Costa Rica Diaries, Part 7

January 31, 2017

Last night Nick (Halverson) and I discussed the many similarities between rural Costa Ricans and rural Southerners in the US.  Regardless if there is a change in income, many remain in their same tiny houses; you only know their fortunes have increased because they build an enormous electronic front gate, buy a more expensive car or a much larger flat screen TV.   They also burn their trash in barrels.  I laughed as my nephew asked for and received his very own burn barrel for Christmas his sophomore year in high school.

Our retreat is in a beautiful private home well off the beaten path.  A location like this wasn’t unfamiliar to me as most of my childhood and almost all of my Christmases even now have been in houses outside a tiny town in the rural South and Texas.

After dinner tonight, we were discussing haiku after I told a story about meeting one of my favorite authors, Douglas Coupland, at a book signing/reading in Anchorage, Alaska and he quite cleverly read from John Grisham’s The Client instead of from one of his own books. While reading a passage he stumbled upon a haiku about a hushpuppy.  This led to Zach Roz teaching us how to write haiku and each of us trying our hand at the five syllable-seven syllable-five syllable poetic structure.

My offerings:

Practicing Haiku
After watching Mickey Rourke
Seems beside the point

A Brita Bottle

Costa Rican water source
No diarrhea!

February 1, 2017

Today we had a jaunt in the jungle after our morning writing class.  I had to turn back relatively quickly as did Tom (Shaw).  I couldn’t seem to catch my breath and felt slightly dizzy from the oppressive humidity.  Tom had to go to the hospital because of his blood pressure due to the humidity.  Tonight on the way to dinner, we stopped at a beautiful waterfall then had a delicious dinner at a tilapia farm where, oddly, not everyone ate tilapia.  You could catch the fish yourself and they’d cook it if you wanted.  I chose to eat what had already been caught and cooked by others.  Far be it from me to be an immigrant taking someone’s job from them.

We stopped for ice cream at the local tiny store, their version of a quickie mart.  It was very small and they had one of every item manufactured in Costa Rica, China and other countries.  You couldn’t fit an additional whisper on the shelves.  I felt very much at home, remembering the tiny store down the road from my grandparents’ farm in Alsatia, Louisiana from my childhood.

 We later watched  one of our instructors Will (Viharo’s) dad in the movie “Bare Knuckles” and everyone made funny comments about the acting, the clothes, the choreographed fights and , of course, the flute.  John Kapelos did five years at Second City Improv (the home of talented Canadians) and can riff like a pro.  He is hilarious!

 My jungle-themed essay from our afternoon class:

I know the definition of intrepid and I know it doesn’t apply to me, but I decided I couldn’t come to Costa Rica and not at least wander into the jungle, even if only by accident.  I had been instructed on which rubber boots to buy from Amazon (the website, not the river) and I borrowed a jungle hat from my truly intrepid friend Jamie.  I was feeling rakish having written a haiku about my ensemble:  Washable silk shirt, lovely linen pants I wear, Costa Rican Prep.  I wasn't dreading this event as I had been assured the terrain we were to traverse was flat.  A motley crew of poetic wanderers in the capable hands of mostly silent native Costa Ricans, we set off at varying speeds.

I’ve lived in north Louisiana.  I’ve visited south Louisiana, farther south than New Orleans, in the summer.  I thought I knew humidity.  I did not.  Imagine touring the French Quarter in August wearing an angora bodysuit, jogging everywhere you go.  The air was so thick you could almost grab a handful of it.  Imagine trying to walk through a memory foam mattress over loose rocks in ill-fitting rubber boots trying to keep your spirits up by throwing out what you intend as witty asides comparing the jungle stream to the Bogue Chitto River in South Mississippi.  I’m not sure if that’s the reason the most adventurous of our group (Zach and John) strode ahead at a quicker pace, but I don’t blame them.  I was being so absurdly chipper I was starting to get on my own nerves.

I began to have trouble breathing in the soupy air and noticed my fellow slow-traveler (Tom) had taken a seat on a rock to catch his breath, too.  I seized upon the chance to rescue us both by suggesting I could be easily convinced to return to the villa without further ado.  Tom, God bless him, concurred.  I admitted to Tom and our consummate host, Nick, that although I grew up in the country and had hiked and explored the woods and rivers of Louisiana, Mississippi and East Texas, it has been more than twenty-five years ago and it feels almost disingenuous to claim that history.  It’s like I’ve co-opted someone else’s childhood for dramatic effect, however accurate it may be.  I keep saying I am not that guy, but I must come to terms I have become that guy; City Slicker, Gringo, Greenhorn, whatever you call it.  I’m soft, people.  Soft like a down pillow.  But I’m okay with it because at least this down pillow agrees to leave the couch and be thrown into the wild (be it woods, plains or jungle) from time to time. 

John Grisham, Party Crashing and Dark Brown Champagne

               Not to get all Sophia-from-the-Golden-Girls on you but picture this:  It was 1991 and I was a junior at Mississippi University for Women and John Grisham had only recently hit the periphery of fame so he still lived in Mississippi and was available to speak at small schools like mine.  As one of the few young men serving as a Student Ambassador on campus, I was designated to drive the Athletic Director’s giant Cadillac and chauffeur Mr. Grisham to and from events for Welty Weekend, so named for our most famous alum, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Eudora Welty.  Once I get my book of blogs published, I fully expect them to change the name to Dusty/Welty Weekend or Welty/Dusty Weekend, or something hopefully more clever.
                This weekend had many illustrious guests and speakers including Ms. Welty herself and Roger Mudd (who was nice), cartoonist Doug Marlette (who was funny) and George Plimpton (who was neither).  I also drove Miriam Cruz from the Department of Education and a gentleman who was either the US Ambassador to Mexico or Mexico’s Ambassador to the US.  He was just some tiny dude in a tux who sort of sat there so I guess being interesting is not an ambassadorial prerequisite. 
                I picked Mr. Grisham up and was determined to play it cool.  I had been warned by all my jealous friends, most especially Tara Wages, that I was to be myself but a version of myself that was less, well, just LESS than normal.  Message received.  As there were multiple people in the car and even a Cadillac can only hold so many people in the back seat, Mr. Grisham was riding up front with me.  I told him I thoroughly enjoyed “A Time to Kill” (still my favorite of his) and was looking forward to “The Firm”.  We were having a lovely chat that was continually interrupted by the very pushy Miriam Cruz who from the backseat kept trying to insert herself into my conversation with comments such as “Hi, I’m Miriam Cruz” and other nonsense.
                When we arrived at the dinner, I made a point to drop them off at the side entrance so he could avoid the crowd out front as I had seen this in a movie. I was dressed in a tux (leftover from my choir days, tails and all) and Mr. Grisham asked if I were attending the dinner.  I told him that I wasn’t but assured him that we would be fed and eager to spirit him to the reception afterwards at the President’s Home.
                I ran around to the front of the convention center to assist my fraternity brothers who were serving as valets that evening.  This was where I interacted with the previously mentioned Misters Mudd, Marlette and Plimpton.  After the event which was fairly uneventful for those of us outside, we left for President Clyda Rent’s home to the Champagne and Chocolates Reception.  As I parked, Mr. Grisham asked if I were coming inside.  I told him that I hadn’t been invited and even if I had, I had no funds for the admission as my last $5 was earmarked for my 2 AM cheeseburger as I invented fourth meal long before Taco Bell used it in their ad campaign.  He told me that I was his invited guest and that if anyone “hassled” me to come find him.  I love me some John Grisham, y’all.
                We entered the party and I made my way to the outer edges as I was out of my element and needed to make an assessment of the situation and get myself mentally prepared.  This was back in the days when I could become overwhelmed in any environment more elegant than a potluck luncheon at a Southern Baptist Church. 
                Seeing no beverage other than white wine and champagne, which I soon discovered does not in fact taste anything like fizzy apple juice; I entered the kitchen looking for water or something.  I had been to the President’s House before, so I felt bold enough to ask for "water or something".  After giving me a confused look and shrugging their shoulders, the caterers told me to check the pantry if I wanted.  My search uncovered a stash of Diet Coke, which I summarily served myself in a champagne flute.  What?  I wanted to be fancy too, y’all.
                Newly-beveraged and feeling more confident, I strolled around the room trying to look as if I belonged and trying my best not to look confused when people kept telling me that they were really impressed by my position at such a young age.  Dr. Rent walked over and smiled and before she could even ask, I blurted, “John Grisham snuck me in.  Snuck is that right?  Sneaked me in!  I’m not drinking I swear! It’s Diet Coke!”  Compassionately, Dr. Rent smiled and patted my arm and said, “Don’t worry, Dusty.  Enjoy yourself.”  Suddenly feeling a little more best-friendy, I then asked her why she thought people kept congratulating me, she looked at my nametag, and then chuckled and pointed out that it said I was a Senator (at MUW).  Everyone else thought I was a Mississippi State Senator!
                I made my way to the quieter part of the living room and stood in the corner weighing my options.  I hadn’t noticed our Lilliputian honoree, Ms. Welty seated on the loveseat.  I was quietly laughing and she asked why so I pointed at the VCR and said, “It makes me feel better about people when I can see they aren’t perfect” noticing that the clock was flashing 12:00, like everyone’s VCR used to do.  She smiled and asked me to sit with her.  We chatted for a bit; I poured her a Diet Coke at her request and we people-watched.   Well, she watched people, I watched her. I had read about but never experienced anyone whose eyes literally sparkled with intelligence; hers did and I’ll never forget that.  We talked about my fraternity brothers who were the drivers and therefore waiting outside with the cars.  She asked me to bring them inside.  She wanted a photo because she loved the idea of MUW being co-ed, unlike when she attended.  We lined up in front of the fireplace with her in the middle and right before the snap, she kicked her leg a little to the side, stating that she felt like a chorus girl being surrounded by such handsome gentlemen.
                When Ms. Welty was ready to go home, she asked if I could take her and so I did.  I informed Mr. Grisham of my errand and he said he would be ready by the time I got back.  I made the school photographer take our picture to prove our friendship and then squired Ms. Welty to her hotel.
                When I returned Mr. Grisham was ready as was the ever-present Ms. Cruz and a couple I hadn’t met.  When I dropped Mr. Grisham and Ms. Cruz, the remaining couple asked me to take them to the train tracks.  I was uncertain where this was leading as I had not intended to be murdered in my show choir tux in a borrowed Sedan DeVille.  The husband quickly explained that he was the President of Amtrak and he had a private rail car (actually two).  When we arrived, they invited me in for a tour and I readily agreed.  I f I were going to be murdered it would at least be in stylish surroundings.  They gave me a tour and even offered to have their chef make us a snack.  I declined as my mother would have been horrified at “making that poor man wake up and cook for you Dustin Terryll”.  My father would have been equally horrified at the rebuffing of an offer of high quality food.  And he was when I shared this story.
                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Literature

                I recently attended a Q&A session/book signing for James Franco’s book, Actors Anonymous with my friend Teresa (Hi Teresa!).  I’m not quite sure if I'm a fan, and I'm also not really sure the genre and I haven’t actually read it yet but something he said during his talk I found interesting.  When asked how he is able to portray such a wide variety of people on screen, he said he finally learned how to “relax into (his) character.”  And I think that is what I have done with this blog; relax into my voice.

                When my friend Liz Shellman (Hey Liz!) suggested I chronicle the life I would lead once my Dad moved in with me, I tried to figure out just how I would say what I wanted to say.  She suggested that I “write like you talk, dude; it’ll be all good.”  That right there is some sage advice from one of my favorite Texans. 

People ask me if I’ve always been a writer and the answer is…sorta, kinda, not really.  I have always been a story teller but I haven’t always excelled putting pen to paper.  While I may have entertained at telling stories, I have found it difficult to have that same kind of connection when writing.  A writer has an edge because they can stop and think of the perfect thing to say or to formulate a brilliant quip.  Storytellers just say what they are going to say, for better or for worse. 

                And my “voice” when telling stories has remained pretty consistent; my “voice” while writing has definitely improved with age and practice.  Anyone who read anything I wrote in high school knows I was a very dramatic writer.  And not in the good way.  Were Nola Faye Boyd alive, she could attest that my first foray into short stories, the ludicrously titled “Forever, Meredith”, was a painful exercise for both writer and reader.  I can’t remember the specifics but I do know there was a jilted blind girl and, well, do I need to go on?

                Although I considered my first book A Gone Pecan (and if you haven’t purchased it, why not?) as a way to capture the essence of my mother, I have summarily been informed by innumerable people whomever’s voice is (the narrator) Cady McIntyre, it is most definitely not my mother’s.  I guess it’s mine were I to be a middle-aged woman.  When I sat down to chronicle my relationship with my father, I finally felt, at age 41, that I could just be myself, warts (or should I say, farts) and all. 

It took me until the ripe old age of 40 to stop being concerned with people’s opinion of me.  I would like to think it’s because I have become much more at ease with myself and have settled into a comfortable maturity.  Although, full disclosure, it may be because I think I am fancy enough to pass muster with anyone, should they be so inclined to ponder the wonder that is me.  Let’s go with the maturity thing.  It sounds better.

                I have recently been gifted with the newest novel from one of my favorite writers, Donna Tartt.  My best friend Christopher knows the connection I have with her first novel The Secret History and he very thoughtfully sent me a copy.  It has been sitting on my bedside table taunting me and I am, frankly, a bit nervous to start as I was disappointed with her second tome, The Little Friend.  Pondering that got me to thinking about other books or authors that have excited, illuminated, saddened or affected me profoundly and I thought I would share with you Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Literature.

1.       Candide by Voltaire.  The book that helped develop my cynical view of “classics”.  Seriously, overrated as is most of William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  The only positive outcome of publishing The Great Gatsby was the Brooks Brother’s Gatsby Collection. 

2.       In Cold Blood by Truman Capote was the book that caused a fundamental shift in my reading habits to heavily non-fiction.  Other non-fiction favorites include Isaac’s Storm and The Devil in the White City by Eric Larson; although, I did not like his In the Garden of Beasts.  Two other interesting reads are Fingerprints by Colin Beavan and Jeffrey Toobin’s The Nine.  Kim Powers’ Capote in Kansas is a fictional take on Truman Capote while visiting Kansas writing ICB.  It is excellent.  Demonstrating how hysterical non-fiction can be is Will Cuppy’s The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody.

3.       A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.  The first book to make me actually laugh out loud.  The second book that caused a lot of LOLing was Yeah, I Said It by Wanda Sykes.  The book that made me scream and throw it across the room was The Amityville Horror.  I don’t care who wrote it.

4.        Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich was the book that caused me to re-think my views on the working poor.  It also made me able to admit without embarrassment that my family has, at different times, been on food stamps and lived in a motel.  The working poor, whose number increases daily, is a shameful reality in this country.

5.        The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett and 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff are the two reasons I appreciate the novella.

6.       The memoir that helped me realize that although I am a product of my family, I am fully in control of the outcome of my life was The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls.  Other surprisingly good but not life-altering memoirs are My Life in France by Julia Child and Vicki! by Vicki Lawrence.  One that was absolutely hilarious but vulgar in parts was Let’s Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson.  The memoir I wanted to like but didn’t was Ali in Wonderland by Ali Wentworth.  I only kept my copy because it’s autographed.

7.        Andy Warhol’s Diaries edited by Pat Hackett was the book that started my weird fascination with New York Society.  Interesting, funny and surprisingly down-to-earth, Andy Warhol was the master of observation.  Other Society-based non-fiction I’ve enjoyed is Philistines at the Hedgerow by Steven Gaines, The Last Mrs. Astor by Frances Kiernan and Empty Mansions by.

8.       The best book that made me uncomfortable was The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.  Difficult subject; beautifully handled.

9.        Microserfs is the book that introduced me to the genius of Douglas Coupland.  The book that made me his lifelong fan was Miss Wyoming.  The book that he signed when I met him in Alaska was Hey, Nostradamus!  He brilliantly did a reading…of John Grisham’s The Client and found a haiku about a hushpuppy!

10.   The best John Grisham book is A Time to Kill.  The next best is A Painted House followed by Skipping Christmas.  Yes, I know it was a terrible movie; the book is excellent!  Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt is one of my all-time favorites.  Clint Eastwood’s massacre of the movie is repugnant.  You can’t blame the source material, people.  On that note, I think the Harry Potter movies are the best example of my liking both the book and the movie; all eleventy-hundred of them.

11.   The books that made me want to befriend TV stars were Bossypants by Tina Fey and Is Everyone Hanging out without me and Other Concerns by Mindy Kaling.

12.   The book that began my devotion to all things British and mysterious was The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley.  All 5 entries in his Flavia De Luce series are exceptionally good.  The book that started my anglophilia was Gone With the Windsors by Laurie Graham.  Other books that have fueled my obsession are Royal Sisters by Anne Edwards, Mrs. Queen Takes the Train by William Kuhn and The Windsor Knot by Sharyn McCrumb, although the last one is only remotely British.

13.   My appreciation of peeks at other writer’s journals was sustained by Bill Bryson’s I’m a Stranger Here Myself, The Know-it-all by A.J. Jacobs, Reading the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) by Ammon Shea and The Unlikely Disciple by Kevin Roose.

14.   The book that tells you it’s awesome?  The Book of Awesome by Neil Pasricha, of course.

15.   The impetus for my lifelong relationship with music trivia was The Billboard Book of Number 1 Hits by Fred Bronson.

 All this book talk has me itching to read “The Goldfinch” now.  I’ll let you know what I think.