THE BOOK ROOM

          In the summer of 1971, after my second year at the University of Tennessee, I had decided not to work for the summer and instead embark upon a hitchhiking odyssey throughout the United States to visit the places of my past.

          It was mid-June.  I was at the end of the first week of my travels when I found myself at the Greyhound bus station in Morgantown, West Virginia.  My last ride had dropped me there at my request.  I did not want to alarm my grandparents by letting them know I was hitchhiking and preferred to let them presume that I had arrived on this surprise visit by bus.  They didn't know I was coming, but seemed glad that I was there.  My grandfather rushed over to pick me up.

          They lived in a three story house on Wilson Avenue which was in South Park, a neighborhood of similar homes crammed closely together.  The house that my grandparents lived in had been built in 1906.  I had often visited there as a very young child and had so many wonderful memories.  Then, after moving to San Diego and later to Northern Indiana, the visits had become rare.  Now, returning as an adult, it felt like a homecoming.

          My grandmother showed me to the bedroom where I would be staying.  She told me that this had been my mother's room when she had lived there.  My mother's family had moved to the house in the forties when she was in high school and she stayed there until she got married in 1950.

          I first noted the large windows overlooking the avenue below and the large houses across the street.  But then upon entering the room a new wonder greeted me.  The entirety of one wall was a built-in bookcase. It was a wondrous sight even if it wasn't completely filled with books.  I was going to be here a week.  I knew what I would be doing much of the time.

         My fingers ran across the book spines as I perused the titles.  There was an eclectic assortment of books here.  Since I had recently changed my college major from psychology to English, I decided to begin with William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury.  I had read some Faulkner short stories in high school and was well aware of the prestige of this author.  My first choice for my summer reading proved to be a good one.

       With its large windows affording a comfortable breeze and ample natural lighting, the bedroom was an ideal reading room.  When I wanted a change of surroundings I would go to the large front porch where there was a porch swing where I could read between distractions of passing traffic or strolling neighbors.  This was small town America at its finest.

      After I finished The Sound and the Fury I read a couple more books that were in the shelves before noticing some books on a fireplace mantle of another bedroom.  Curious, I browsed this small collection of books until I was drawn to a small, but elegant little volume with the peculiar title Intra Muros. I immediately decided that this would be the next book that I would read.  Since it was short, I would finish it quickly.

      The story captivated me.  It was the author's purported vision of heaven while suffering near death from an illness.  The account was beautifully written in a haunting way.  I don't remember if I looked at the edition date, but I did take note of the author, Rebecca Ruter Springer, and I wrote the book title and author's name in the journal I was keeping so I would remember it later.  This was a book that I wanted for my own library.

      The time spent that week with my grandparents was wonderful.  My grandfather, who was a city councilman and knew many people, took me around with him and introduced me to many people I've long forgotten.  My grandmother fixed me wonderful breakfasts that we would eat at the kitchen table while listening to the swap and sell show on the local radio station.   The childhood memories flooded back to me and made Morgantown a real place experienced in adulthood. The Book Room--my refuge of reading--was the peaceful retreat that added that extra special of magic to my week at my grandparents' house.

       My grandfather died the following January--dropped dead at a city council meeting.  My grandmother eventually sold the house and most everything in it.  I don't know what happened to the book that I coveted so. After I returned home from my odyssey, I went to a book store to find a copy of Intra Muros.  It was out of print.

        For the next three decades I would periodically ask at bookstores about the book.  It was now a relic of the past.  However, after I had succumbed to the lure of the internet and began exploring, I eventually found that Intra Muros was now back in print under the less ambiguous name My Dream of Heaven.   I ordered it.  It was every bit as good as I had remembered.  As I read I was taken back to the Book Room in my grandparents' house in Morgantown, West Virginia.  Dreams come in many forms.







Intra Muros: My Dream of Heaven by Rebecca Ruter Springer









           What book do you uniquely remember?   Have you ever searched high and low for a book that has gone out of print?





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Sudden Death Departures

           Death is an inconvenient interruption to life, and sometimes it comes most unexpectedly.  The victim of a fatal accident, a murder, or some tragic event is going through the day without knowing that their life is going to be cut short with little or no warning. These deaths take all of us by surprise. Other people go through periods of suffering with death to be the expected outcome. They and we know that death is imminent, yet often when it comes the survivors are left with the mixed feelings of denial and grief and a sense of relief that the person will no longer have to suffer.  No matter what the case, death is an unpleasant event not only because of the ending of a life, but also because death reminds us of our own mortality.

          Most of us are not looking forward to our own death.  And we are saddened when those we love die. We like to think that our or their death will be tidy, painless, and respectful. But sometimes deaths occur in very strange or ironic ways.  Those are the deaths that might make you scratch your head and say That was weird.  In today's post I'm going to look at a few ironic death situations.

Going when you're doing what you love:

         My grandfather, Paul H. Trevillian of Morgantown, WV, was somebody I had really come to admire as I came into adulthood.  I didn't see him very often, but when I did he always made me feel special. In the summer of 1970 I went to visit my grandparents. I was nineteen and had finished my first year at the University of Tennessee. My grandfather was proud of me and took me around town to introduce me to everybody he'd meet.  He seemed to know everybody and they all seemed to like him. I could see that he had this knack of making everybody feel special. 

         Perhaps his affability made him a natural for politics. He was a proud Republican and very active in the local politcal scene. He had his enemies, but that's politics.  For the most part he had a lot of friends. At the time when I was visiting he had been on the City Council for many years and he absolutely loved it. He liked nothing better than to discuss the affairs of the city and find out what people wanted him to do for the city.  Politics and City Council was his passion. At a meeting in early 1972, Paul Trevillian was beginning his speech about installing a traffic signal at a particular intersection. Suddenly he clutched his chest and fell on the spot. He died instantly from a massive heart attack. I don't think he would have wanted his death any other way.

The Show Must Go On:

        Roberta Griffin, actress and wife of magician Ken Griffin, used to enjoy telling tales of life on the Circuit Chautauqua touring stage productions.  This form of entertainment consisted of a broad range of presentations from lectures, fine stage arts, popular theatrical productions, and vaudeville. They were tent shows that travelled to various towns where they would set up and perform a repertoire of presentations. Catering to primarily rural areas, this entertainment lingered on into the 1950's until television essentially took its place. For a working actor a show of this nature could be grueling, but it represented a season of steady paychecks.

        One of the actors who was a regular on many of the circuit tours was a man by the name of Leo Lacey. Leo was a long time fixture on the circuit with a career that went back to vaudeville. He was well-liked in the show business community and popular with audiences with whom he had a reputation as an entertaining actor and comedian. Never failing to entertain, he had superb delivery of his scripted lines, but had an extraordinary knack for ad-libbing and improvisation, which was a skill that was required of  all of the performers.

          As Roberta told the story, one evening as the feature theatrical presentation was in the final act, Leo Lacey made a dramatic display of agony, clutching his chest and then falling to the floor. Accustomed to Leo's frequent antics and attempts to throw off the other actors, the onstate cast began improvising with the unscripted event.  Upon checking the downed actor, the others immediately realized he was actually dead. So as not to spoil the evening's entertainment, all actors carried on with the scene,  deftly covering up the true tragedy that had occurred. One of the actors dragged Leo's lifeless body backstage where it was propped in a corner and everyone continued to work around it.  Due to the professionalism of the cast and crew, the audience never knew the difference.  As far as the audience knew, everything they had seen on stage was exactly as it should have been. After all, as the old adage declares, the show must go on.

           And I can certainly vouch for this.  True professional entertainers live by this rule.  As one who spent many years in the entertainment business,  I can cite numerous examples.  There have been times when I've been so sick that all I could do is lie miserably backstage until it was time to put on my stage face and go out to perform as though nothing were wrong. When you are dedicated and love and believe in what you are doing, you make sacrifices and forget about yourself. Leo Lacey and his fellow actors were pros like that. They knew their audience had come to be entertained and leave with an uplifted spirit. The show couldn't just stop because someone had died. Leo Lacey probably went out the way that suited him best--antother case of going when you're doing what you love.

Careful What You Say:

           Finally, from an undated clipping from my collection (probably around 1972), comes a somewhat ironic story.  Police Sergeant Charles Crocker had been struggling with his weight. The department was cracking down on the issue of overweight police officers and  35 year old Crocker wanted to bring his weight down to 200 pounds.  Six weeks from the date that he was to go on vacation he started on a crash diet. It was a struggle, but he faithfully adhered to his diet.

          A couple of days before his vacation was to begin, he was having breakfast at the counter in a diner with a fellow officer.  The other man was enjoying a hearty breakfast, while Sgt. Crocker settled for a piece of dry wheat toast and a glass of orange juice.  Crocker watched longingly as his partner ate his breakfast. According to Crocker's partner's account. Crocker drank his orange juice and complained, "This diet is killing me." and moments later he toppled off his stool, dead of an apparent heart attack. Here's a good example of being careful what you say.


Last Words (not to sound ominous):

           I've thought about what kind of death I would choose if I had to die. Don't get me wrong-- I hope I live for many, many, many more years as long as I'm relatively healthy and not a burden to anyone. But,just hypothetically speaking, if I absolutely had to die and the method of dying was up to me, I guess I would want to be dropped out of a plane at a high altitude. The fall would be one final thrill ride and would undoubtly be more exciting than, say, drowning or burning alive. But I'm not ready to go yet.  Wait until I've passed 150 years old or so then you can toss me out of the plane.

           Let's face it-- we're all going to die someday. If you could pick, how would you want to go?  Do you know any weird or ironic death stories?