by Carly Simon
The Vineyard will always be home for me. Even on charcoal-colored, dismal days, what do you do when where you live is home? How can I possibly pretend anyplace else would come close to looking or feeling the same? I’ve always especially loved the trees here in the middle of the forest. Some have grown extremely tall, and are home to thousands of birds that nestle and hide in high branches, singing songs I try to learn and communicate back to them. Whether they think I’m a bird myself is in question, but either way we have a close relationship. The Vineyard and Hidden Star Hill in particular are part of my family’s history and rootedness, from fainting at the fair as a baby, the smell of the honeysuckle on the path to the North Road, to meeting Davy Gude, Jamie Taylor eating half of my vanilla pop, running down the splinter-happy steps away from Nick, living and loving and writing songs in this house. So many of them. Maybe a hundred songs. Some of them anyone might be proud of.
* * *
Orpheus, that lifelong boy, comes and goes, darting from star to twig to beam, landing lightly, taking up no space at all, as is his habit, with his bony, delicate ways, his starry beauty, his hands absorbed in melodies forged from skin and bone and strings. Sometimes he shows up with a rustle, a little jump, so graceful and soft I can barely believe there’s anyone in the orchard. Other times he heaves a single brown leg over an outstretched branch and settles in for a while, until the days and the notes in my head jumble together long enough to find one song, or ten songs, or twenty. Then he’s gone again, his speed dreams lighting the way, pouring himself through the warm night like my old childhood friends, Mr. Hicks, Meany, and Ha Ha Ginsberg. He’s not the only one. On this property, especially in the summer, there are still boys in the trees—Ben, or my grandson, or the thick-trousered man who’s kind enough to saw off the top branches of the nearby wisteria that winds itself up the perfectly well-established oak. Together the two tangle, to veil the view of the stars from my bedroom window. But I don’t wait for Orpheus to come anymore. What would be the sense in that? Wait long enough for anyone to show up and you forget that all the things you ever longed for, all those impossible gods, were inside you the whole time. Give me a sound, give me an ocean, maybe even a large pond. Give me just enough forgetfulness as my opium. I can’t think of a nicer state of mind in which to begin anew.
Give me a sound, give me an ocean …
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thank-you to Ken Burns.
In my memoir I have focused in on my childhood and my early life. Let’s say age five until thirty-five. In reading and re-reading my old diaries and letters, I discovered certain patterns having to do with love, family, lies, and commitments. As I came out of childhood and into becoming a responsible adult, I looked to my parents and siblings as role models, wanting to find the truth, and to see who I was in this family of mine and in the greater world at large. But as my parents drifted further and further onto their own paths, still pretending it was the “same” path, I watched them leave what once was a healthy place to raise a family, and begin the lie that closed in on all of us. The way it closed in on me and made me so preoccupied with my “lack of,” so unsure of my strengths, is the subject of this book.
Just as fascinating was how what went on revealed to me a “new” way of looking at stories. I had experienced the truth, but didn’t know it at the time. In re-reading these diaries, I saw so many roads out, so many possible courses of action. One nurse, one teacher might have made all the difference. What if they had read the signs differently and steered me in a new direction?
Revisiting that most vulnerable time in my life when I was trying to understand more than I was prepared to understand, I was helped immeasurably by my agent, Betsy Lerner, who read every single diary and assured me there was something of value in the material. She continued to be unsparingly “there” and not only edited me at first, bringing things into focus, but also acted as the great defender.
She also introduced me to the editor who brought his talents to this large, overwhelming table and formed a circle outside of which he wouldn’t let me step unguided. He, Peter Smith, is one of the best writers I have ever read or talked to, and it was intimidating to live up to his intellectual expectations. He made me, as any good teacher will do, better than before, by which I mean, more honest, more explicit, more literate. In addition, he and I laughed at my life. Doing more of that is one of my goals.
Before the actual writing came the research. I read letters and sleuthed out my father’s fallout with Simon & Schuster, and the keenly destructive forces that came together in a perfect triangle to smoke him out. If there had been nothing else to prove it, one of Daddy’s last ventures said it all. My father came up with the title, The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, and with typical savvy, he cross-promoted it with another one of his books, The Organization Man. It was the beginning of Big Business, and Daddy knew it. As one company was consuming another and bosses were busy one-upping bosses, my father’s partners were acting out their own version of King Lear, with lawyers on the sideline lying to get in on the take—a gruesome and confusing sight for me, a young girl who saw nothing but the shadowy outline.
I want to thank Evan Brier and acknowledge his excellent book A Novel Marketplace, which helped explain more than I had ever known about what went on at Simon & Schuster in the late 1950s. In addition, Evan also went to the archives at Columbia University in New York—my father’s alma mater and also where his papers ended up after his death in 1960—to take photos of the most important documents, which added crucial detail to the story of Daddy’s demoralizing professional demise.
Speaking of Daddy, all the photos in the first part of the book were taken by my father, who, in addition to his other talents, was a brilliant photographer. Most of the others were taken by my brother, Peter Simon. Peter’s quality and sense of style came naturally to him, as photography closely bound him and my father. Peter took over the darkrooms in Stamford and Riverdale, with their chemicals and giant vats. Growing up, my sisters and I spent hours watching the images emerge from the limp pieces of white paper Peter had just dipped in the solution. (In the tradition of men in hats with pom-poms on them!) Thank you, Peter, for taking up the baton so brilliantly and sharing your negatives with me.
Thank you to Meghan La Roque, my personal assistant, who not only knows where all the keys are but knows where the keys to the keys are. Meghan is generous and smart and has the kind of mind most people wish they had—not forgetting things and keeping what she remembers in strict order of importance. She makes everything work when it really shouldn’t and takes as good care of the sheep as she does of all things digital.
To Larry Ciancia, my manager at the time we brought this book home. He is a great friend of the family and has been essential to my years of writing.
At Flatiron Books, I want to thank the president and publisher, Bob Miller, whom I have known since I was still living within the timespan of this book. I don’t think I’m lying when I say I remember conversations between him and my mother at our kitchen table in Riverdale. Bob had been after me to write a book for as long as I can remember, and when the time came, he introduced me to Colin Dickerman, Flatiron’s editorial director. When Bob and Colin visited Hidden Star Hill to work on the book, Bob mentioned that he played guitar—lefty, too. It just so happened I had some strings, and he was able to restring the ones he needed. For most of the weekend, Colin and I could hear Bob Miller playing the blues from an adjacent room. Colin is funny and deep and smart, and we got to know each other at a fast pace, which proved the worth of what we worked on together, because I don’t think either of us thought we were compromising. Thank you, Colin, for understanding why I made every phone call to you after it was a little too late to change the placement of a comma.
Also at Flatiron, I want to recognize James Melia, Liz Keenan, Marlena Bittner, Karen Horton, and my copy editor Greg Villepique.
And then there are those special people on my team who have contributed immensel
y, organized in no particular order: Jonathan Lyons, Berta Baghjajian, Susan Kamil, Mali Hunter, Claudia McGinnis, Andy Ward, Frank Filipetti, Diane Hirschhorn, Deb White, Martha Sherrill, Danielle Ambrose, Arlyne Rothberg, and Bob Levine.
Of course, there are the people who have read some of the book and remarked on things deeper than typos. In order of picking them out of a hat:
Jessica Hoffman Davis (as conspicuously important to my life as she is to this book, also a great editor and friend), Herman Wouk, Carol Craven, Trish Kubal, Carinthia West, Jenny Blackton, David Seidler, Pam Frank, Tamara Weiss (my longtime friend and mother to my godsons Jules and Noah. She is my foremost tracker), Mia Farrow, Kenneth Cole, Jimmy Ryan, and Rose Styron.
And finally, thanks go to my family and roommates in this housing complex:
Richard Koehler, my mate.
Ben and Sally Taylor, both of you, my funny and dear-hearted children. You assured me that writing about your father was a reasonable and brave thing to do. Naturally for me, this was the most sensitive issue.
My sisters, Lucy and Joey, who heard things they might have preferred to forget. In contrast, other memories described herein provoked howling laughter.
My brother, Peter, the outstanding photographer and gentle soul.
Dean Bragonier, Bodhi Bragonier, and the entire extended Simon and Taylor families.
Special thanks and love to Jim Hart.
I would especially like to thank all the trees that produced the wood that was needed to make the paper used for the many drafts of this book. If any tree is personally and unduly affected, I will send a young girl up to the top branch of a “Sister tree” and have her sing this song (in nine languages):
I’m home again in my old narrow bed
Where I grew tall and my feet hung over the end
The low beam room with the window looking out
On the soft summer garden
Where the boys grew in the trees
Here I grew guilty
And no one was at fault
Frightened by the power
In every innocent thought
And the silent understanding passing down
From daughter to daughter
Let the boys grow in the trees
Do you go to them
Or do you let them come to you
Do you stand in back
Afraid that you’ll intrude
Deny yourself and hope someone will see
And live like a flower
While the boys grow in the trees
Last night I slept in sheets the color of fire
Tonight I lie alone again
And I curse my own desire
Sentenced first to burn and then to freeze
And watch by the window
Where the boys grew in the trees
For more information, please visit www.CarlySimon.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carly Simon lives on Martha’s Vineyard.
For more information, please visit www.CarlySimon.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
BOOK ONE
1. 133 West Eleventh Street
2. Summer in the Trees
3. Frunzhoffa
4. Carly, Meet Ronny
5. Splinter-Happy Steps
6. The Dinner Party
7. Moonglow
8. The Twenty-Ninth Floor
BOOK TWO
9. The Hardships of the Mistral
10. Frog Footman
11. Moneypenny
12. Jake Was the Hub
13. Record Numero Uno
14. Soft Summer Gardens
15. The Potemkin Hotel
BOOK THREE
16. Carnegie Hall
17. Choppin’ Wood
18. Moonlight Mile
19. We’ll Marry
20. Emulsification
21. Heat’s Up, Tea’s Brewed
22. Showdown
23. Sheets the Color of Fire
24. Strip, Bitch
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
The names and identifying characteristics of some persons described in this book have been changed, as have dates, places, and other details of events depicted in the book.
BOYS IN THE TREES. Copyright © 2015 by Carly Simon. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
All song lyrics reprinted by permission of Carly Simon
Photographic credits:
Chapters 5–7, 9, 12–15, and 19, opening and closing photos; chapters 10, 18, 20, and 24, opening photos; and chapters 11, 17, 21, and 22, closing photos: copyright © Peter Simon
Chapter 18, closing photo: copyright © Tom Hanley
Chapter 20, closing photo: copyright © Bruce Weber
Chapter 21, opening photo: copyright © Jim Shea
Chapter 22, opening photo: copyright © Norman Seef
Epilogue, closing photo: copyright © Richard Koehler
All other photographs courtesy of Carly Simon
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover design by Karen Horton
Cover photograph courtesy of the author’s personal collection
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data for the print edition is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-09589-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-09590-9 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250095909
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: November 2015
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Book One
Chapter One: 133 West Eleventh Street
Chapter Two: Summer in the Trees
Chapter Three: Frunzhoffa
Chapter Four: Carly, Meet Ronny
Chapter Five: Splinter-Happy Steps
Chapter Six: The Dinner Party
Chapter Seven: Moonglow
Chapter Eight: The Twenty-Ninth Floor
Book Two
Chapter Nine: The Hardships of the Mistral
Chapter Ten: Frog Footman
Chapter Eleven: Moneypenny
Chapter Twelve: Jake Was the Hub
Chapter Thirteen: Record Numero Uno
Chapter Fourteen: Soft Summer Gardens
Chapter Fifteen: The Potemkin Hotel
Book Three
Chapter Sixteen: Carnegie Hall
Chapter Seventeen: Choppin’ Wood
Chapter Eighteen: Moonlight Mile
Chapter Nineteen: We’ll Marry
Chapter Twenty: Emulsification
Chapter Twenty-One: Heat’s Up, Tea’s Brewed
Chapter Twenty-Two: Showdown
Chapter Twenty-Three: Sheets the Color of Fire
Chapter Twenty-Four: Strip, Bitch
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Newsletter Sign-up
Copyright
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