Sketchbook

It was a far from perfect landing at Omaha Beach in Normandy on June 6, 1944. The Allied assault faced unexpectedly strong opposition from the entrenched German forces, and within just minutes of hitting the beach every officer and sergeant of the leading U.S. infantry amphibious company had been killed or wounded. It was a nightmarish two days before headway was made and the beachhead established.

There are thousands of stories written and told about Normandy, and numerous archival photographs, but just as fascinating are the many drawings and sketches made by soldiers and sailors who participated in the invasion. One such artist was a Navy seaman named Fred Thrane. My connection with Fred began several months ago, unbeknownst to both of us.

Book auctions are notorious for providing the excitement of the unexpected, often in the shape of little gems found in old boxes or stacks of books. You soon learn not to look too closely and to go with your instincts, as long as the bidding is reasonable. We attended one such auction and left with several boxes of choice books, and some boxes full of doubtful ones to be sorted through later. It was when unpacking one of the latter boxes that I came upon the old sketchbook. It was small, about 8x11, and held seven original drawings, some in color, rendered in a quaint but professional hand. The scenes depicted were of soldiers and sailors of World War II. There were a few captions provided: one was Listening to the World Series 1944 on a black and white drawing of sailors crouched around an old radio set; another was USO Tour which captioned a color sketch of a singer at a microphone next to a piano; and another Setting up Tents described a color scene of GIs putting the final touches on their new camp. All of these were labeled Omaha Beach, Normandy, 1944. All were signed 'Fred Thrane'.

I had never heard of Fred Thrane, but I was now entrusted with his 64 year-old original sketches, and of course when something like that happens you have to do something about it, as Sam Spade would say. Was Fred alive and well? Did he make it home from Normandy? Did he become a famous artist? Is he a forgotten ex-sailor of WW II, impossible to trace? I had to find out.

I found the name 'Fred Thrane' on the internet, tiny mentions of him (was it him?) in a few websites, but nothing connected to WW II, or to artists or drawing, and not in the right time frame. Then I hit on a website for a ski club in upstate New York. The club's historian had written an article for the ski club's website on the history of the club, and it very briefly mentioned a Fred Thrane who had drawn the original logo for the club. This seemed promising, and the 1950s timing could be correct, so my hopes were raised. I composed an e-mail to the club's historian telling my end of the story and asking if this could in fact be the Fred Thrane of Normandy Beach. I received an immediate reply, and yes, it might very well be, as this Fred Thrane did serve in the Navy during the war, and was now thought to be living in Vermont with his nephew. I asked for further information and amazingly the club historian came up with the name of Fred's nephew. I made contact with Christopher Thrane the next day.

On Veterans Day I received an e-mail link to a video story from the local Vermont television news station. There was Fred Thrane himself being interviewed by a reporter, with those Normandy sketches laid out on the table in front of him. He had suffered a stroke so his speech was not perfect, but he was surely in touch with the event, describing the sketches and remembering his time in the war. He said that he never thought he would see those drawings again, and he was just thrilled to have them. Fred said he would have them framed so they could be handed down to future generations. The reporter sounded amazed that the sketchbook had finally found its way home after all these years, and so Fred became the symbol of Veterans Day, 2008, for Vermont.

As I said, there are thousands of stories about Normandy Beach. Most of them probably didn't turn out the way Fred's did. Of course along with the thrill of enjoying his reunion with his sketches, I'm sure their return brought back memories that weren't quite so pleasant. We'll never know about those memories, he'll take them with him. Fred and thousands like him. What was endured on behalf of this country is frightening sometimes. Yes, we owe those veterans a debt of gratitude, but occasionally we owe them moments like Fred had on television, with his drawings in front of him, and his family around him, his pride in his work evident, and his broad smile betraying his total enjoyment.

Postscript - July, 2009: Christopher Thrane wrote to me with the sad news that Fred Thrane passed away on June 24, 2009. Fred was 86 years old.

Poetry's Courage and Blessings

Poetry has always been a mystery to me. Maybe it's that way with most of us. I recognize and admire the talent, craftsmanship and beauty of poetry, and I place it on a step above narrative writing. In fact when complimenting prose writing I'll often refer to it as poetry. I've often thought of Scott Fitzgerald as a poet who wrote prose. Being a sometime prose writer, I marvel at the imagination, inspiration and discipline poetry demands. There's all those rules, for one thing, and I doubt that poets sit down in the morning and say to themselves "OK, time to write some poetry". I can't imagine it being that way at all. I picture a sort of channeling, or meditation session, where inspiration takes over and violins play in the distance and the lights dim and the poet's hand reaches for a pencil and trance-like the words begin to appear on the page. And afterward, exhausted and in a cold sweat perhaps, the poet withdraws from the writing table to rest on the couch and sleeps deeply for several hours until awakened by the chimes of a magnificent thunderstorm passing through. Yes, I'm serious, I believe in the mystery of it all.

I've had favorite poets now and then. For a long time Tennessee Williams was one, and his poem usually titled How Calmly Does the Orange Branch, and which I have personally titled Courage, was my favorite. There was a dangerous time in my life when I carried that poem folded up in my wallet, even though I'd memorized it. It is the poem Nonno is working on in Williams' play The Night of the Iguana.

I think what I admire most about poetry is its honesty. There is never a doubt in my mind that it comes from the soul. We at Chester River Press were indeed fortunate to be able to publish Fierce Blessings, by James Dissette, a collection of thirty-four of Jim's poems. The book's release was an event in itself, an hours-long book signing and reading that is still recalled as a wonderful, enlightening evening. One can't say enough about the poetry in this book, its truthfulness and wisdom shine through. It's a collection one returns to often, for its writing, design, and sheer pleasure. This is one of my many favorites, titled When In Rome:

I'd like to sack Carthage but the airfare's ridiculous.
I'd settle for a fiddle and box of matches
but I promise to spare the library --

Still, I like their columns,
strong enough to hold up the gathering darkness,
exclamation marks in marble.

O, no worries, I'd blend in
as an embezzler on vacation or stand still looking
very important as I read the instructions
carved across the Parthenon
which I believe loosely translated
means Do Not Steal This City With Your Eyes.

I promise not to embarrass my country
by plotting to add someone to the Last Supper
or yell, 'Fountains Rock' to anyone but the pigeons.

But I would like to sneak into the Colosseum
one midnight for a vegetarian picnic
and nap among imaginary lions

or sit alone among the statues of emperors and generals
so that anyone passing wouldn't notice
there was a break in the tradition of postures.

I might not be able to speak Italian
but I can wave my hands furiously at Etna,
even use the power fist if there's a plume.

Most of all though I would like to trace my fingertips
along the chiseled slots of letters
carved in the Trajan column.

It's not often we can touch a language as lovers.

Doesn't Anyone Read Thomas Wolfe Anymore?

One of the interesting and obvious advantages of running a bookshop is that you begin to have a sense of what the public is reading these days. Now, admittedly, an antiquarian bookshop is unlike a 'new-book' store, inasmuch as the customer base is a bit different, and generally visitors to our shop are not expecting to find a large selection of new releases or even shelves of paperback reprints of the classics of modern literature. Nonetheless, one does get a sense of what's being read, as well as collected, and the students from Washington College add to the variety of tastes. It is just as interesting to consider what is not being read. Some authors stay on the shelves an overlong period of time, except for the brief intervals when I pick them up and re-read their work. So who are these neglected 'modernists'?

Several come to mind right away. John Dos Passos, Gertrude Stein, Henry James, James T. Farrell, John O'Hara, Carson McCullers, Paul Bowles, and Malcolm Lowry to name a handful. I've had James Baldwin stay on the shelf undisturbed for a long time, and what a pity that is. Edmund Wilson wrote such marvellous essays as well as fiction, and his books are dusty as well. Gertrude Stein is still there, along with E.E. Cummings. Scott Fitzgerald doesn't exactly run out the front door either, nor do Dreiser, Sinclair Lewis or Nathanael West.

Hemingway and Faulkner occasionally sell, and Steinbeck, but not Thomas Wolfe. No, not Thomas Wolfe. But why? To what do we owe this neglect of the stalwarts of American literature? To be sure, no one reads as much as in past decades anyway, and tastes change. If one tries to keep up with new titles released each year, well, there goes the time to read the 'classics'. Too much computer time, TV time, and less actual leisure time, all contribute of course. And there is a tendency among us to regard these books as 'having been read'. "Oh, I read that as a college freshman." Do we seriously think it will be the same book if we read it again this afternoon?

The other day a customer was browsing the fiction shelves and I overheard him say to his partner: " Look, Thomas Wolfe's novels. Nobody reads Thomas Wolfe anymore." Well, perhaps. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't read him. Yes, his books are lengthy, a bit disorganized, and maybe could have withstood another editing session. But try this from You Can't Go Home Again:

"I believe we are lost here in America, but I believe we shall be found. And this belief, which mounts now to the catharsis of knowledge and conviction, is for me - and I think for all of us - not our only hope, but America's everlasting, living dream. I think the life which we have fashioned in America, and which has fashioned us - the forms we have made, the cells that grew, the honeycomb that was created - was self-destructive in its nature, and must be destroyed. I think these forms are dying, and must die, just as I know that America, and the people in it, are deathless, undiscovered, and immortal, and must live."

Well Thomas Wolfe knew a thing or two, as young as he was. And so did the others who share the shelves with him. Their writing is just as relevant today as it was yesterday. Perhaps even more so.

New Paths

After Chesapeake Voyages was released we suddenly found ourselves recognized as "Fine Press Publishers." As fledgling as we were, people contacted us to discuss publishing opportunities, or to seek advice on their writing projects, or to ask what our next book project would be. Our next book was in fact decided by a gentleman who is a regular client of the bookshop and had admired and purchased a copy of Chesapeake Voyages. We were asked to design and print a collection of fifty poems written by his son, who was recently deceased. He had found his son's poems, never realizing his son wrote poetry at all. He and his wife wished to have a special remembrance of their son for family and close friends, and they asked if we would produce a letterpress limited edition they could be proud of.

Jim Dissette set out on the book design, and I began editing the sheaf of fifty poems, consulting closely with the poet's family. Working with Chad Pastotnik at Deep Wood Press we printed a very fine book, bound by Campbell-Logan Bindery. The result was Chester River Press' second publication, The Path to the Beach, Selected Poems by Nicholas William Kirk, completed in March 2008. It is a moving tribute with very fine poetry, and a volume the family is very proud of, as are we.

Through this experience we entered the world of publishing for clients, rather than conceiving and developing our own ideas for publishing projects. I must say, it was a most rewarding circumstance, and I quickly realized the satisfaction of working with a third party who was so intimately concerned with the final product. As we were to discover, word travels quickly, and this was not to be the only such project for us. In fact we are working on a memoir for a client as I write this.