A River Runs Through It and the Meaning of Life

  

Me with a favorite book, September 1993

I’m working my way through Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It this summer for the hundredth time, and thinking about family.

I first read A River Runs Through It over seventeen years ago. I came to the book by way of the Robert Redford movie, which I saw with a good friend at a movie theater one snowy winter night in Heber the first year I taught school. I liked the movie so much I bought the book, and as good as the movie was, it couldn’t hold a candle to Maclean’s original story. Norman Maclean is a great writer; he’s one of my favorites. The man’s prose is like most authors’ poetry; A River Runs Through It is a very beautifully written book. Maclean uses fly fishing as a metaphor for - and counterpoint to - life. Maclean’s description early in the story of his brother Paul’s fly-fishing ability and technique is some of the best writing I've ever read, and you don’t have to be a fly fisherman to enjoy or appreciate it.

 

Running through Maclean’s book like the river in the title is family. A River Runs Through It is funny, but Maclean isn’t a comedian and doesn’t go for cheap laughs. Instead, the humor comes naturally from growing up home-schooled by his Presbyterian minister father, and with his argumentative younger brother. One of my favorite parts of the book describes the one and only fist fight Maclean ever had with his brother, and their mother’s unfortunate intervention in that fight:

 ... I did not see our mother walk between us to try to stop us. She was short and wore glasses and, even with them on, did not have good vision. She had never seen a fight before or had any notion of how bad you could get hurt by becoming mixed up in one. Evidently, she just walked between her sons. The first I saw of her was the grey top of her head, the hair tied in a big knot with a big comb in it; but what was most noticeable was that her head was so close to Paul I couldn’t get a good punch at him. Then I didn’t see her anymore.

 

The fight seemed suddenly to stop itself. She was lying on the floor between us. Then we both began to cry and fight in a rage, each one shouting “You son of a bitch, you knocked my mother down.” 

She got off the floor, and, blind without her glasses, staggered in circles between us, saying without recognizing which one she was addressing, “No, it wasn’t you. I just slipped and fell.”

 

So, this was the only time we ever fought.

When I first read that passage it reminded me of the relationship I had with my younger brother Phil, except we definitely fought more than once. When we were kids, we would pound on each other one moment and be best friends the next. Even as teenagers we still occasionally settled things with a punch up, and yet no one else could ever settle things that way with one of us if the other was around. A River Runs Through It gained unexpected poignancy for me a few years ago when Phil, like Macleans’ brother Paul, died an untimely death. Like Maclean, there wasn’t much I could do to prevent Phil’s death, and I’ve brooded about it ever since.

 

Despite that ending, A River Runs Through It is not a morbid book. Another aspect of the book that keeps me coming back is Maclean’s love of - and almost reverence for - the mountains in which he grew up. I can relate to that. Like Maclean, I spent several summers working for the US Forest Service when I was younger, and I miss being in the mountains every day.

 

Rereading A River Runs Through It also reminded me that one of the great things about my Forest Service years was the opportunity I had to retrace the path my grandparents - my mother’s parents - made (almost literally) through the mountains during the early and middle parts of the twentieth century. They were from the same generation as Norman Maclean, and ran a sawmill set in the Uinta Mountains, east of Heber. Maclean’s parents had a cabin in the mountains because they liked to fish; my grandparents had a cabin in the mountains because they had to earn a living. Thanks to some exploring I did as a Forest Service employee, and thanks to some great road trips with a favorite uncle, I learned my way around the areas in the mountains where my grandparents (and parents) lived and worked.

 

My cousin Jim recently e-mailed me a photo of one of the cabins my grandparents lived in while they cut down trees in the mountains. Here it is:

Not exactly the luxury mountain cabin common nowadays, is it? There wasn’t a jetted hot tub in it, anyway. The cabin doesn't exist anymore; it was only meant to be a temporary accommodation for my grandfather and his family while they worked. The Forest Service demolished it fifty years ago.

 

Finally, the lesson Norman Maclean teaches in A River Runs Through It is that our families define us. Who we are and what we do with our life is shaped by our family, for better or worse. Ultimately, we have our free will to choose our own path through life, but our family sets us on that path. As Maclean writes, near the end of the book:

Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand are dead, but still I reach out to them.

  

A River Runs Through It is a great book. Check it out if you haven’t already.

 

 

 

Remembering Veterans...

Ten years ago I wrote a monthly newspaper column for the late, lamented Wasatch County Courier. I didn’t get paid much for doing it, but I had a lot of fun. The main focus of my newspaper column was history, especially Wasatch County history.

Today I'm posting a column I wrote for the Courier back in 1999. I always liked this column, because it dealt with two things near and dear to my heart: family and patriotism. Bear in mind that it was originally published the week before Christmas in 1999, so add ten years (now eighteen years) to any historical references. I’m posting it here today because it also applies to Veterans Day. This article may not contain the greatest writing in the world, but it came from the heart:

Joe Thacker and friend

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" has always been one of my favorite Christmas songs. Bing Crosby recorded it back in the 1943, at the height of World War II. “White Christmas” was more popular, but for my money, nothing can beat the emotional resonance of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” I’ve often wondered what that song meant to the Heber Valley men and women fighting in the second World War, and to the families they left behind. I can’t really know, because I wasn’t there. I can only imagine how poignant Bing Crosby’s song was for those people during that terrible time.

I also recently reread the book Citizen Soldiers by Stephen Ambrose. Citizen Soldiers is a history of World War II from D-Day to VE Day, told by GI’s who were there. I highly recommend this book. Ambrose’s tale of the Battle of the Bulge, which was fought the week before Christmas 1944, inspired me to talk to a relative who participated in World War II. I asked my uncle, Joe Thacker, about his war experiences. Uncle Joe spent three Christmases in the service of his country.

My uncle Joe Thacker is the son of Ray and Mima Thacker. He grew up in Charleston, along with his three brothers, Dale, Vern, and Dan, and his three sisters, ReNee, Vera, and Marva. All four of Ray and Mima’s sons served in World War II. Dale was in the Navy in the North Atlantic. Vern served in the Navy in the Pacific. Dan trained for the invasion of Japan in Oregon.

Uncle Joe served for three years as an army engineer. During Christmas 1943, Uncle Joe was in Louisiana completing basic training. He spent Christmas 1944 on the island of Leyte, in the Philippines. Uncle Joe was part of the Philippine invasion force, and has some amazing and scary stories to tell about that battle. On Christmas Day 1945, after the war ended, Uncle Joe was on a boat headed for home. That was probably the best Christmas of all.

Uncle Joe’s memories of the Christmases he spent during the war are bittersweet. He remembers the camaraderie he felt with his fellow soldiers. Their loyalty to one another and the devotion to duty they felt got them through the homesickness and the rough times. They supported one another. Uncle Joe said that remembering the real meaning of Christmas, the birth of the Savior, also helped ease the pain of being away from loved ones at home.

Uncle Joe commented that, although it was difficult to be away from home at Christmas, it was harder on the folks left behind. My Grandmother Thacker briefly kept a journal during the early months of 1944. Each entry details how lonesome she was and how miserable and cold the weather was. Receiving a letter from one of her sons serving in the military gave Grandma a lot of happiness. She missed her sons and worried about them every minute of the day.

Grandma Thacker wasn’t the only one who missed loved ones during World War II. Millions of Americans sacrificed time away from their families to secure the freedoms we enjoy today. Some even gave their lives so that we Americans could continue to live the way we choose. The next time we sing a Christmas carol, especially “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” let's remember the sacrifices the men and women who serve our country have made to protect our freedoms.

“. . . when they built you brother, they broke the mold.”

Phil meets Susan for the first time, April 2000.

The line in the title is from “Terry’s Song” by Bruce Springsteen. I can never listen to that song without thinking of my brother Phil.

Three years ago today (March 15, 2006), my dad called me to tell me that Phil had died. Lisa and I drove from Eagle Mountain to Salt Lake in a snowstorm to handle the arrangements. I try not to dwell too much on sad anniversaries, but with Dad’s death two months ago, Dad, Mom, and Phil have been on my mind. It’s hard to lose a parent, but neither of my parents’ deaths affected me the way Phil’s death did. Before Mom died, she had been sick for a couple of years and was confined to a wheelchair. Mom was ready to go. Dad missed Mom for the next eleven years. When he died in January, I knew I would miss him, but I also believed Dad was where he wanted to be: with Mom. I don’t have any regrets about either of my parents; I was there for them when they needed me.

I wish I could say the same about Phil. Phil and I were only fourteen months apart in age; we spent most of the time between the years 1965 and 1983 together. Phil and I were best friends when we weren’t trying to beat the hell out of each other, but anyone else who tried to mess with us had better look out. We were brothers.

The last twenty years of Phil’s life were miserable, with intermittent bright spots. Phil was forty years old when he died. He was working as a police officer with West Valley P.D. He wasn’t a perfect officer, but Phil loved his job. He loved dealing with people, even when they were skells. Phil liked the people he met in the course of his job: the good, decent fellow cops whom he respected, the lady who owned the hamburger joint where he worked security, the little kids he was able to help. Phil didn’t like the cops he worked with who he considered phonies or posers, and he didn’t like people who abused their spouses or their children.

Most important to me, Phil loved my daughters, and they loved him. Phil is holding my oldest in the picture I posted above. I wish he could have spent more time with them. I said in Phil’s eulogy that my kids were lucky to have a guardian angel who was a cop, and I meant it.

March 18, 2006

Phil’s death wasn’t suicide, but I wouldn’t exactly call it an accident either (actually - to be charitable - I would call it involuntary manslaughter.) After three years I am used to him being gone, but I haven’t made peace with it, although I am trying. I still think about Phil nearly every day, and I wonder if I could have made a bigger difference in his life, especially near the end. I really don’t know what I would have done differently; you can’t live a person’s life for him. For better or worse, people have their free agency. I did make sure that Phil had a decent funeral, and that he was respectfully laid to rest.

I wish Phil could have seen himself the way other people saw him. The greatest tragedy of Phil’s life is that he didn’t really understand how much people loved him. He based his opinion of himself on someone who didn’t deserve that trust.

Another song, “Before They Make Me Run,” by the Rolling Stones, also reminds me of Phil. In that song Keith Richards - Phil's favorite Stone - sings, “Gonna find my way to heaven, `cause I did my time in hell.” That line could have been Phil’s epitaph. I hope Phil did find his way to heaven, because he deserved it. Phil was a good guy. He had his faults, but the good in him far outweighed the bad, and I don’t think he ever quit trying.

In the end, what else matters?

The Big Gap

I asked Caroline what she wanted to name this post. She came up with "The Big Gap," which sounds like the name of a Raymond Chandler novel, so that's what we are calling it.

Caroline lost one of her front teeth last night. It was pretty dramatic there for a while. Susan and Caroline tried to pull the tooth themselves. Susan even provided me with up to the minute hand-written news bulletins. I finally convinced Caroline to let me pull the tooth for her. It was getting to be a little disgusting looking. She was very brave through the whole ordeal.

I know it's silly to get all sentimental about a six-year-old losing a tooth. It happens to a bajillion kids everyday. However, after what we went through with our middle kid last year, it is gratifying to see her old enough to start losing her front teeth. Caroline really had us worried last winter and spring. Losing that tooth does make me feel a little sad too, because all three girls are growing up so fast.

Now I'll stop before I burst into "Soliloquy".

Hank Williams, Harry Truman, and Me

When I was a kid my parents talked a lot about the era in which they grew up. Both Vera and Joe were born in 1931. Dad graduated from Wasatch High School in Heber City, UT, in 1949 and Mom graduated in ’50. I loved the stories they told me about those years, especially the ones about the summers they spent working as a young married couple at a sawmill in the Uinta Mountains for my grandfather.

My parents’ descriptions of those times sparked an interest in that era for me that persists today. When I was younger you could say I got a little obsessive about the late 1940’s and early 1950’s. I could tell you all about the politics – Harry Truman became a hero of mine – and about the popular culture. I knew the cars, the baseball players, the clothes, the movies, and especially – of course – the music.

My burgeoning interest in all aspects of the Truman/Eisenhower era coincided with the advent of compact discs. In the early days of CD’s, record companies began remastering and reissuing music that had not been available for forty years or more. I learned to appreciate the recordings Frank Sinatra made for Capitol Records and the music Louis Armstrong recorded for Columbia and Verve in the 1950’s. Most of all I finally heard Hank Williams in all his pristine, monophonic glory. In fact, Hank’s music got me through my years as a student at Utah State University.

Of course I later learned that the fifties in America were not necessarily the magical time I had invented in my imagination. Little things like the Korean War, McCarthyism, Jim Crow, life before the polio vaccine, the demise of EC Comics caused by bluenose fanatics, and many other major and minor calamities of the decade were brought to my attention by some excellent books, such as The Fifties by David Halberstam, Truman by David McCullough, and The Glory and the Dream by William Manchester. Still, the era fascinates me and I enjoy the music and movies of the time. I can still quote scenes line for line from The Searchers and On The Waterfront, two of my favorite movies produced in the 1950’s.

All of this is my roundabout way of briefly reviewing a new set of Hank Williams CD’s that I got in the mail yesterday. The album is called Hank Williams: The Unreleased Recordings and was released a few weeks ago by Time-Life Music. The songs on the CD’s were recorded as radio programs in 1951 to hawk Mother’s Best Flour. Most of the songs were not written by Hank, although there are a few familiar favorites, such as “new” versions of “I Can’t Help It (If I’m Still In Love With You)” and “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” The majority of the music is made up of gospel tunes like “I’ll Fly Away,” or cover versions of songs made famous by others, such as “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain."

Hank Williams: The Unreleased Recordings is outstanding. I have seen a few reviews that complained that the complete radio shows were not included in their entirety, but considering that the set contains fifty-four never before released songs sung by Hank Williams, that is a really petty complaint about an album this good. On a personal note, my brother Phil was a Hank Williams junkie as well, and it’s too bad it took nearly thirty years after the discovery of this music for Williams’s heirs and his record company to work out a deal to get it released. Phil would have loved this album, but because of the greediness of some of the people involved, he never got the chance to hear it. Of course, somewhere Phil is probably personal friends with Hank by now.

I have listened to Unreleased Recordings virtually every moment that I wasn’t teaching school, sleeping, or attending to husbandly or fatherly duties. The sound quality is excellent for its time, especially since the album was dubbed from acetates found in a garbage can in 1979. There are so many unfamiliar songs that listening to this album is never boring. It is very cool to hear Hank sing the words "Salt Lake City, Utah," in "California Zephyr," a song he never commercially recorded and that is only available on this album. I also especially like “Cool Water,” the old Sons of the Pioneers song that Hank turns into a mournful blues, and “The Pale Horse and His Rider,” a gospel tune based on the same scripture in Revelations that Johnny Cash quotes at the beginning of "The Man Comes Around." Hank and his band expound on the meaning of the song and the scripture in a little speech after they finish performing it.

As a Hank Williams fanatic, the existence of this album is comparable to finding a lost Hemingway manuscript that equals For Whom The Bell Tolls in quality. If you like authentic, American, un-Kenny Chesneyed Country music, you will enjoy this album.

So go buy it.