Who Are These People?

Copyright 2007 Ben S. Pollock

Memoir. As much as can be mocked of the genre — (1) Was the life of “X,” no matter his or her accomplishments, so fascinating that we’d want the least of details? Often no, and (2) Memory even corrected by research distorts both the facts and the truth — I sometimes am drawn to it. Stephen King’s terrific On Writing is slightly more memoir than primer. The most interesting book-on-CD last week at the Fayetteville Public Library was Philip Roth’s Patrimony, a memoir of his elderly father’s last months.

Neither acclaimed storyteller has written any other autobiography. OK, Roth uses a character with his name and some traits in a number of novels. And doesn’t any reader of King wonder, in nearly every book: What did adults do to him as a child?

What the right person could do with growing up in Fort Smith, Arkansas, mainly during the Vietnam War years. Yet I cannot see myself writing interestingly about my life any more than I can even come close to writing stories like the above two masters. An initial goal of Brick was to develop narrative skills. By inclination and by training, I can write journalism and essays. The latter often includes my feelings, elaborated, but anecdotes? Just occasionally.

Fort Smith would be such a treasure trove. It has one master: True Grit by Charles Portis. Recently, Jennifer Paddock had decent success with her debut A Secret Word: A Novel. We own both. I haven’t ever gotten far into Paddock’s so I shouldn’t critique it yet. But it must be said, though the place names are real, it doesn’t feel like Fort Smith. The city has been made into a generic town (those two nouns are deliberate), and New York is such a strong secondary location it appears Paddock is targeting a book-buying audience more than writing sincerely. I should finish the book.

Naturally, Portis’ Fort Smith of the late 19th century is even less recognizable. But I trust it, even though his background is east Arkansas and Little Rock.

It must be the journalist in me that doubts recollections. What do you know about a place, or a person, that when communicated even with perfect clarity, would cause another to say either, “I know it,” “Mine was just like that, too” or “You nailed it for us.”

We have friends in Fayetteville we adore. Sometimes you hear about a trait or an incident of a friend or acquaintance that totally surprises you. Can we still well-regard such persons even though they once did something awful? Or if they’re still at it?

Aunt Helen was the wife of my dad’s only sibling, both 11 years his senior. Helen and Al Pollock (whom everyone called “George” and he called himself George), married in their 50s, in the late 1950s. He was a confirmed bachelor and owned the Model Laundry & Dry Cleaners that my dad managed. Helen was a small-town Kansas girl whose first two marriages were spent in Kansas City, Mo. I don’t know her maiden name (the hometown was something like Maysville) or the names or livelihoods of the first two husbands.

All we know is Helen after Uncle George brought her to Fort Smith. My brother, sister and I loved them. They treated us as real people, no matter when we were toddlers, teens or young adults. Their 1950s ranch house was two blocks from Southside High,which I attended. Al died in 1984, Helen in ’95.

Helen had one child, a daughter, still living as far as I know, in Kansas City. She herself had two sons and a daughter, the daughter and one son older than me and the other guy younger. For years at a time all four at various times were estranged from Helen and Al. At Helen’s graveside service, the granddaughter came but stood as far away as possible and left before any of us could approach. Helen’s daughter arrived at some point with her husband (the first time I met this one), to settle things. We had lunch at Folie a Deux, and she was as always beautiful and vivacious.

The journalist in me won’t speculate on whether and how Helen was a terrible mother but insists I could find out. The gentleman my dad trained me as thinks it’s none of my business.

The child in me doesn’t want to know. Aunt Helen was one of my favorite relatives; I didn’t visit Fort Smith without checking on her. Her home with Uncle George was relaxed and sophisticated. She made the best hamburgers. He read The Wall Street Journal cover to cover. I mowed their lawn. They let me pick out what TV shows to watch. They didn’t let me get out of line.

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