Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  Picking cotton reminds me of the current flap about the battle flag of the Confederacy. I was talking to my buddy Bill Sloan, a North Carolinian, and he said, “When you lose a civil war, you’re lucky to keep your women, much less the flag.”

  Funny and on target!

  I think the last time I laughed that hard was after Lorena Bobbit removed her husband’s dangling participle. I was talking on the phone to Larry Hodge in Kentucky around that time.

  “Larry, come on over here and hunt with me.”

  “I’m afraid to come to Virginia. You women are dangerous.”

  Better dangerous than boring. Although Lorena took it a little too far. If every woman did that, we’d really be bored.

  But I confess I don’t understand hating men. I don’t understand hating anybody.

  Big Mimi once said, “People are like snowflakes. No two of them are alike.”

  I live by that. Once you start lumping people into groups, you rob them of their individuality. It’s easier to kill them if they’re blacks or gays or Germans or Muslims. But if instead of groups you are looking at individuals from those groups, William Raspberry or Ellen DeGeneres or Steffi Graf or Salman Rushdie, then those categories fade away. You’re faced with a complicated human being, like you in some ways and not like you in others. The fun is finding one another out.

  What are we so afraid of?

  Other people?

  Ourselves?

  On September 6, 1996, the horses were nibbling down on the lower pastures, the floodplain of the North Branch of the Rockfish River. When possible I like to buy bottomland because it’s cheap—no one can build on it—and because the alluvial deposits enrich the soil. By the same token, you can lose acres of pasture in a storm as it’s washed down the Rockfish into the James River.

  Hurricane Fran was heading northwest but no one knew where she would hit. The skies darkened and a stiff breeze aired out the day. Still, things seemed fine and the weather station couldn’t be certain if Fran would head straight up the coast, drift inland or slam inland on a northwest course, much as Camille had done in 1969 and Hazel in 1954.

  Since power goes out in storms, small or large, we’d taken the precaution of cleaning out the oil lamps, putting new batteries in the flashlights and filling jugs with water.

  Light rain turned to steady rain, which turned to lashing rain.

  By midnight Betsy and I knew Fran was coming straight for us no matter what the weatherman said. We hopped in the truck to drive the mile and a half down to the lower acres. The road by the first river pasture was still dry but the river was over the banks. The wind blotted out sound but would sporadically stop, producing eerie silence.

  Realizing we had to get the horses out of the lower pastures, I sent Betsy back for buckets of grain. I turned off my flashlight and sat on the snake fence, made from railroad ties given to me by John Holland, a generous gift indeed.

  I’d tried to catch Kaiser Bill, a sensible, sweet horse, but I hadn’t been able to get a lead shank on him. He was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Most of the other horses ran around with him. It occurred to me that I might be badly hurt, but those are the chances you take in the country. Crazed or not, my horses had to be saved.

  I was sending up a prayer of thanks that the two steers, Pooter and Pumpkin, were already on high ground. Pooter, enormous and friendly, tosses his head around playfully. I’d have been hooked with his horns.

  As I sat on the fence, the wind stopped. I heard snufflings and scufflings. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I saw walking through the lowlands deer, bobcat, even a bear, walking toward the high ground, which was not a quarter of a mile away. No wonder Kaiser Bill was acting like a lunatic. Horses are frightened of bears.

  The animals proceeded in an orderly fashion, predator and prey, united by a common enemy, the hurricane. They noticed me but betrayed no fear of a human nor much interest. They probably wondered why I didn’t join them.

  Betsy had more trouble getting back, as the waters were rising rapidly. We lured Bill in with the grain and the others settled down. We had eight horses to fetch from those pastures, but the pitch-blackness was occasionally illuminated by lightning.

  We also had well over a mile to walk them up to the barn. About all we could do was pray. A flaming chestnut, a baby still, Lil’ Red (also called Brady) was the first one to come over to me. He lowered his head for the halter. I rubbed his ears and told him it was going to be a scary walk.

  Of all the horses there, he was the youngest; he should have been the most frightened. He trusted me with all his heart. The others came up and we slipped halters on them. Kaiser Bill loves Betsy, so he behaved for her. She had four horses, I had four horses. My ancient Barbour coat kept my body dry.

  The winds picked up. Trees creaked, branches were torn off. We couldn’t hold the horses and carry flashlights. We stuck the flashlights in our pockets and began the long walk back.

  We’d fall off the lowest part of the road, pick ourselves up and start again. At no time did any horse pull away when one of us fell. No one reared or screamed in fear. Brady led the way. I had him on my right, with Trumpetta. In my left hand I had my best broodmare. Cool Morning Star, and another Throughbred mare, Sydney.

  Betsy had Kaiser Bill, Carvelle, Willie and Boy Scout.

  Pitch-blackness enveloped us. I noticed tiny yellow and green sparkles on either side of the road.

  Betsy noticed them, too.

  We stopped, I handed her my fistful of lead ropes, and on my hands and knees I got down to examine the little lights. Trapped by the rain and the winds, there were thousands upon thousands of fireflies nestling down in the long grasses.

  Those lightning bugs lit our way to the barn. We made the horses comfortable, having to rearrange the other horses in their stalls. Some grumbling was heard but everyone cooperated. I told them to think of the overcrowding as a slumber party.

  Then, following the fireflies, we walked the long way back to the truck. The hardest part, the lowest stretch, had no fireflies, and the water was now up to our ankles.

  With great good luck we got the truck turned around and through the rising water. Everyone was safe: horses, hounds, cattle, cats and house dogs.

  By the morning the waters were twenty-one feet over flood stage. I had no road. Betsy and I trudged over the hill, avoiding the floodwaters, to see if the bridge had held. We couldn’t even see the bridge. The water was roaring over it with whitecaps as big as an ocean’s. The noise was deafening.

  By some miracle everyone still had power. That went out in the middle of the day on September 7.

  As the waters receded I walked my fence lines. I’d lost everything by the river, of course. Luckily, I’d had the sense to put up strands of high-tensile-strength wire there instead of board because I’d seen the river go over the banks before, though never anything like this.

  My little bridge over the creek feeding into the Rockfish was in tatters. A four-foot chunk was gouged out of the road and the plank fencing was smashed to bits. The sides of the bridge had been eaten away. The huge culverts were jammed with debris. But with a day of tractor work with the front-end loader we could fill the hole and repair the bridge enough to get trucks over it. A bulldozer and backhoe would have to do the rest, though it might be months before we got to mat, there was so much damage.

  As we walked along we marveled that not one of our animals was lost, our neighbors were in good shape, no cars or trucks had been swept down the river. The state bridge held although the road surface looked like a moonscape. Two big power company poles leaned precariously, but still, we’d made it.

  In the days it took the water to recede we found pieces of the old steel bridge that had originally been destroyed by Camille. It linked the east side of the Rockfish with the west side, to a small road going out to Route 151. This bridge, buried under the debris from that hurricane, which changed Nelson County forever, had been ripped from its grave, girders twisted
like pretzels and thrown all over my riverbanks.

  We also found one dead cow, which with difficulty we dislodged to bury.

  Every single foxhunting trail at every single fixture was crisscrossed with big trees. Every single bridge and fording place had been destroyed. As this was the beginning of cubbing season, we were wiped out. Sadly, too, some of our grouse, other ground birds and foxes had been killed. Actually, it was amazing that as many lived as did, but they stayed up on the mountain ridges.

  For six weeks we worked every day but Sundays to clear the trails to be ready for formal hunting. As it was, we could only open the major ones. It will take us years, really, to get back into shape.

  Hurricane or not, I still met my deadlines.

  This storm vividly haunts me, probably because it is close in memory and because I’ll be paying for it for a long time. The government offered no relief on private roads or bridges, and insurance companies don’t cover them. We may receive a small sum to help put back the fences. There was no tax relief either, just as there had been no tax relief on the pine beetle damage.

  All those taxes we pay and not a penny to help us when we needed it. The money was sure there for Chrysler when they needed it. Farmers just don’t count.

  Despite this I continue to farm. It’s in my blood. Raised on a farm, I dreamed always of making enough money to buy my own. It can be a life of physical and financial hardship, but it is also a life of spiritual joy.

  Every day I see miracles. Right now my new-plowed pastures are greening up. I’m trying a timothy grass on them. I’m excited about finding out if I’ve chosen a seed that will give me a good yield per acre.

  This morning the Canada geese squawked and hollered down at the pond. Their buddies half an acre over on the Rockfish River babble also. Geese are noisy birds. I want to build a house in the middle of the pond for the geese and ducks but I haven’t quite figured out how to do it yet.

  It’s spring. The dogwoods, pink and white, cover the mountainsides. The redbud is still blooming. The horses are shedding out. Indigo buntings, airborne sapphires, zip in and out along with the swallowtails in the barn and more bluebirds and goldfinches than I have ever seen in my life.

  The azaleas are just opening. The tulips are fading. The mountain laurel hasn’t bloomed yet. The apple blossoms are turning to green. The pears have bloomed. The crabapples are in good color and some cherry trees are still luscious pink.

  The bumblebees are back, along with the carpenter bees, which are such pests, but I never kill them. They fascinate me as I find their small piles of sawdust.

  The snapping turtle, the small one, about a foot in diameter, showed up last week. That means the gigunda, really a whopper, can’t be too far off. I steer clear.

  Haven’t seen one box turtle yet or one terrapin.

  The skinks aren’t out yet either, nor has the wisteria bloomed. The skunks are traveling, though … I see them everywhere.

  I’ve got two pastures left to clear, uprooting those stubborn tree trunks, discing, grading, then seeding. That’s going to take a couple of years since I have to scrape the roads and put down more gravel, thanks to Fran.

  I know the next seven novels I want to write. Sneaky Pie has rough plot outlines for her next ten. I mean, she’s already blocked out the plots. I don’t know how she does it.

  We’re hoping for thankful increase, as my grandmother used to say, on the farm and with the novels.

  I pray that I can remain strong and clear in my mind so that I can continue to work. I love to work. Idle hands do the devil’s work. I used to hear that when I’d plop down in the hammock. Mother would flip over the hammock and hand me hedge clippers. I guess that’s how I learned to love work.

  People in their middle years tell you how young they are. I’m not young. I’m fifty-two years old and I wouldn’t trade one year off. Oh, I wouldn’t mind looking younger but I’m not obsessed about it. The years are my wealth.

  Mother used to say, “All the sweetness is in the bottom of the cup.”

  I figure I’m at the halfway mark. I want to write a good novel when I’m a hundred. Aeschylus wrote plays well into his nineties, fine plays. If he can do it, I can try.

  The other thing is that I have no fear. I remember the lines from For Scirnis: “Fearlessness is better than a faint heart for any man who puts his nose out of doors. The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.”

  And if the storms should come again and I can’t see the hand in front of my face, I’ll follow the fireflies.

  Must be a recess in heaven,

  St. Peter’s letting the angels out.

  To my literary angel this book is dedicated:

  WENDY WEIL

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

  SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

  THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

  RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

  IN HER DAY

  SIX OF ONE

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  SUDDEN DEATH

  HIGH HEARTS

  STARTING FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL

  BINGO

  VENUS ENVY

  DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

  RIDING SHOTGUN

  RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

  LOOSE LIPS

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  with Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  REST IN PIECES

  MURDER AT MONTICELLO

  PAY DIRT

  MURDER, SHE MEOWED

  MURDER ON THE PROWL

  CAT ON THE SCENT

  SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

  And look for

  OUTFOXED

  Coming soon in hardcover from Ballantine