direction, would be shocked that work—starting with the high school yearbook—directs my days. Books, house restoration, vast gardening schemes, language, food, literacy projects, and a complex life in two countries. What would she say? And, where would she have gone, if she’d been lucky enough to make a midcourse correction?

  Often in Tuscany, when I’m rolling out pizza dough, setting the table for twenty, poking an armful of hydrangeas in a pitcher, I think, She would have loved this.

  Then, I know—her life blossomed into mine.

  Too bad I don’t believe she’s beaming down from heaven, flapping feathery wings and sighing At least she did it. Ever since my faraway courses in astronomy and world religion, when I learned that even the solar system amounts to no more than a fleck in space, I cannot, unlike the majority of my fellow Southerners, take consolation from on high. All I’ve ever been able to figure out as my religion is to love the world and the people in it. Help those you can and relish the moment as it flies. I find strength in making grand plans for the future, and at the same time, in memory. In writing a life, you search for the white pebbles you didn’t know you dropped to define your way. When they disappear, you instinctively follow the glimmer of swamp fire to the deep woods where time and event collapse, to the original source where love flourishes still.

  As to the creation of the universe and our purpose on this blue spinning mote in space: Bow down before the mystery because you are not going to know. In that, I have faith.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My good fortune is to have Vanessa Mobley as the editor of this book. She gave me thoughtful and useful responses and has understood from the start the vicissitudes and volatility of the memoir in my hands. My great thanks to her, to Miriam Chotiner-Gardner and Claire Potter, who steered so well, and to my excellent publicist, Rachel Rokicki. Elizabeth Rendfleisch was the book designer; I appreciate her fine work. Many thanks to: Julie Cepler, Jay Sones, Danielle Crabtree, Tricia Wygal, Rachel Meier, Luisa Francavilla, and to the whole team at Crown Publishing Group. Special gratitude to president Maya Mavjee and to publisher Molly Stern.

  Peter Ginsberg of Curtis Brown Ltd. has lavished his attention on me ever since I showed up at his office with my memoir of Tuscany in a box and said, “Will you represent me?” I count on his perspective, astute ideas, and his humor. Also, my friends at Curtis Brown Ltd., mille grazie Jonathan Lyons, Holly Fredericks, Kerry D’Agostino, and Sarah Perillo.

  Charlie Conrad was my editor for eight books, and although he has moved on to new work, he continues to send encouragement my way. We’ve raised many toasts in Italy, and long may that continue.

  At HarperCollins Australia, my gratitude to Katie Stackhouse and Shona Martyn, my editors, and to Fiona Inglis of Curtis Brown Ltd., Australia.

  It’s a pleasure to work with the Steven Barclay Agency for speaking engagements. Everyone there is a friend, and they are tops. Amici per sempre!

  I’m grateful to the editors of the following magazines where parts (in early versions) of this book originally were published: The Southern Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Ironwood, The Gettysburg Review, Frontiers, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and The American Scholar.

  Closer to home, I hope the book itself acknowledges my indebtedness to my family. Edward Mayes, my husband, shares the joys of writing and the celebration of living, as well as provides the correction of tenses (I tend toward the continuous present). He must have memorized these chapters by now. My daughter, Ashley King, insisted that this book be written. If not for that, probably the flowered folders still would be in a storage box in the attic. She and her husband, Peter Leousis, sustained me with cheer good times, and constant firing up of the grill. Many thanks to my dear tribes: the Davis, Jackson, and Willcoxon families. And to my grandson, Wills, who, at ten, dove into the manuscript with enthusiasm.

  I am lucky to live among generous friends who read and write, live large, love to talk and to celebrate. A coffee, a walk, a dinner, these everyday and communal pleasures remind me that a rising tide lifts all boats. Grazie, Lori Carlson, Hal Crowther, Anne and Walter Dellinger, Nancy and Steven Demorest, Nancy and Craufurd Goodwin, Allan Gurganus, Eric Hallman, Michael Malone, Elizabeth Matheson, Jill McCorkle, Ippy and Neil Patterson, Maureen Quilligan, Tom Rankin, Randall Roden, Lee Smith, Ann Stewart, Sharon Wheeler, Elizabeth Woodman, Susan Wyler, and all the Revelers Club. Oscar Hijuelos is mourned and missed.

  Not nearby, but always close, and in touch with the evolution of this book: Todd Alden, Alberto Alfonso, Robert Draper, Shotsy Faust, Steve Harrison, Toni Mirosevich, Daniel Orozco, Steven Rothfeld, Kim Sunée, Audrey Wells, and Rena Williams. Cari, you know who you are to me!

  NOTES

  1 No future I imagined took place: Running from Columbus to Augusta in Georgia, the southern fall line is the Mesozoic shore of the Atlantic Ocean. The line divides the sandy soil and sedimentary rock from the crystalline rock and clay of the Piedmont north of the shoreline. “Fall” refers to the waterfalls that burst out along the boundary at the first exposures of crystalline rock.

  2 When the Bartrams, early horticulturists and adventurers: Philadelphia-born William Bartram (1739–1823) as a boy accompanied his father, John Bartram, on botanical expeditions to the South. A naturalist and artist, he continued to travel the South, gathering information about the natural world and also the native populations. Travels Through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East and West Florida is a classic.

  3 Flipping through my notebook: The fragment quoted is from Ezra Pound’s The Pisan Cantos, LXXXI.

  4 What was it really like: For another Fitzgerald, Georgia, memoir, see Born Colored: Life Before Bloody Sunday by Erin Goseer Mitchell. We were contemporaries, but I never knew her. Now I see that we should have been friends.

  5 It was a cloying, marvelous, mysterious: The fragment “happy as the grass was green” is from Dylan Thomas’s poem “Fern Hill.”

  6 A thriving Jewish community owned: Encyclopedia of Southern Jewish Communities: www.isjl.org/history/archive/ga/fitzgerald.html.

  7 And as W. H. Auden’s refrain goes: The line “Time will say nothing but I told you so” is from the poem “If I Could Tell You.”

  8 When I went to Nicaragua: I’ve written more on this era in “Quetzal,” published in
Better Than Fiction, Lonely Planet, 2012.

  9 Jekyll Island was deserted: Jekyll Island, Georgia, is fascinating to visit. To me, it seems an unlikely place to have been chosen as a playground for the extremely rich—so wild, so many mosquitoes, so remote. See www.nps.gov/nr/travel/geo-flor/15.htm and other sites for an introduction to the history of the island. The old Jekyll Island Club is now an historic hotel, and several of the “cottages” have been restored. With much of the island protected by the state, Jekyll has escaped rife development. Strangely, the untouched neighborhoods of low-sixties ranch houses are beginning to look historic.

  10 I was stirred by Jeb’s cavalry troops singing: “Kathleen Mavourneen,” a song popular during the Civil War, was written by Frederick Crouch in 1837.

  11 Propped in my white spool bed: The idea that the house should protect the dreamer comes from Gaston Bachelard’s Poetics of Space.

  12 We’re fated to wonder: The line “Of those so close beside me, which are you?” is from Theodore Roethke’s poem “The Waking.”

  13 From one who is writing exams: “Writing exams in water” glances off Keats’s epitaph: Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

  14 Also the birthplace of a writer I admire: Lillian Smith took on the subject of race long before other southern writers. How Am I to Be Heard? is a collection of her letters. She’s best known for Strange Fruit and Killers of the Dream.

  15 … shelling pecans for Martha Washington Jetties: Martha Washington Jetties are the ultimate Christmas candy. Balls of pecan-studded fondant are dipped in warm chocolate. The recipe is on my blog: www.francesmayesbooks.com.

  16 The Yearling, a childhood favorite: The Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings quotes are from her memoir, Cross Creek. Cross Creek, where she settled in a cottage in an orange grove, is now a Florida state park.

  17 The water may have moved on: Fragments of Heraclitus, number 21: One cannot step twice into the same river, for the water into which you first stepped has flown on. Guy Davenport translation.

  18 I’ve found his grandfather’s big shingle house: I first saw my great-grandfather’s house when I moved to North Carolina. Now a law firm, it’s the only petunia in the onion patch, an excellent architectural example of shingle style completely surrounded by freeway interchanges and high-rises. Some history is at www.cmhpforg/S&Rs%20Alphabetical%20Order/surveys&rmayes.htm.

  19 From a recently found distant relative: Walt Whitman he was not, but I am thrilled to have “My Lucky Number” written by my great-grandfather John Laban Smith in 1926. At one place in the poem, he’s seventy-eight, and in another, eighty. At another, his wife is seventy-eight, but a few lines down, she’s dead. He must have later revised.

  My Lucky Number

  My lucky number is 8.

  What is your lucky number?

  I challenge the world to beat me on my lucky number 8.

  The flood was in the year 2448 B.C.

  My forefather, Noah, was 599 year and 48 days old when he entered the ark.

  I had 8 ancestors saved by water.

  The 28 American soldiers who were killed in the battle of King’s Mountain were buried on October 8th, 1780.

  My liberty was celebrated in 1880, the year of the great centennial at which time the old monument was unveiled.

  The old monument is 18 feet square at the base and 28 feet high.

  The distance from our home to King’s Mountain Battle Ground is 18 miles.

  My liberty was renewed in 1818, the World War, 8 years ago.

  I am 78 years old.

  My wife was born in the year 1848. She is 78 years old.

  My father left the farm in the year 1858, moved in a wagon, and I rode 8 miles.

  My great grandfather, Jacob Rhyne, was the father of 8 sons.

  I was the 8th child in the family.

  I was married in 1878. I have been married 58 years.

  The first money I earned was 5 cents when I was 8 years old.

  I married my wife out of a family of 8 children.

  I went 8 miles to get married.

  I celebrated my fiftieth anniversary in 1918, 8 years ago.

  My wife and I lived together 58 years when death separated us.

  The first cook stove I owned was Number 8. It cost $18 and was given to me in 1880.

  I had 8 sister-in-laws and 8 blood aunts. I had 8 uncles in the Civil War.

  I had 8 great-uncles, I had 18 uncles in all.

  I started to the Civil War with 8 in my company.

  I moved to Gastonia NC in 1888. 8 Children had been born in my family.

  I have been a resident of Gastonia NC 38 years.

  The first time I saw the ocean I was 48 years old.

  I have a Christmas present 38 years old.

  I was standing on the summit of Spencer’s Mountain 8 hours before the nineteenth century passed out.

  I voted for the removal of Gaston County Court House from Dallas to Gastonia in 1908.

  The first Republican ticket I voted was for Garfield for President of the United States and George McKee for Sheriff of Gaston County, this was in 1880.

  I voted no more Republican tickets until 48 years afterwards.

  I was 80 years old when I voted the Republican ticket for the second time in my life.

  I quit drinking coffee on May 8, 1908.

  The first cotton mill built in my county, Gaston, was in 1848, it ran for 68 years regular without stopping before it was destroyed by high water.

  The first railroad built through my county was in 1858.

  My first trip on a train was in 1868. I rode a distance of 18 miles.

  I have been 800 miles from home. I have been in 8 states.

  I am glad to say I live in the best country in the world which is composed of 48 states.

  The father of my country, George Washington, was president 8 years.

  The Washington Monument was started under construction in 1848.

  I visited Mt. Vernon and went through George Washington’s home in 1918, 8 years ago.

  I live 8 blocks from the city square.

  I live at 408 Willow Street.

  My favorite verse in the Bible is Revelations 1–18, “I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive for ever more, Amen; and have the keys of hell and death.” On this hangs my soul. What does your soul hang on?

  These are facts and are correct to December 28th, 1926.

  20 From her, I understand in the marrow: The line “A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love” is from W. B. Yeats’s poem “The Pity of Love.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In addition to her bestselling Tuscany memoirs, Under the Tuscan Sun, Bella Tuscany, and Every Day in Tuscany, FRANCES MAYES is the author of the travel memoir A Year in the World; The Tuscan Sun Cookbook; illustrated books In Tuscany and Bringing Tuscany Home (with Edward Mayes); a novel, Swan; a text for readers, The Discovery of Poetry; and five books of poetry. Her books have been translated into more than fifty languages. She divides her time between Italy and North Carolina.

  Visit Frances at francesmayesbooks.com.

  Also by Frances Mayes

  Available wherever books are sold