The World in Pieces
Page 19
Well, so, Mr. Midwood, here I give to you the same advice my mother gave to me: “The world is calling out names to you, so listen!”
I hope you don’t think I’ve forgotten what you told me on the phone once a few years ago when we first began to correspond with each other, that your own mother was also a Leah. This means really that you have not just the two Leahs, but a third Leah, your own mother!
So what’s the meaning of this? I’ll tell you. It’s just a sign that this brave and disobedient Leah Hartman and your mother and I are all connected, that’s all. Connected. Historically. And even if the names were different, if only one were a Leah and the other two were a Rivka and a Selma, still we’d be connected. In history. It’s just that this echo-echo of the names it’s very dramatic, and so it focuses the attention. In other words, what we’re witnessing here is just the theatrical side of Nature, that’s all. “Nature,” as my mother used to say, “sometimes She likes to show off, with startling repetitions, symmetries, wonderful colors, so that we shouldn’t take Her too much for granted and forget Her magic.”
As for what your mother she means to you in relation to the history of my family, I have no idea, for you have revealed to me so little of yourself, which by the way is a complaint my mother also once made humorously about you to me; anyway I suspect there may be something delicate here that you’re withholding, perhaps something quite personal and particular that would shed light on why your mother’s name is part of the name-theater here. Am I right? Well, one day maybe you’ll share with me your thoughts on the matter.
Meanwhile regards from Uri, and God bless you.
Leah
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Martin and Judith Shepard, publishers, for good faith and graceful guidance.
Allan Taber, agent, for the right questions, long labor over commas and full stops, and dogged pursuit of publication.
Kenny Schneider, life-saver, for forty years of friendship and the influence of his art.
Bob Grand and Ed Cantilli, allies, for a sunny response when the fog was thick.
Marjorie Forman, old friend, for showing the way.
Anne Walsh, voice of reason and mystery, for compassionate wisdom.
Gertrud Ujhely, friend of a friend and only once met, for the lovely image she projected on my mind, which image I often called, as one might call a genie, to help with the work.
Ramsay Midwood, son, for the impassioned reading that sanctioned the whole enterprise.
Sam Midwood, son, for the fire and the struggle out of which the tale was forged.
Flora Midwood, daughter, for the lively sympathy with which she regards all the characters, even poor Surah.
Laura Midwood, wife, for her unerring feeling sense, without which, believe me, the book and I would both be completely lost.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1998 by Bart Midwood
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3361-9
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