Plainsong: Grace Doesn't Come Easy

 

 

  

 

PLAINSONG (1999)

By Kent Haruf

Alfred A. Knopf, 301 pages.

★★★★★

 

Perhaps some of you know about the novel  Plainsong because it was made into a TV movie back in 2004. If there’s such a thing as a hidden masterpiece, this novel gets my vote. If you did see the TV production–I did not–know that author Kent Haruf hated it. In other words, don’t think you know the book if you watched the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie.

 

Plainsong can reference several things. Originally it was a style of unadorned music, usually without instrumental accompaniment. Gregorian chants are an example of this as are numerous other acapella arrangements such as one might hear in spartan country churches. It can also mean a spare style of writing–Haruf’s approach–or (for lack of a better term) what me might associate with simple living. Mennonites would be one example of the latter, but in Haruf’s novel it can be life in the sparsely populated parts of the Great Plains.

 

Plainsong is set in the fictional town of Holt, Colorado, a remote Big Sky town that’s closeknit by necessity. People speak of leaving, but seldom do, largely because they wouldn’t know how to handle big city life. Tom Guthrie is a major protagonist. He is a burnt out history teacher and part-time rancher living an isolated life outside of town with his two sons, Ike and Bobby. He holds some of his anger inside, but everyone in Holt knows that he’s dealing with his wife’s erratic behaviour, then her disappearance.

 

After she leaves–possibly because she was mentally disturbed, or possibly because small town life bored her–Tom bears the marks of an embittered man. He’s a taciturn, tough teacher; students earn the marks they get and he refuses to change grades, even under pressure. For their part, Ike and Bobby manifest abandonment through their shyness and social withdrawal. They know more about animals than human beings. This is evidenced by their cluelessness when confronted with bullying.  

 

In small places, redemption comes via small incidents and in incomplete ways. Tom notices the struggles of one of his students, Victoria Roubideaux. She has a bad attitude and, again, everyone knows that her single mother is an alcoholic. Tom has seen that Victoria is actually quite smart, but she’s carrying a burden she can’t hide for long. When she gets pregnant, her mother throws her out on the street to fend for herself. Tom implores a colleague, Maggie Jones, to give Victoria shelter and the novel’s heroic role shifts from to Maggie.

Maggie realizes that she can be only a temporary refuge. As you might imagine, social agencies in a town such as Holt have little to offer. Maggie has the unusual idea of approaching Raymond and Harold McPheron for help. They are akin to the “Norwegian bachelor farmers” in a Garrison Keillor story. The two brothers have long kept to themselves and neither has ever had much dealing with the distaff side of life. They know nothing about teenage girls in general, let alone a pregnant one. Plus they have to deal with an initial 1-1 tie over the whole idea of changing their lifestyle.  

 

Plainsong is rife with Biblical references, which prompted one reviewer to call it “hymn-like.” I’m not sure about that, but you’ve probably noticed that what is called “Christian charity” is often interwoven into village life. The McPherons reluctantly agree to take in Victoria, not realizing they would have to deal with her boyfriend Dwayne, the cold, irresponsible jerk whose child Victoria carries, or some of her actions (such as running away to Denver for several weeks). Can Victoria adjust to two old guys as substitute parents? Raymond and Harold are adept at tending to calves and lambs, but what about a pregnant girl or a human baby? After all, shelter is about more than a roof and a bed.

 

Plainsong is about abandonment, resiliency, and adaptation. It avoids rainbow endings or instant change scenarios. It was a surprise best seller in 1999 and was a National Book Award finalist, so it’s no surprise it has made a comeback. Some reviewers dissed its sentimentality, but defenders drew comparisons it Willa Cather’s My Antonia. I personally saw echoes of Spoon River Anthology and loved it for its warts-and-all humanity.

 

Note: If you wonder about the fate of other characters, know that Plainsong is part one of a trilogy.

 

Rob Weir

Cold on My Shoulder

Normally I’d have posted on this blog this morning. That was the plan but, alas, I brought something back from England that couldn’t be ignored: a raging summer cold. You know the drill: runny nose, stuffy sinuses, coughing, and a throat that feels as if I gargled barbed wire.

It’s not Covid; I’ve had that and it’s worse–high fever, inability to focus, shortness of breath, loss of smell and taste, gastro issues–but colds are no fun either. That said, I had forgotten how frustrating a cold can be. I’ve been retired for nearly a decade and hadn’t had a cold since the day I left.

Those who have worked in schools, social agencies, restaurants, and other public places can attest that catching colds is an occupational hazard. Schools are little incubators for the more than 200 viruses that can cause the “so-called common” cold. In an ideal world, everybody covers their mouth when they cough or sneeze, wash their hands frequently, clean surfaces they’ve touched, and stay home when they are sick and contagious.

Alas, we don’t live in an ideal world. When you’re a good student, you fear falling behind so you go to school sick. Whether or not we like to hear it, schools are babysitters for K-12 students. Parents often shuffle sick kids off to school because they can’t afford to take a day off work. But teachers can be just as bad. I was one of them. Some former high school students of mine probably have nightmares about days in which my voice was shot from illness. I came to work anyhow and made you folks write until your arms were failing off! Or the days in which I salvaged my voice by bringing a giant thermos of coffee to work. By the last period I was so high of caffeine that I was firing out information and questions like a wild man with a Gatling gun.  

I wonder if my immunity systems are off-line from not having had a cold for so long. I had forgotten how fast one regular-sized nose could burn through a box of tissues and consuming cough drops as if they were Oreos. Not to mention beating a path to the bathroom to discharge all the fluids I’ve drunk.

I had also forgotten that every school year, the worst cold I got was just before summer vacation. It was as if I had my defenses on high alert and just as I corrected final exams and completed reading student papers, I sighed, let down my defenses, and Mr. Virus climbed over the walls and kicked my butt. He twirled his thin mustache, sprinkled me with ten thousand germs, and screamed, “Aha!” in his most dastardly voice. Summer colds are just one notch down from being tied to a railroad track as a rushing train speeds around the bend. Sometimes I felt so lousy I would have preferred that my rescuing superhero (Superman? Underdog? Nyquil?) stayed home so my misery could end sooner.

In the few years I didn’t get an end-of-the-school-year cold, other things happened that prevented me going into full Slug Mode until September. One year, spring came early and I got in a lot of tennis after school and on weekends. That was the year I had my only bout of tennis elbow and my right arm was put in a sling. Another year I tore my left rotator cuff and put that arm in a sling for several months. The sling also had a red ball attached to it to squeeze for exercise. I spent several months living in abject fear that a friendly Golden Retriever would happen upon me and demand a game of fetch by sinking his teeth into the ball.

The worst of all was a weekend before Bay Path commencement. It was a gorgeous Saturday morning and I went for a run on the ¾ mile dirt track at Smith College. I was light on my feet after the first lap and decided to put on the afterburners for lap two. That was the plan, except I was paying attention to the music in my Walkman player, not where I was going. As I gained speed, I smacked my left knee into the gate stanchion post I was supposed squeeze past. Down I went like shot, thereby driving bits of stone into my right arm and both knees. The emergency room doctor declared me a “bloody mess” as he picked gravel out of three of my four limbs. I attended commencement on crutches with five stiches in my knee and an oozing bandage over it. A further indignity of being ushed into the tent before anyone else entered. And, yes, it could be worse. It was as awful that weekend as it was warm and sunny the previous one.  How awful you ask? Pelting icy rain that turned to snow!

By rights I shouldn’t complain about my silly cold. But I will!

Rob Weir