Moods and Modes

George W. May

Description

Collection of writings of George W. May. (From the Preface) “In this incongruous collection of my writings comprising various literary forms, one may trace the development or non-development of my literary power from age 12 to age 90.

Sujets

• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781681622941
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Old Home Place
Moods And Modes - Vagrant Writings
by George W. May
Turner Publishing Company
Turner Publishing Company
Turner Publishing Company Staff:
Heather Warren, Designer
Copyright 2001
George W. May
Publishing Rights:
Turner Publishing Company
ISBN: 978-1-56311-758-9
Library of Congress Control #:
2001089986
This book was created using available materials. The publisher regrets that it cannot assume liability for errors or omissions. This publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced without the written consent of the author and publisher .
Table of Contents
Books By the Same Author
Preface
Stories
Kid Stuff
High School and First Year College
Travel
Adventures Afoot
History
Sermonettes
Miscellany
Books By the Same Author
History of Massac County, Illinois , 1955
Massac Pilgrimage , 1964
Students History of Peoria County, Illinois , 1968
Charles E. Duryea - Automaker , 1973
Down Illinois Rivers , 1981
Massac County 1955-1982 , 1983
(20 page update booklet)
History Papers on Massac County, Illinois , 1990
Walter West s Probation
(a novel of the Regulator-Flathead War), 1993
Massac Biographies , 1998
For information address the author at Metropolis, Illinois 62960
Preface
In this incongruous collection of my writings comprising various literary forms, one may trace the development or non-development of my literary power from age 12 to age 90. Playwriting is not represented for the drama is not for me.
How may such a hodge-podge be justified? I have been reluctant to publish this book because of its disparity of material and its evidence of amateurish writing skills. I feel I am far short of even modest talent.
In extenuation, what follows is part apologia and part explanatory, but not abjectly and lacking in some spirit and independence. Some other related thoughts creep in.
Originally, my purpose was to collect these fugitive writings and to leave them in some form to be read by my kin, my children, grandchildren and select friends and acquaintances with no thought of publication. The project gradually gave birth to the thought of publishing the manuscripts. Any book, by anyone, must have something to offer else why had the author gone to the trouble of writing it. Early on, I had no thought of wide distribution (many to be given away) and certainly not of monetary profit.
Some may say this book is my swan song, that I have scraped the bottom of my literary trunk, that I am finished. That may prove true. I think of an instance: Jerome Cardano, an Italian scientist, compiled a last volume of his Opera Omni , made up of things left out of his other books, a sort of cleaning up of all the chips left in his workshop. So I have rather done. Perhaps at my age I should cease writing. What, then, is left? Some say honor; some, charity - both the refuge of the elderly. I only hope the reader will be indulgent and make allowance for my showing off. It is about as Lord Byron said: Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb. Thoreau once said that every author writes in the faith that his book will last through the ages. Most writers are deluded but I am under no such illusion.
There is a Russian word kitsch that means vulgar or show off, as applied to bad art; something useless but often found in the bric-a-brac trade. Kitsch might well be applicable to some books (offbeat, uninteresting, ornate, wordy) but often with a lofty message, but badly crafted. To read such books could indicate a depraved taste but could also be a true extension of experience. One might simply be amused reading the feeble, fumbling, over-ambitious books.
Some may accuse me as a dilettante, a dabbler in literary forms. I plead guilty. Really, I place myself at the bottom of the literary totem pole. Lacking high skill, I must blame it on my heredity, my training or upon every facet of my environment or circumstance. Truly, we are what we are, with divine limitations.
Pursuing the points made above, consider any book, third rate or whatever, is worthy in some respects. It is the man s record, his experience, in novelized form or in autobiography. There must be a few kernels worth saving. The writer s efforts should not be curbed. We have a free press in America. Anyone may publish if the contents are within the bounds of decency and laws of defamation. The old Roman Pliny thought that even a bad book had some merit. And Dorothea Brande says: Even a bad book is tolerable when you are engaged in probing it for the reasons for its stiff, unnatural effects. For the writer himself, Wash Young says: It is a pleasure merely to do one s best, even if nothing happens.
Thomas Merton and many another writer have said that if a writer is too cautious to write anything because of a fear of criticism he will delay publication forever.
Not to belabor my points to excess, which I have perhaps done, I repeat that I have no illusions about Moods and Modes - Vagrant Writings and how it will be received. Likely, it will be a Russian nyet . That will be all right. Stendahl said: Do not try to falsify and praise a book beyond its merits, merely to avoid hurting the author s feelings. I am prepared. My primary purpose is to leave you, my children and grandchildren, this book as part of my legacy and I am doing this simply because I want to.
Kind reader, if there are to be any outside my kin and friends, excuse all these words which approach a diatribe and an over-blown apology. This heterogeneous bag of writings goes out upon a long-suffering reading public which, perforce, is made to diet largely upon contemporary styles of writing.
G.W.M.
November 1, 2000
Stories

Simpatico
Ras Wehmer knew Mexico. He ought to-he had traveled extensively through 18 states in that republic. But he was hardly prepared to meet the raw crowd that jeered and insulted him in the plaza of Santa Catarina that hot day.
He was taking his siesta on a plaza bench like the other people of that lazy pueblo . When the siesta began every shop had shut up and within five minutes not a soul could be seen. Three loose burros wandered slowly here and there in and out of private gates. The policia pulled up his chair, carried it within the carcel and folded up until two o clock.
Two o clock finally tolled in the church across the calle . Ras sat up suddenly, rubbed his eyes and looked around. The heat was still sweltering. Now at the stroke of the second hour the little pueblo awakened. Almost at once, it seemed, the little town took on life. Men came in from every street and moved toward the plaza . What was strange was that almost every man and boy carried a banner or a placard. What was this, thought Ras? A fiesta or fair day? He had no knowledge that it was a special day.
He read the banners closely as they approached: Down with the foreigners, Down with exploiters, and numerous others couched in no uncertain terms. What did it mean? His interest was suddenly aroused. Ras had seen nothing like it lately; since the little trouble in Morelia two years ago, to be exact.
The paraders were now gathering in the plaza. Ras addressed one of their number who did not seem to be as excited. What does it mean, senor?
The rough man looked at him curiously. His eyes fell to his guarchis. They returned to gaze at Ras. Funny fellows, these peones, thought Ras; so bashful-like yet possible to be so fierce.
Con permiso, se or , he said, We do not wish the foreigners here. They take our land, our oil; they take everything. We show why we do not like it. He swept his hand over the crowd.
Several had gathered around Ras while they were talking. They saw he was American and he saw they knew it. More gathered around. Some jeered and insinuated. Ras saw that many were drinking.
Americano ! Americano ! shouted one of the mangy fellows. Why is he here? Does he not see our banner?
The powder-keg was upset and Ras knew it. The cry was repeated around the circle. Certainly he had been caught in the rougher element, if there were any responsible ones around. Ras doubted if there were any.
Their looks became lowering and threatening. The rough circle was inflamed my mescal or sodden with pulque . Ras knew the character of these men in such small pueblos . They felt no restraint; they had none. Once before he had felt the barest tip of a long knife and he had no wish to feel one again. Obviously, his situation was dangerous.
Why hadn t the little girl in the cantina across the street warned him of probable trouble? She was a sweet little se orita , about 17, he guessed, hard to tell about their ages sometimes. He had stopped there for a drink after tramping the hot dusty road from Monterrey. Yes, he was out on another lark, a hike to Saltillo this time over that stiff upgrade road which wound in and out those sharp pinnacles of bare stone.
He had jabbered to her in Spanish. She had such a come-on look he couldn t help telling her about himself. He had let out confidences that if it had not been for his egotistical nature, he would never have given. Did she work here all the time? Where did she live? Was there anyone playing the bear now? Dangerous talk for a stranger in a little town like this, even if it were only in jest.
She had asked about him. Yes, he was out to enjoy the country first-hand. His headquarters were in Monterrey, Hotel Fronterrizco, Calle Hidalgo at corner of Puebla. Did he like Mexico?
Ah, yes, mucho. He had been so amiable, so tolerant, so polite that she had lisped at him Very simp tico . He had thrilled to that apellation from so sweet a mouth. He knew it meant that she considered him a person who appreciated Mexico and the Mexicans at their true worth. Well, by george, he appreciated her.
These reflections were not helping him at the situation which now faced him. Around him rumbled an angry, intoxicated mob of peones . Squalor and poverty lay back in those huts in the hills. For this day tha