Now, this is gorgeous writing. But it is also wonderfully aphoristic. “Weaving a rooted companionship with home ground” is right up there with Pattiann Rogers’s phrase, from her poem “The Family Is All There Is”: “The grasp/ of the self on place,” and means, as I read them, the same thing. Which reminds me of a time when Kim and Pattiann and I were all traveling and reading together on one of the Orion Society’s storied “Forgotten Language Tours,” along with Scott Sanders and Ann Zwinger. We were in Ohio, kitting up to drive down to Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana. We’d been out for days already. Kim was seeking a perfect piece of pie he imagined that some old cafe along this stretch of back road would hold out to us. Pattiann and Ann were getting tired of all the boy-talk in the van.
Suddenly, and unexpectedly, we came upon the museum-home of Gene Stratton Porter, the naturalist and wildly successful novelist of an earlier era, whose Girl of the Limberlost wooed a great many young readers to think about the lost swamp where the story takes place. Each of us was swept up in our own way with the life and lore of the writer, her artifacts, faded specimens, once-upon-a-world, and life in a gentler, wilder time. I think we all felt that this was a woman with a grasp of her self on her place, with a true rooted companionship to her home ground. It filled our long, wilting trip with fresh new life. And we were all thrilled a couple of days later to learn of a movement underway to bring back the Limberlost.
On these multi-author barnstorming tours, Kim acquired a special role. Early in the morning or whenever we were at rest and at will, he would wander the town where we had gone to ground for the night. He’d fill two or three of the special little pocket notebooks he constantly creates from single sheets of paper, with observations, snatches of overheard conversation or found poetry, and his own refraction of his spotful encounters. Then, on the last night, he would conclude the final reading with a poem constructed from the elements he’d concocted from his little notebooks. We all felt that this poem caught the essence of our gypsy band and its travels better than any number of snapshots or journal entries.
I mention this, because it is just how Kim goes about illuminating the Northwest and the broader concerns beyond in each essay of Having Everything Right: through lyric distillation of the Field Notes he is forever gathering, refinement of the ore mined from his many human encounters (whether intentional for oral history, or deliciously random), and loving attention to minutia that most would not even notice to dismiss. In other words, he writes out of utter devotion to story, and an unshakeable belief that story lies everywhere, and never lies.
Kim Stafford’s other published writing makes a large and eclectic corpus. Both before and after Having Everything Right, he wrote compelling books of poems, collected in A Thousand Friends of Rain. Lochsa Road: A Pilgrim in the West is a haunting love song to the land expressed through a journey up the famed Clearwater River and beyond. For Wind on the Waves, he was asked to write text to accompany the seascape photographs of Ray Atkeson and responded with fifty indelible short stories. He has written beautiful, gut-gripping memoirs of his brother (100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do: How My Brother Disappeared) and his father (Early Morning: Remembering My Father, William Stafford). And there have been others. Kim is also a singer-songwriter with CDs I have worn out, a remarkably perceptive photographer, and lately, a digital storyteller. But for as many readers and listeners as all these have reached and touched, he has probably reached and touched even more through his legendary teaching—as long-time director of the Northwest Writing Institute at Lewis & Clark College, mainstay from the start at both Sitka Center for Art and Ecology and Fishtrap, and elsewhere. It’s hard for me to think of anyone who has had as much of an impact on the Northwest literary landscape as Kim Stafford.
Yet this work is not Cascadian alone, any more than E. B. White belonged solely to New York or Maine, or Peter Matthiessen to Long Island or Florida. Kim’s subjects and settings frequently lie in Oregon, it’s true. Yet his actual topic is the human heart and how it situates itself in place—any place where it finds itself, or better yet belongs, but never truly displaced, or unplaced. Before there was a discipline called “place-based writing,” there was Kim Stafford. Not that the loci his genius explores are all balm, tonic, or posies. Kim knows heartbreak and loss, slaughter and exile, and cruelty, oh, yes, cruelty, to self and others, humans and non-. The stories he excavates and adumbrates touch every base of emotion and experience, but good humor, love, and the kindly fruits of the earth almost always enter in such a way as to save the day, or at least salve it.
Kim says “I want to learn place, custom, and story for my home. I want to name it in my own tongue, ‘Having Everything Right.’” To my eye and mind, his work, in seemingly every medium, especially these essays, has met his desire. It could stand for any place where humans make their way among the roads, rivers, pines, firs, battlegrounds and burying grounds, misfits and perfect fits, old-timers and astronauts, bees, bears, and barns of the whole wide world: call it h′lad.
—ROBERT MICHAEL PYLE
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION: NAMING THE NORTHWEST
OUT OF THIS WORLD WITH CHAUCER AND THE ASTRONAUTS
A FEW MILES SHORT OF WISDOM
THE STORY THAT SAVED LIFE
DECEMBER MEDITATION AT CAMP POLK CEMETERY
A WALK IN EARLY MAY
THE SEPARATE HEARTH
PINE, FIR, CEDAR, YEW
THE GREAT DEPRESSION AS HEROIC AGE
LOCAL CHARACTER
RIVER & ROAD
DANCING BEAR OF THE SIUSLAW
THE BARN AND THE BEES
ROOT FEAST
A NOTE ON SOURCES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
INTRODUCTION: NAMING THE NORTHWEST
The Kwakiutl people of the Northwest coast had a habit in their naming. For them, a name was a story. We say “Vancouver,” naming an island for a captain; we say “Victoria,” naming a village for a queen. For them, a place-name would not be something that is, but something that happens. They called one patch of ocean “Where Salmon Gather.” They called one bend in the river “Insufficient Canoe.” They called a certain meadow “Blind Women Steaming Clover Roots Become Ducks.” They called a point near Knight Inlet “Hollow of the Northwest Wind.”
Even as they divided an island into garden plots, the people would not use their own possessive names on the place. One patch they called “Small Round Beach.” Another, “Having Long Cinquefoil Roots.” Another, “Having Wind.” Another, “Place of Homesickness.” When the tide went out, two islands were sometimes joined: “Two Round Things Meeting Now and Then.”
When Franz Boas recorded these and other