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

Much love,

Jim

Jim returned to Minnesota, taking up residence again with his family, still living up the river at Betty’s parents’ house. The Wahls left for Florida, intending to return north in April.

ROBERT LOWELL

c/o A. Wahl

North River Road, Route 2

St Cloud, Minnesota

February 5, 1953

Dear Cal,

Glad to hear from you, after so long. […] I went to Ted Roethke’s reading and afterward saw Ted in a saloon. I was with Buck Moon. It was a little like old times — except that I wasn’t in condition and suffered too much the next day and day after. Ted looks pretty good. I thought he’d have gone downhill (physically, I mean), but I was wrong. Buck is working at Collier’s , as a fiction editor. Ted is on a Ford. He wavered on street corners, clutching at his coat collar, and said he didn’t know whether he should go to Florida or Saginaw. I advised him on his delivery, suggesting that he not try to be mindful of the audience, that he forget his tendency to seem lovable, which just doesn’t become him.

We arrived back from Ireland in December. […] I managed to work more than I have in years. I enjoyed the papers, the fireplace, the sea, the theatre in Dublin, and racing. Now we’re supposed to be looking for a house. There aren’t any for us. You’re lucky to come from New England. I think there must be houses there. I have to be a big success and build, to make out in this locality. I understand writers like Eliot and James better, why they left, I mean, but I don’t feel up to doing it myself, going whole hog, becoming a subject of the queen or a citizen in Ireland. In short, be thankful that you want to be somewhere that is also where you belong. My family (now in New Mexico) just moved around too much. […]

Our children are both anemic; as is Betty; but we are all happy together. Presently we’re living in Betty’s family house, on the Mississippi, while her folks are in Florida. […] Best to you both.

Jim

HARVEY EGAN

North River Road

St Cloud, Minnesota

March 27, 1953

Dear Fr Egan,

I was wondering what ever happened to you, when your letter came today. Offhand, I’d go along with that doctor who says you’re only anemic. Guinness for you. A pint of plain is your only man. You’ve got good stuff in you, and though moderation is a good thing, you don’t want to go off the deep end. Myself, I have no need for stimulation, being numb to the world, but you, you’re different. So much for that.

Now for the things which really matter. I have made some flats —one of my favorite words now — and have planted ten varieties of tomatoes (seeds), some Savoy cabbage. That was a week ago. Well, already the little bastards are beginning to rear their little shoots, first the cabbage, today the first of the tomatoes — the Fargo Yellow Pear, I believe, not having time to refer to my master key. As I understand it, we’ll need some land pretty soon for these plants, if they continue to prosper. We can’t use Art’s, I think, because he’s a gardener in the local manner, gets his tomato plants from a greenhouse — John Baer, I believe they’re called — and sets them out. You’d be surprised how resentful people are (I think of Mary Humphrey, for whom all tomatoes are equal and John Baers are the most equal) when one approaches gardening with imagination. It all goes together, as Eric Gill said.

A man who reads The Saturday Evening Post will plant John Baer tomatoes. […] Betty says robins stop, look, and listen, as they do, for the voices of worms, which they can hear. Is that true? I don’t know what to believe nowadays.

Pax,

Jim

The Wahls returned from Florida, and with the prospect of a family Easter gathering before him Jim went, once more, to stay with Father Egan in Beardsley. He instructed Betty on the care of his beloved tomato seedlings. Alas, under the crowded conditions in which the family was living, the “crop” failed. “Rain. Rain. Rain,” Betty wrote to him. “About a dozen of the seedlings folded over one nice day. Others should be brought in for this cold weather, but nowhere to bring them except basement.”

BETTY POWERS

Beardsley

April 1953

Dear Betty,

Just a note. I felt bad about leaving you as I did — the hassle over tomatoes, I mean — and hope you didn’t brood over it. Since coming here, I’ve been having plenty of food and music and conversation. […] I don’t know when I’ll return, in a day or two or maybe next week. I mean to discuss that with Fr Egan but don’t, somehow. […] I hope you’re feeling all right, that the girls are well, that things aren’t too difficult for everybody. I also hope that something is happening about our future habitat but suppose that’s not to be, yet. Now I must close, having nothing else to say. […]

Much love,

Jim

Jim returned from Beardsley. Art Wahl told Betty he would contribute ten thousand dollars toward a house for the Powers family.

HARVEY EGAN

North River Road

St Cloud, Minnesota

April 30, 1953

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] Art has offered to put up cash to buy an old house here. But we’ve not found one we like or can afford; the former, particularly. There was one, five bedrooms, two and a half baths, but in poor condition, ready for burning, I think, some dark winter night. The real estate man was interesting, like my character Mac. Bow tie, mustache, chewing gum, smile, station wagon, and line. “Boy, when I see a cash customer, I move right in with him.” “That’s right. Tell the truth and you never have to remember what you said.” Lots of small talk that you would’ve loved, which I didn’t respond to properly, which caused him to ask presently: “You folks from around here?” as if he seriously doubted it. Nice fellow, though, really on our side, and if there’s ever a black-market economy here, I mean to look him up for some square deals. Good idea for a fiction character, if I knew more about the realtor’s life. His driving around, as he does, looking at other people’s houses, some not for sale, and saying: “You like that one. I might get you that.” I think he will live, in the American grain. […]

And now Betty comes in with the mail and a book, a guide to recorded music, and I know you’re the only one who would send me that. Thanks very much. If I ever get my Magnavox out of storage, I’ll need it. I haven’t heard any music (excepting Guy Lombardo and the Ink Spots) since I left Beardsley, seat of my cultural life.

Best to Brother.

Jim

HARVEY EGAN

North River Road

St Cloud, Minnesota

May 7, 1953

Dear Fr Egan,

[…] Everything very much the same here — nothing good in real estate coming our way. I vacillate between wishing I had the wings of an angel — one whose wings would know where to take him, however — and a large brick house in which to hide myself, with books, music, etc.

We watch the papers for new movies, and I rather think that’s what a lot of people are doing here. Something good comes here, and for days afterward you might hear Don, the Petterses, the Palmquists, the Powerses, adverting to it, having been there on opening night, as it were. It’s what you’ve got there in Beardsley, only not so you can see it so clearly. It is possible to divert the mind from time to time into thinking maybe things aren’t so bad. Work, I say, in my lucid moments, that is the only thing. […]

George and Dick6 were here for lunch — at the Modern Bar — one day two weeks or so ago. Dick is quite a bit larger than life. Had a pocketful of El Productos and dreams of more education for everyone who can afford to go to St Louis U. […]

Guerin on Native Dancer was bumped. Ireland, I find, has killed me for racing here. It’s just not it anymore. Rather ungrateful of me to say that after all racing has done for me here. It may be that I need a two-bob ticket to feel right about the whole thing, the depression keeps coming back and spoiling the outlook at the track. I just don’t know. Thanks again for all that research you did on Quebec. It doesn’t look good, economically, and my intuition is also against it.