Introduction
This merry month sees the beginning of a serialized novel by yours truly–or unruly. Today, the prologue for You Remembered Everything heralds the arrival of the book itself. The novel is written through chapter three and just to place an extra element of fear in my life, it will be written as we go along week to week.
As to not interfere with Guest Writer’s weeks (the last week of the month), Every installment will appear on Saturday, starting with Chapter One this Saturday the tenth, and every Saturday thereafter, for months to come (twenty chapters are planned). Unlike the missive in January, these are full chapters sometimes reaching five-thousand words, but usually about half that many. The material being adapted comes from a source of nearly 400,000-words.
This is also an adaptation of the original material in the serialized story I referred to as “You Will Remember Everything.” It was published by Literally Stories, part by part, several years ago, as related yet stand alone stories. Obviously, this version will bear a resemblance to that, but rest assured the two narratives differ greatly and soon.
Leila
Prologue
Charleston’s New Town Cemetery is seated in the west face of Torqwamni Hill, and no matter the season the quick fall of the slope and a thick line of adolescent Douglas firs at hillcrest combine to delay the cemetery dawn by a hundred yards or so. New Town’s a pretty place; the winding paths are lined with fragrant, non-fruiting cherries and delicate Japanese maples; on clear days the Olympic Mountains fill the western horizon with their beautiful yet icy indifference, and there is an abundance of old fashioned, winter-weary tombstones just begging to be charcoal-etched by artists and the sentimental at heart. A very handmade wood sign attached to the main gate informs would-be visitors that the cemetery is open from dawn to dusk. It’s been observed by the wise that dusk almost always finds its way to New Town just before the start of Happy Hour at the nearby White Pig Tavern.
Hardly old by world standards, New Town does predate the official existence of its home city of Charleston, Washington by a decade. The first graves were laid in the 1890s; the city was founded in 1902. The cemetery takes up fourteen acres—or roughly a quarter of the west face of Torqwamni Hill (from here, T-Hill as the locals call it). Originally, the community wanted the graveyard “way the hell out” of sight and smell of the settlement on Philo Bay, where the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard was coming together. The Alpha-Christians of yore had frowned on embalming because “pickling” the dead hadn’t been encouraged in the Bible. Carbolic acid, however, thrives in the highly fertile Pacific Northwest soil, and although few people who dabble in nostalgia make mention of a certain odor that attended cemeteries in the Good Old Days, rest assured, like smallpox scars, it existed, and plenty. There was always something a little lighter than air escaping the graves. Until an ordinance that required the embalming or cremation of corpses was passed by the city in 1913, burials in high summer were often attended by mourners who held handkerchiefs to their faces for something other than the drying of tears. So it was no accident that New Town was founded two miles and mostly upwind from the original settlement.
The comings and goings of the Two World Wars caused humble Charleston to fluctuate in size like an unsteady star, and they were also responsible for filling more than their fair share of graves in New Town. Especially during the second disaster, sparsely populated T-Hill was utilized for housing the sudden influx of shipyard workers and their families. Rows of duplexes and cottage courts, which had never been intended for long term use, sprouted up like mushrooms (or warts, it depends on your sense of simile). After Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been leveled, Charleston slowly shrank down from an estimated wartime population of 100,000 to a touch more than a third of that, where it has held steady for decades. T-Hill has suffered the most from the loss of wartime business. For whatever reasons, prosperity has never stuck to it. Thus the short-term duplexes and cottage courts still standing became cheap rentals for the poor. Temporary achieving permanence is a key component of poverty. The neighborhood surrounding New Town has shoes hanging from power lines, plastic driver’s door windows in cars, blue tarps held in place by bricks on sagging roofs, and children everywhere. “What they need on the hill is World War III,” is a typical comment passed between the wise at the White Pig.
Even New Town Cemetery has witnessed the end of its hectic youth. The fairly small graveyard is “full up,” as the colloquialism flies; and an antiquity compared to the vast Forest Lawn cemetery that really is way the hell out of town. Although there is still plenty of room for the ashes of indigents in a single potter’s plot, there remain only six prepaid graves to fill (all belong to women—and it might take some time; few things die harder than an old lady). Nobody (living) knows the exact number of graves in New Town; the earliest records were lost in the Courthouse Fire of ‘33 (not to be confused with the Courthouse Fire of ’38), and simply counting the tombstones is no good because many people couldn’t afford to buy one, and in the early years the poor would bury family members in the graveyard by lantern, until a site caretaker was installed. No matter, whether the total is closer to the 2,312 counted tombstones or the estimate of 2,500, save for “hobo” ashes and the six to come, there will be no more.
Yet, unlike the neighborhood, New Town is treated with respect by the populace. It remains untouched by poverty. Although beams shone by passing security vehicles replaced a live-in caretaker ages ago, acts of vandalism are unheard of in the cemetery. Often, non-superstitious homeless persons climb over the short fence at its southern edge to sleep, which is tolerated as long as they pick up after themselves. In fact New Town is like a park for some; dog walkers (to the degree that a gratis waste bag station has been added) and joggers are often seen on its cobblestone paths.
According to many of the wise, New Town Cemetery has a resident ghost. “The Dow Lady” is said to roam the grounds, especially after thunderstorms. She is supposedly the shade of Mamie Rosenthal, who was said to have spontaneously combusted at the Down Hotel in 1943 (the hotel burned to the ground itself in 1985; not at all spontaneous, it was an act of arson not well planned enough by the owner). The main support for this “theory” is the first Dow Lady sighting happening within days of Mrs Rosenthal’s burial at New Town cemetery. Skeptics often wonder why she haunts her burial site instead of her death place–but skeptics really should know better than to ask reasonable questions.
A basic cable-channel program, Ghost Safari, came by once to have a look for her, but as it goes in that industry, the results were inconclusive. One wise producer was overheard to comment, “I told the goddam network that looking for a ghost in a cemetery is the same as seeking a Saint in a church—Besides, these outdoor shoots suck; the only thing the motion detectors get are rats and raccoons.”
It’s difficult to guess what that producer and the collected wise might say if they knew that the ghost that they most likely do not really believe in, does, in fact, exist.
Saragun Springs 
Leila –
You may know the story of Vanport, a WWII town built in Northeast Portland for ship building and maybe other defense work. After the war whites were permitted to move anywhere, but the mostly southern blacks were restricted to a portion of North/Northeast. The flood of 1948 ended the homes of the remaining, I think, mostly black population. I’m old enough to have dim memories thereof. My father did some help with his boat. The flood reached the concrete bleachers of my Whitaker Grade School.
I may have some of this wrong, but if interested you could check it out.
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Hi Doug
I believe the shipyard in Bremerton had segregation in the workplace to some extent because the military was not integrated until Truman gave the order in, I think, 1947. The town wasn’t, but there were unmarked “colored” sections, in which I happen to live.
Thank you again!
Leila
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Dear Authoresss
This Prologue is a perfect piece of prose and whoever gets to the end without wanting to read more should check and see if they have a pulse.
Your writing abilities often conjure up “i” words in the poet in me, including Inspiring, Inspirational, Incredible (in the deep sense) and Intoxicating.
I can also add that your talents and gifts are more intimidating than those of Lady Gaga, and that’s saying a lot.
Sincerely,
Dracula (just kidding)
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Hi Dale
I appreciate your confidence in me! Anyway it is always best not to play it safe. I would rather fail miserably than just get by in the calculated sense.
I know that publishing this book ends any chance it never had anyway of being sold. I used to care about that sort of thing, but no more.
I want to finish it and be shut of it. Whatever happens will. I believe that there is a pattern in life and although we are obligated to do our own actions, sometimes you go with the current and let all else be damned.
Thank you!
Leila
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Leila
What you say here once again displays your great wisdom and knowledge of life, and as such, it’s both encouraging and inspiring. I can add another term: consoling. I’ve met thousands of writers in my life of teaching writing in various institutional settings for over 20 years, and some were extremely talented, but there was never one who came anywhere near as close as offering the kinds of CONSOLATION you do. Keep being yourself! (And I know you will anyway or you wouldn’t be you.)
It’s also worth pointing out that during Shakespeare’s time, Mr. Shakes had the status of what an anonymous screenwriter has today, which is to say, very, very little. South of where Shakes was, his double Cervantes also operated in the shadows. Both these two seem to have done all right over the centuries. They offer the model for all writers of any value today.
I can also add that modern USA publishing is obsessed with politically correct identity politics, basic tried-and-true plots that casual readers can instantly recognize and identify on the spot so it’s very easy to read, and simple, functional prose that lacks any poetic value but does provide easy distraction for those who get bored with their phones and want to try out a book now and then because they think it looks cool. For those who disagree with me, I suggest they cast their eyes again over the best-seller lists of America. Every single title on the list, without fail, will adhere in an ironclad way to the criteria I just listed above. No exceptions.
If John Irving, or even Stephen King, were coming on the scene today, their work would never make it past the slush pile because it would be considered FAR too politically incorrect. They established their name brand in an entirely different era and so their work persists for now.
Leila, you help keep literature alive in the middle of THE WASTELAND, and as someone who cares about this more than anything else, except kids and dogs, I can’t ever thank you enough at every level.
Dale
PS, It’s also worth pointing out that Joyce couldn’t find a publisher for ULYSSESS. Sylvia Beach, a bookshop owner, paid to publish it herself, in an edition of one thousand copies. Joyce never made any money off writing. When he became somewhat wealthy later in life, it was because rich folks he knew were sharing their bounty with him and his family (i.e., patrons).
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Hi Dale
Thank you!
I imagine poor Buk would have been reviled by the superficial little types (you pointed out that someone tried that, but it won’t work).
Most of what the big publishers like The New Yorker print today is the same thing. Never varies. Established items get fat and lazy and would be mocked by their uoriginal publishers. Like The Rolling Stone.
Leila
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Leila
The demise of Rolling Stone Magazine surely began when they fired Mr. Lester Bangs in 1973. Then again, he moved to Detroit and started another publication which became, in its own way, just as legendary, if not more so. I often find it weirdly cool that I lived a couple of miles down the street from Lester Bangs when I was 9 and 10 years old in the good ol’ 1970s – without knowing it at the time, of course.
If someone like Hunter S. Thompson showed up at Rolling Stone Magazine today, there would be one single reaction, and that would be to phone the authorities ASAP and have good Hunter removed from the premises. And that would be for his PROSE STYLE, not his behavior. His behavior would be turned away from in fear by the quivering snow flakes, then again, that part was always true to an extent. Thanks!
Dale
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Hi Dale
On my way in to work. But I agree wholly with what you wrote about RS. Sometime in the 70’s its irreverence and underground nature went away and it has become a mocking parody of what it hated most. Too bad it didn’t go under with its rep intact.
Thank you!
Leila
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I read Jack Johnson’s biography. His tale is not as heroic as might be imagined. He fought for money. He wasn’t interested in fighting black fighters because the white people paid to see a black fighter beaten by a white fighter. He advanced boxing by moving in non-traditional ways and was more clever than his oponents. He may have faked being beated by a white guy in Cuba so he could get back to USA. He left because he favored white women (shades of …) and had prison waiting. He died in a car accident after being disrespected at a gas station.
Feel free to check me on this , it’s been years since I read the book.
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Yes, I recall black fighters not liking Jack much because he didn’t give them a shot. I bet some of that wasn’t just money. I bet some of those guys would have kicked his ass.
Leila
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As You know I have always loved these stories and I’m looking forward to the installments. I wrote many of my early novels this way but being a glutton for stress I published a chapter per day. Focuses the mind ! However your chapters are longer and the imagination surpasses mine by miles. Good luck with this. dd
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Hi Diane
Thank you! Glad to know you have done the same. No way could I do this daily. Having a three week head start still makes me nervous.
Leila
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