“The orchard was still hot, still rustling and green, still haunted by the terror of snake bodies writhing to life under your feet.” Each fall I receive an exact intimation of how far away I have become. Such signs are not always dramatic, the Old Testament notwithstanding. When God, or memory, or the past, or »
I was born in Yazoo City at the edge of the Mississippi Delta in 1956, the year Elvis Presley made his television appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show but was shown only from the waist up. My father was in the service, and I moved from city to city as a “Navy brat.” But no »
“But nonetheless I have been lurking in the shadows, plotting and sulking like one of William Faulkner’s vindictive barn-burners.” I come from a family of preachers, teachers, and farmers, not academics, and most members of my extended clan don’t seem to have any clear sense of what a college professor actually does on, say, Tuesdays. »
“For a moment the world stopped turning while we, a great nation, felt ourselves suddenly headless, directionless.” I am not sure why the number eighty seems so weighty, compared with its predecessor or even with its successor. What are the landmark ages? Being old enough to drive? To vote? Or fifty? One young friend told »
“What I most recall is the sun slamming down, ricocheting off tin roofs of mud and plaster houses that duplicated one another endlessly down a thousand bicycle paths, splashes of puddles during the rains, and a hundred women on their way to market.” When I was a small girl in Nigeria, my father, after his »
“‘Yessir, pretty fine shootin’, especially as it appears these birds were flying upside down.’” I never know what to say when someone asks me where I am from. I was born in Memphis and the family moved before I was one. By the time I was six we had managed to live in four different »
“I’m with the British writer Zadie Smith, who writes, ‘The Book of Revelation is the last stop on the nutso express.’” It’s not well known that I was once an actual salaried art critic, for a very large newspaper—for a very short run. But I’m here today, I’m sure, due to my reputation as a »
“My mother used to call it GETTING ALL WROUGHT UP and viewed it as a kind of sickness, like the flu.” Back when I was a very dramatic and religious girl, I often spoke at Christian youth groups and camp meetings. As my minister once said in introducing me, “This here is Lee Smith, and »
“Thank you, heart lady.” I was about five years old—and being dragged along on another of a series of errands that generally didn’t hold much interest for me. But this trip held promise. We were going to one of my favorite places . . . the bookstore. And for some reason my mom seemed to »
“A dark secret hid itself under my overt appreciation for barbecue and bluegrass: I know next to nothing about NASCAR.” I loved sweet tea, fried chicken, and pulled pork sandwiches. I drove an American-made car and enjoyed old country music. I had a fishing license and drank domestic beer, preferably cheap, on a regular basis. »
“The dooway to Number Five suddenly opened directly onto an ocean writhing in fury. The front rooms no longer existed. The floor of the hallway had been sucked into the surf.” Editor’s Note: Positioned just east of the eye of the storm, Bay St. Louis and Waveland, Mississippi, suffered the brunt of Katrina’s wrath. Winds »
“I stood on the back porch and gazed across the fresh spring grass toward the squat little outhouse nestled at the edge of the meadow, behind the old chicken coop. All outdoor toilets are not the same, and ours has some unusually fine qualities.” I flushed with excitement. After generations of anticipation, the house finally »