“I guess there are never enough books.”
-- John Steinbeck
“A Life In Letters”I used to tell my mother that “there is no such thing as too many books”. Once, several years ago I had a website when I wrote a book under another name, and on that website I put that quote of mine - “there is no such thing as too many books”.
Then today I found the above quote of Mr. Steinbeck at the National Steinbeck Center. I had not ever seen it before. You see, I am only about one-third of the way through “A Life In Letters”, a collection of his letters to family, friends and colleagues assembled by his widow after his death. It is a great work, and a particular inspiration to me. I have two copies - one in paperback and one First Edition in hardcover which I acquired from a collectible bookseller. That particular hardcover is one of my greatest treasures.
Today was the The Great Steinbeck Pilgrimage, and I did expect it to be very good. I did not expect what I got. It was far beyond anything I had anticipated.
First let me say that this vacation had not been exactly what I had hoped in the first few days, although parts of it have been amazing. I was not “getting” certain writing vibes I thought I would, and so forth. Yesterday, I turned a bit of a corner with the lifting of the fog, and my wonderful walk down the Embarcadero. Today, everything changed for the better. I think I needed a whole week just to recover from no time off in so long.
So, I set out on my journey today. I must first tell you that I stupidly left my digital Nikon in the hotel room closet. Yes, I know, but it was early and I had no coffee in my system. I plead internal fog as the cause. I bought a disposable camera, but unfortunately for you that means I can’t upload the pics. I’ll have them developed onto a CD and upload and post them after I get back to Texas.
The drive to San Jose was quick, it seemed, and I then I began to drive through the most lovely country, mountains (or hills, depending on your perspective), valleys, beautiful farmlands, tall trees and rivers. The drive was scenic and therefore seemed shorter than its two hours. I arrived in Salinas and saw all sorts of signs with the name “Steinbeck” on them.
I continued to drive until I reached Monterey. I stopped there briefly to re-group and to see the pretty little town. Then I drove on to Pacific Grove (which is umbilically and seamlessly attached to Monterey).
First of all, the Pacific Ocean there is breathtaking. It seemed to me to have a different color there than anywhere else I’ve ever seen it. It was the brightest, loveliest blue with a bit of a soft fog just out where the horizon might be.
I drove up a hill and drove right past the little house where Mr. Steinbeck had done much of his early writing. It was tiny - all the houses there were tiny; but, Oh God! What a view of that Ocean they have. No wonder he loved this place.
Then I drove back through Monterey, and on to Salinas again. This was Mr. Steinbeck’s hometown. His parents lived there, and he grew up there. The National Steinbeck Center is in Salinas and the man is buried in a cemetery there.
As I drove back into Salinas I was aware that I was running shorter on time than I had planned. I had spent more time in the Monterey/Pacific Grove area than I thought I would. So, as I looked at a map I decided that I needed to buy flowers and go to the cemetery before going to the Steinbeck Center - due to the logistics of driving.
Just as I was re-planning that in my mind, I saw this place up on my right called “Flower Magik” - I kid you not. Magic indeed. Far be it from me to drive all over a completely unfamiliar town looking for a flower shop when a “magik” one has been plopped down in my path! I pulled in and the lady was very sweet. She helped select flowers to lay at the grave of a “gentleman” in the cemetery (I didn’t tell her I was a sappy, star-struck fan of the late, great Nobel Laureate, Mr. John Steinbeck).
Here is where I digress for just a moment. There are many stories of Mr. Steinbeck’s that I have read and loved. I have not read all of his works. I will read them all, but I’m not done yet. Here’s the deal, I seem to like different ones best, from the ones most of the known universe likes best. What can I say? I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drummer.
For those of you who don’t know, The Great Man was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1940 for “The Grapes of Wrath” (more on that later), and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962. In the citation for his Nobel, “Grapes of Wrath” was one of the works specifically mentioned. Also, he was the first Nobel Laureate in Literature asked to sit with the King and Queen of Sweden at the Nobel awards dinner. This great honor had previously been bestowed upon winners of the award for some scientific achievement.
Also, it’s important to note that this book, “Grapes of Wrath”, a novel, effected political change in the United States of America that changed (and probably saved) people’s lives. The book dealt with the sorry state of affairs for migrant farm workers in California at that time. Then First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt read the book, and was so moved (and so aware of the actual research Mr. Steinbeck did in writing the book), that she spearheaded legal change to make the lives of those people better. A man, a writer, who wrote a novel, effected societal improvement in the lives of poor, powerless people - WITH HIS PEN! See what I mean? Understand that title on this blog post?
My favorite work of his is his non-fiction work “Travels With Charley: In Search of America”. This was a travelogue he wrote after his Nobel prize. It’s a snapshot of America in the early sixties. It was a trip he took around the U.S. with his standard poodle, Charley, in a camper truck he named “Rocinante” (after Don Quixote’s horse).
The first work of his I ever read was “The Pearl”. Another of my favorite works is a short story called “The Chrysanthemums” (BTW, you should know that the name of these flowers comes from the Greek word for “gold”).
I also believe that the opening sentences of “Cannery Row” are the best of any book - ever. Buy it, or borrow it from the library, but READ IT. While you’re at it, pick up a copy of his short stories and read “The Chrysanthemums”. Trust me, you need to do this.
Back to the florist. The first stems this sweet lady showed me were yellow spider CHRYSANTHEMUMS!! I’m not making this up. I realize that the name of this blog is about me makin’ stuff up - and I COULD make this up - but, I’m not. :)
Of course, I went for the Mums. Then she recommended a yellow rose and two other roses that were yellow with dark orangey-coral edges on them. It was a lovely, small bouquet. She put little water tubes on them, wrapped them in lovely clear cellophane and tied it all together with a yellow ribbon.
I drove down the street two blocks and there was the street I needed to turn on for the cemetery. It was like I had been to this town before, I was finding my way around so easily (this was meant to be, people). I turned right and drove, and near the end of that street was the cemetery. I stopped at the office and asked directions to his grave.
There is a big, black wrought iron arrow on one of the drives in the cemetery that says “Steinbeck” and it points in the direction of his final resting place. Still, I couldn’t find it even with her directions and the arrow. I was wandering around and looking for what she told me. I went back to the car and got the picture I had printed out from the Steinbeck Tour website and then looked up in the direction of the arrow again. There! I had walked right past it and around it!
The woman in the office had said there was a large monument that stood up over the whole plot and it said “Holmes”, which made no sense to me. This would be because I am a STEINBECK AFFICIONADO! What the marker actually said was “Hamilton”. This would have made immediate sense to me (and made it simple for me to find the plot), since that is his mother’s maiden name. It was his mother’s family’s plot.
Once I had correctly identified the location of the plot I walked over to it. This is where the whole day hit me in a way that even I had not expected. I wanted to go on this Pilgrimage and see the National Steinbeck Center. I wanted to pay homage to my Literary Hero. It meant a lot to me; but then I got there and I saw where he wrote his early books (in that little seaside house), and finally I walked through that cemetery with my flowers in hand and I walked up to the plot...
I stood there and started to weep. Yes, like the sap that I am, and I admit it. The marker said “John Steinbeck” and next to him was his wife Elaine, and below them in the plot were his parents, and just below him one of his sisters. Here was The Great Man himself and his family. A breeze was blowing. It was a lovely, sunny day. I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Pulitzer Prize winner, Nobel Laureate, and My Own Personal Literary Hero, Mr. John Steinbeck.
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I took some photos and laid the flowers there and took another photo with my flowers in place - my yellow Chrysanthemums. Then I walked back to the car and wiped my eyes and drove on to the National Center.
Once there, I paid and walked into the exhibit which was WONDERFUL! Now, I have to go back because I could spend hours there that I didn’t have today, AND I told Mr. Steinbeck I would come back and pay respects again. It’s a writer thing, people, don’t try to understand my wacky, emotional, sappiness too much. I’M A SAP!!
Anyway, I’m walking through the whole exhibit thing, and I’m ooohhing and I’m aahhhing and I get to the end and there is this (see the photo)!
I go out to the lady in charge and I say “Is that the actual truck? Or is it just one to show what it was like?” She knew immediately what I meant, and she said “Yes, it’s the actual truck,” and she smiled. I said “No way, really?” She nodded.
I went back into the end of the gallery and looked at it again. I took my own photo (but it’s on the disposable camera thingy - so this one’s off the internet). People, this is the REAL, Honest to God, Rocinante (so named) truck that he drove around the United States with Charley! As in, my favorite book “Travels with Charley...”!! THE REAL TRUCK!!!
More Sap Time here, so get ready. I started to cry again. Here was that actual truck. My Hero drove this truck. My Inspiration wrote in this truck, and slept in this truck. That truck went all over the U.S. with Mr. Steinbeck and his dog. My absolute favorite thing that he ever wrote was this great non-fiction account of his trip.
You need to read this one, too, people. I’m just telling you. You can’t not read this stuff. It’s going to change things for you. You’re going to enjoy the prose and the rhythm of it, and the stories themselves, and then later when you’re done reading it and you put it down, you’re going to have a lot of moments where you go “Hmmm”. And you’ll remember these stories - like years and years later - and it will matter that you remember them.
Having wept over the truck, I was now ready to spend vast quantities of money in the gift shop. If I could have packed up the exhibit, in its entirety, (with the TRUCK) and brought it home with me, I would have, but they don’t allow that. :( So, I bought out the gift shop. :)
Then I drove back to San Fran - lovely, awesome, sun-soaked drive back. Ahhhhh.
I arrived at my lovely hotel, took a shower and got all spiffed up for dinner. I had a lovely Italian meal at a place near the hotel (just off of Union Square) and then I caught the Powell street cable car back down to Market and walked the two blocks back to the hotel.
A fine meal, a cable car ride on a beautiful, breezy San Franciscan evening, and all of it after a lovely, sunny, and unbelievably meaningful day of connection with my Literary Inspiration.
I’ve read his works, and I’ve read his journals and I’ve read his letters. I feel as if I know him. Of course, I don’t really - but I don’t believe any of us ever really know someone. I think when you read a writer, you know some of the most important stuff about them, because that’s the pieces of their heart.
Standing at his grave today, I was surprised at myself for being so moved. I wept today because I have read his letters and journals that discuss his internal struggles as a writer. I wept today because his work is so beautiful and meaningful to me. I wept today because he is no longer with us, and all we have left are his words - in his works, and journals and letters. For some writers that would not be much in the absence of the writer himself. In the case of Mr. Steinbeck it is more than so many could ever offer. I wept because I do have all those words of his - all that beauty - and because HIS words are more than most of us can ever hope to leave behind - including me.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
