Jeff Has A New Blog

To be fair, Twain’s legacy is strong in his childhood home, where we spent a few inspired hours in the morning, visiting the Clemens’ family home and other notable houses on the banks of the heavy Mississippi.

We wandered first through the Mark Twain Museum and Gallery, a worthwhile stop that illustrated Samuel Clemens’ brief stint as a steamboat captain and the transformative tour of Europe and Asia that inspired Innocents Abroad. We strolled through the Hawkins’ house (their daughter Laura became the character model for Becky Thatcher) where museum pieces compared the family’s luxurious lifestyle to Huck Finn’s and, of course, Jim’s. Twain took flak for his portrayal of the slave character on both ends of the spectrum: his language offended abolitionists and his themes offended slaveholders. I wondered as we re-envisioned these common-knowledge scenes where Jim, Huck, and Tom would be today — not in timeless Hannibal, but in other American cities.

When we took off along interstate 72 I began wondering about how Tom Sawyer and Samuel Clemens related to their homes (thanks to Marilynne Robinson). Do people generally want to escape home and build their private utopia in blissful ignorance of all they grew up with, or would they rather reconcile the failings of their home communities and live stable lives?

In fact, Home is what I thought about the rest of the way ... home. We detoured to visit my mom’s mom where she lives in an assisted-living facility. For the past year, she has isolated returning home as the only goal that will satisfy her. In her one-bedroom apartment, I noticed her living room chair, table, lamp, and TV, and could see her old, four-poster bed and oak dresser through the bedroom door. Home is not where the furniture is. Home is not even where the family is; during our visit, nothing fell miraculously into place. She is still old, her room isn’t in Bismark, and her former lifestyle is impossible.

Home: fragile, sensational home. Where you expect to return to find everything the same, and it all disappointingly is. Home where your wounds are as you left them, and places are lost in time.

Every free fun place in St. Louis is in Forest Park, and unfortunately the clear sky and springtime breeze brought every other family to the west side of the city this morning. We bypassed the clogged exit ramps and began our morning by exploring the city’s sprawling science museum. To our surprise, the museum spanned the (still) crowded highway, so we simply extended our mile-long walk through the exhibits by leaving the museum in the middle of Forest Park.

It was another mile and change to the best free attraction in America, the St. Louis Zoo. It was a magical day to watch animals chase shade around their enclosures and to watch people do the same. There is something strangely gratifying about studying the sleeping slender figures of animals who evolved not to dominate the food chain but to inhabit their place on it to the best of their ability. There is wonder and dignity in lesser animals’ design.

In the zoo, we logged another mile and a half, trekking from big cat hideaways to the penguins’ chilly indoor pool. The diversity of the animals — the complexity and familiarity of their caged behavior — paralleled the diversity of the people who came to watch. I hope everyone saw themselves in one animal or another today. But I also kind of hope no one thought they were that shedding camel with a limp hump.

We sent dad back to the car (another mile and a half trip, but without the bonus of watching rockhoppers do what they do best) and sunned ourselves on a bench across the street from the zoo. The park behind us stood joyful and self-assured in the afternoon light, as with a student’s brimming confidence before an easy exam.

By now, our aching feet needed the brief rest of a 20-minute car ride to St. Charles, where a quaint pedestrian street lined with shops awaited us. We strolled one side of the street for half an hour, adding another mile to our day’s walk. The doors that remained open past 5 p.m. wafted spices, candlescent, and cool air toward passers-by, but we made precious few purchases, mostly in a labyrinthine aesthetic shop called Joy’s.

Inside, I found one of my favorite signs to-date: “All books only $5 (each)!” Sold.

Later, we emptied our picnic bag of leftovers and grabbed ice cream for the road. Dad wowed us all with his (in)ability to eat ice cream and drive at the same time. We nearly collapsed after clocking 7.35 miles for the day; farther than our three Monday hikes combined. Our next stop, Hannibal, Missouri, pulled us northwest, directly toward the setting sun.

We chased the sunset along the Missouri river. The sun sank low, low into the baby sprigs of soybean plants, turning the whole green country impossibly warm, despite the cool advance of evening. We ascended hills as it plunged red-hot below the horizon, even as it darkened and dampened the trees, and night animals came out to celebrate their new day.

Great-aunt Lorene is the oldest surviving Grogan sibling, and it’s easy to trace family traits through her expressions and the way she speaks. Her legs fail her in her old age, and she spends every day in her wheelchair, keeping tabs on her roommate, a sweet, observant woman with a proclivity for word searches. Four of us crammed into their two-bed suite and quickly realized we couldn’t spend much comfortable time there, so we took Lorene (or, as she would say, she took us) to the sunny, breezy courtyard to talk.

We caught up on family matters; talked about old homes, old farms, old friends. Aunt Lorene listened intently, actively. Her voice is a soft but steady hum. Her facts were clear, her stories pointed, and vocabulary sharp. She uses the word “whenever” when she means “when” and thinks before she speaks to give the benefit of a doubt to any criticism or unkindness.

Though the center of conversation drifted and was at times downright irrelevant, it was more important to be present with Lorene. She holds discomfort, discontent, and an untold amount of despair; many her age do. What’s remarkable about her attitude — her manner — is her tireless capacity to hope. Hope exhausts people in tedious days but Lorene is too strong to waver.

She thanked the Good Lord for the weather we had this morning — it was a shallow draw from a deep well of faith. There was nothing we could bring her or do for her — she wouldn’t presume us to go out of our way. Watching us, sharing a few hours around a pitted picnic table, was meaningful enough. Saying goodbye is so hard, she said at the end of our visit.

The residence in which Lorene lives is cleanly foreign at times and deeply unnerving at others. Slack men in powered wheelchairs doze in the lobby. Overworked nurses prioritize those who are wailing in pain but always treat them with dignity. Always. The few entertainment options are limited in attendance not because people aren’t interested, but because they cannot get to the dining room from their bed or chair.

In this troubling, turbulent place, my great-aunt Lorene smiles with her Grogan lips, revealing mischievous Grogan teeth. It is the same smile my grandpa made whenever he discovered a clever pun. She makes the same jokes with the same cadences — maybe because she shares her older brother’s sense of humor.

At the end of our visit, we left Lee’s Summit for St. Louis, which we will explore all day tomorrow.