J. Powers - Suitable Accommodations - An Autobiographical Story of Family Life - The Letters of J. F. Powers, 1942-1963

So long.

Jim

We have founded this day a Third Order of St Bock. There are two divisions, lay and clerical, devoted to cockery and bockery, respectively, though both are united under Bockery in the larger sense. We wear a bottle opener on a string around our waist, beneath our underwear of course.

Mary Farl Powers, 1952

Jim and Betty moved with the baby to St. Paul in mid-April, bringing to an end their adventure in rural living. They lived first in an apartment at 414 North Lexington Avenue while looking for a more permanent place. In the end, they moved back into the old Marlborough at 150 Summit Avenue around the end of May. Betty was expecting another baby in November.

ROBERT LOWELL

150 Summit Avenue, St Paul

July 1948

Dear Cal,

We’re all Americans. It is very damned hot in the land of the sky-blue water,… and I look forward to the summer encampment of the Order of St Bock. In the meantime I’ve placed gin in my aspergillum.1 That was nice of you to invite me and the family to Yaddo. I’d like to be there, but in August, for the races. Instead, though, I’ll be here and for two weeks on an island in Lake Superior.

I broke down, and I do not mean that lightly, and bought The Kenyon Review with your nun poem in it. I think it is very fine, which is what I told you, I think, at the time you were putting it together. I do have some doubts on Rabelais. I’ve been rereading him lately, and though I can see why Mother should have been reading him, would she? Wish I could come upon a few nuns reading Rabelais. I particularly like the brisk dialogue which takes place between Panurge and the Semiquaver Friar.

Do not lament your singleness. You are well-off, and I rather think you know it. Let that be taken as a word to the wise from the … and no commentary on me and mine. I wrote a review of Waugh’s new book2 for The Commonweal , my last venture in that field for some time to come. I hope if Taylor saw my review of his book, he liked it.3 I know I meant well, and if that didn’t come through, it is because I don’t know the forks of reviewing, for which thanks be to God. Meantime, as I say, we’re all Americans.

ROBERT LOWELL

150 Summit Avenue

St Paul, Minnesota

September 29, 1948

Dear Cal,

It’s night, and I’m just back from the Temple Baptist Church, where I heard an “ex-priest” tell them all about it. He is evidently one of the crowd which advertises all the time in The Nation . I came prepared to pity the man, I suppose, and indeed I did before he spoke, all during the time the various deacons gave thanks for his salvation, said deacons reminding me of the Jehovah’s Witnesses I’ve known; but when he began to speak, I could tell, or thought I could, that he was quite serious about it; and as the fates would have it, there were two Catholics sitting in front of me who giggled and sneered and sighed, “Oh, the lies!” So I came away, curiosity fairly well sated, and will have news for the brethren the next time we bend an elbow together. One very hot item is the plan to open up a home or seminary, it wasn’t quite clear, for those of them who want to pull out but can’t figure out where to go, and this to be established in St Paul or Mpls. […]

I’d like to take you up on Yaddo, but it is utterly impossible. Betty will have another baby in November, and even if that weren’t in the offing, my book keeps me here, also the rent we have to pay, and I might even mention that I’d need an invitation from Elizabeth,4 to whom extend my best wishes. I’ll admit the prospect of your putting my book into a sonnet interests me. Are you sure a couplet wouldn’t do it? After all, it’s just prose. […]

And you? Will you attend the World Series in Boston and throw out the first bottle? Things are pretty furious here on the apostolic-athletic level. The Saints (our team) are in the play-off, and if they win that, we’ll play Montreal in the Little World Series. If so, the box seats, more than ever, will be a sea of black suits. I have already rec’d orders and money from Rome to buy up a section. Did I tell you I now smoke cigars? I have to, if I don’t want to stand out in our crowd. Enjoy the Saratoga autumn. I imagine it’s very good.

Pax,

Jim

P.S. I sold the car; sold, I said. Ora for it.

Betty went to St. Cloud to stay with her parents to await the baby’s birth.

ROBERT LOWELL

150 Summit Avenue, St Paul

All Saints’ 1948 [November 1]

Dear Cal,

[…] Now an ironic thing is happening on the radio. My friend and candidate5 (the first time anything like this ever happened to me or anyone I’ve known) has just thanked us one and all for all we’ve done, while in the bathroom, stashed away, are the circulars I was supposed to circulate in this building, about sixty apartments. I’d postponed it till tonight, but now that he’s thanking us, I wonder if it isn’t too late. The candidate is really a nice fellow who never amounted to anything like all my friends, but he has deserted our ranks, and I still can’t believe it.

I drove Betty to St Cloud yesterday, and now she awaits the coming. At that time I’ll journey hence. Two babies is a lot. I have no idea how we’ll manage; it was enough with one. I may have to rent an office in the Pioneer or Guardian building. They look sufficiently broken-down to support literature. That’s an idea for a foundation. Given a billion dollars, I’d establish a trust to set up everybody in one old building, each with an office, with the name on the frosted glass: Theo. Roethke … Rob’t Lowell … Wm Barrett … B. Moon … The Pig … E. Pound … Mrs Chas Seide … Horace Cayton … Marg. Young … Card. Spellman … all the literary lights of this century and regular hours with lunch from 12:00 to 1:00. I forgot Clocker Webster. And myself, of course.

My book goes slowly. […] I am living here alone, doing my own cooking. Today it was breakfast: a glass of milk; lunch: T-bone steak, bread, milk; dinner: a malted milk; tonight: beer, olives, swiss cheese. All for now, Cal. Wish I were there. I saw a movie this afternoon which showed the Saratoga racetrack. I yearned to be there, making my selections.

Pax,

Jim

Drink my health in Sperry’s. Have you forgotten it … on Caroline Street, I believe.

Have you read Gogarty? Sackville Street? Tumbling in the Hay ?

BETTY POWERS

150 Summit Avenue

November 5, 1948

Dear Betty,

[…] That is very interesting about your father sitting down with pencil and paper awaiting the returns after sixteen long years.6 I imagine my father did likewise. Fr Garrelts, I guess, is the only one who forecast the turn of events, except Harry himself. Fr G. has the best theory, I think: there just aren’t enough Republicans to go around; it is like the soft jobs and big money; just not enough of it to go around. Fr Murphy was left at the post too, hoping for a Rep victory. So far as anybody could tell, however, he was against the Dems because Barkley7 is “too old.” “Yes,” Fr G. agreed, “he’s about old enough for the cardinalate,” which put things in a stronger light, I guess. […]

You are wrong about my not missing you until the sheets need changing tomorrow. I miss you daily and at odd hours and minutes during the day. It is raining now, very grey and dull-grey, streets black under the wet. […] Well, I miss you, love you, and will be seeing you … and remember what I said about too soon rather than too late. Where will I stay? I will try to work, as ever, try, that is.