When a writer is telling a story, varying audiences must be kept in mind, this can reveal differing descriptions of people, places and events about the same subject. I recently found an example of variations in the writings of none other than our own Nobel laureate John Steinbeck. Let’s take a look at a couple examples of his use of literary license when writing about one of his favorite subjects, his hometown.
Last month I had the pleasure of reading a segment of Mr. Steinbeck’s semi-autobiographical novel “East of Eden” to a gathering of people; words from the first few pages of Chapter 14 where he speaks of his mother Olive Hamilton. Though raised on ranchland southeast of King City, she had spent time in the metropolis of Salinas to receive academic training. Steinbeck informs the reader that “In Salinas, Olive had experienced niceties of living” and “She had partaken of the arts, road companies of plays and even operas.” By this time, Steinbeck knew his novel would be read by millions in various languages, so he wrote about things that would appeal to the masses; in this case, telling readers the small metropolis had artistic endeavors not found in rural South County.
But when writing for a small, specific audience, such as a magazine, as he did in his compilation “Americans and Americans” when in his essay “Always Something to Do in Salinas” he writes this about his hometown: “Theatre came to Monterey, and even opera. Writers and painters and poets rioted in Carmel, but none of these things came to Salinas.” In the novel we are told while in Salinas, Olive “joined a chorus and orchestra,” and in the magazine piece we find “Mr. Rowling, the violin teacher, tried for years to breathe life into a small orchestra but the town preferred to hear Joe Conner sing Irish songs.” It is novelists, short story writers and essayists who have a literary license not granted to historians and scientists who are bound, or should be, to the verifiable. Columnists have oft questionable agendas and wavering moral compasses so can go either way.
It was not only in his contradictions but also in at least one of his descriptions of the area I found him questionable. In speaking of Natividad, which was a community on the rise until business and money began flowing toward Salinas, Steinbeck described it as “a pleasant little town on the higher ground of the Gabilan foothills, free of fog and swamp and mosquitos, protected from the fierce daily winds which funnel up the valley center” and “Salinas was never a pretty town. It took a darkness from the swamps. The high gray fog hung over it and the ceaseless wind blew up the valley.” And again, “But the high gray fog still hangs overhead and every afternoon the wind blows up from King City.” For anyone, I include myself, who has ever lived in Salinas, we would agree on the fog but only on those rare northward bound days of rain does the wind blow up the Valley. And the north-to-south winds that do blow do not do so on a daily basis, they are seasonal. Still, the man was a world-famous author, so who am I to comment?
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With the Fair now a bit over two weeks behind us, I want to mention an encounter I had on the second day of festivities. On Fair days, we denizens of the 400 block of Seventh Street (which Ts north off Division Street directly across from the fairgrounds parking lot) must deal with an invasion of vehicles. This is true of every street bounded by First and Canal, Broadway and Division. The first line of defense against potential parking problems is to park personal vehicles in the street, freeing a driveway for family and friends and to make sure each house’s driveway entrance is not blocked. I’ve seen blocked driveways end in towing.
Some of us offer parking on private property, and have for a few years. Where I live there are, depending upon car sizes, anywhere from three to five spaces available; most of my customers come after the SVF lot is full. I had affixed a “Parking @ $10” sign to the large, blue recycle bin and placed it strategically where no driver could block the driveway, the access to front yard parking. And that little act resulted in my being labeled, repeatedly, “idiot” and “stupid.” The initial “what an idiot,” hurled at no one in particular, came from a woman’s voice from across the street loud enough I heard it through my open front door. She and her, I assume, husband, obviously taking advantage of Senior Day, had exited their vehicle and saw what they assumed was someone attempting to charge money to park on a public street.
When I stepped out into the yard, they were crossing the street directly in front of me and this little harridan of a woman again bellowed “you’re an idiot” and “it’s illegal and stupid”; her aged male accomplice, obviously not the one wearing the Wranglers in the family, and having nothing on his own, could only parrot her “idiot” and “stupid.” I calmly told them if they would just stop for a few seconds, I could explain the situation, but convinced of their righteousness and self-importance, they just kept walking away. I felt if I didn’t also call them idiots, they would have felt cheated, so I did.
Some hours later I aimed my cell phone at them driving away and believing they were being videoed, they weren’t, the man extended his middle finger. Really, the old man flipped me off, gave me the bird. I seriously cannot remember when I last used that gesture in anything but jest. I’m sure that twosome went home feeling vindicated in their outrage. My personal take was that they were both very unhappy people.
Take care. Peace.
