Plausible Story

More Grace Paley

The first time I heard Grace Paley read, about eight years ago, she reminded me of my own grandmother—physically, I mean, and in her enjoyment of certain foods and phrases. The resemblance ended there; my grandmother had led a much more timid life. If she was capable of expressing depths of passion—and I believe she was—she only hinted at it. Could she have said the things that Grace was saying in her poems and stories? If only... but she might have recognized something of herself in what Grace had to say.

After that reading, I wrote this little Grace-inspired story, which, who knows, Grace herself might have enjoyed. And so, in honor of her Grace Paley's life, and my grandmother's, my poor imitation:

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Grace Paley has died

From the New York Times obit:

Grace Paley, the celebrated writer and social activist whose short stories explored in precise, pungent and tragicomic style the struggles of ordinary women muddling through everyday lives, died on Wednesday at her home in Thetford Hill, Vt. She was 84 and also had an apartment in Manhattan.

Some critics found Ms. Paley’s stories short on plot, and in fact much of what happens is that nothing much happens. Affairs begin, babies are born, affairs end. Mothers gather in the park. But that was the point. In Ms. Paley’s best stories, the language is so immediate, the characters so authentic, that the text is propelled by an innate urgency — the kind that makes readers ask, “And then what happened?”

Open Ms. Paley’s first collection, “The Little Disturbances of Man,” to the first story, “Goodbye and Good Luck”:

“I was popular in certain circles, says Aunt Rose. I wasn’t no thinner then, only more stationary in the flesh. In time to come, Lillie, don’t be surprised — change is a fact of God. From this no one is excused. Only a person like your mama stands on one foot, she don’t notice how big her behind is getting and sings in the canary’s ear for thirty years. Who’s listening? Papa’s in the shop. You and Seymour, thinking about yourself. So she waits in a spotless kitchen for a kind word and thinks — poor Rosie. ...

“Poor Rosie! If there was more life in my little sister, she would know my heart is a regular college of feelings and there is such information between my corset and me that her whole married life is a kindergarten.”

Hooked.

Grace was a familiar figure in my community. Twice I heard her give readings. I've often seen her, hunched and bright-eyed, at college events or local school programs for her grandchildren, her gnomelike husband Bob at her side. She was a fearless advocate of peace. She belonged to a generation of the politically awakened that is fast disappearing. Awakened, I mean, in the sense that she connected the small details of everyday life with the large struggles. If only she could have seen the end of this war! Let's end this war...

[NOTE: Rumors of the demise of Plausible Story have been greatly somewhat exaggerated. Life has gotten in the way (in a good way), but I shall return!]