Requiem for a writer

As writers, we explore the depths of our light and dark sides, searching for universal truths and hoping for common bonds with our readers. On occasion, it’s hard to pull back from that darkness, which is why studies show so many writers and poets suffer from depression. And sometimes, the light goes out while you’re slogging through the night of your own soul; famously, as with Ernest Hemingway or Sylvia Plath, or quietly, anonymously, as with Lynn VonDemfange. She took her own life last week, and while people mourn and ask why, fellow explorers of the inner sanctum will understand her next-to-last act: she wrote her own obituary, a very writerly thing to do. Really, what writer wouldn’t want control over the final public words summing up their experiences, accomplishments, and legacy?

Looking at the list of professional achievements she left behind, one might hope to gain that much success. She had edited magazines, including a stint at Country Home, worked for Hallmark Cards, and wrote her own column for a while at the local paper.

But sometimes, the bylines aren’t enough. I only knew her by the words she wrote, the honest opinions she gave. I didn’t know her personal story or her pain, but I do know that she was a talented writer, and no matter what anyone says, we can always use more. The world is a little less literate without her.

So, thinking of Lynn, put down your pencils sometime this weekend, hug the ones you love, go out into the sun or the snow or the rain, and enjoy life. If you find that you can’t enjoy life anymore, seek help and find your way back to the brightness. We’re writers, and we should create grand tragedies from our imagination, not become one in reality.

Soul food, soul day

Yesterday was one of those serene, wonderful days that come all too rarely in life. I didn't have to go into town, so the morning went delightfully slow with hours to myself. I wrote, then I sat down and read a wonderful newspaper piece by DeNeen L. Brown on soul food. The first-person essay was beautifully written, from the detailed, relaxed preparation of dinner to a vivid trip into the kitchens of her youth. While the essay was primarily syndicated because of Kwanzaa, I realized that the African-American aspect of soul food is but one reflection of Southern cuisine traditions born of necessity. Many of the dishes she mentioned I remember from my own childhood; in fact, a pot of pinto beans bubbled while I read the paper.

I, too, follow the habits of my mother when cooking, and those comforting, cheap dishes are the only ones that I can prepare easily and with skill. I 'look' the beans before washing them, just like she does, then wait to bake the cornbread until just before the beans are finished. Fresh, hot cornbread is yellow, crusty, and definitely not sweet, according to family tradition. As soon as it comes out of the oven, a thin slice along the crust must be cut and swirled with butter, then eaten by the cook. After that, it can set out to cool.

I remember Mom walking up the path, picking greens for poke salad. She loved it. I hated it, because I saw it as the Southern equivalent of the Japanese blowfish; it could be your last meal, unless it was prepared exactly right. I also remember hog jowls and black-eyed peas for New Year's Day, crackers made from leftover pie crust dough, fried chicken made crispy in Mom's favorite cast iron skillet, and the delicious taste of fried green tomatoes and squash, golden brown on each side. My favorite meal on earth is pinto beans, hot cornbread, fried potatoes, and fresh green onions and tomatoes just fifteen minutes out of the garden. Extra bonus: fresh, chilled cucumber slices. Mmmm. One taste of homegrown cukes, and you'll never touch those waxy, green torpedoes from the supermarket again.

On a truly soulful and peaceful day, I thank Ms. Brown for bringing all those excellent memories of my mother's kitchen back to my mind.