I can’t imagine a writer in North Carolina or a reader
who doesn’t know or recognize the name, Fred Chappell. He is 83 now and has
come out with a new poetry collection. He read at City Lights Books in Sylva recently. Wish I had known. I might have made the trip over the
mountain to see him and hear him speak.
When I was new to these mountains, twenty years ago, my
husband Barry and I attended a Bookfest in Waynesville, NC. I was thrilled to
be in the room with so very many authors
and their books. I stopped at every table and struck up a conversation with the
man or woman who sat there. They were real authors who had published books! The
energy was contagious and set my mood soaring.
 |
| Fred Chappell |
Barry followed behind me, his camera strap around his
neck. I remember meeting Vicki Lane, novelist, that day and some other good
writers. But the writer who made the biggest impression on me was Fred
Chappell. I didn’t know he was Fred Chappell. I had never seen him or even a
picture of him.
He was standing with other men in a room off to the side
of where the most activity was taking place. Several tables stacked with books
by various authors drew me in. I don’t know how he happened to come over to us.
Maybe my enthusiasm caught his attention. But he was suddenly beside me and
talking with me. He was being humorous and when he asked me my name, I
introduced myself and told him I was with Netwest.
He said, “Oh, yes. That’s Nancy Simpson’s group.”
I guess that was what the NC Writers’ Network –West was
thought to be – Nancy Simpson’s group. She was the person who was responsible
for holding it all together for all those years.
Fred joked and kidded me and I, not realizing he was a
celebrity in the literary world, said to Barry, “Take a picture of me with Fred
Chappell.”
I didn’t ask if he would make a picture with me, I just
assumed he would. I know now that was rude and presumptuous of me. Barry
grabbed his Nikon and Fred grabbed me around the neck and had me laughing when
Barry took the photo. It was a memorable moment that I treasure. (But I can't find the photo for this blog.)
Some years later I had the opportunity to take a workshop
with him and was very impressed with his warmth, his down-to-earth manner. He told all of us in the group that we could send him a poem if we wanted his help.
I did send a poem. The title was About Jack. I liked the poem because it sent a subtle
message about parents who were too busy to give a child the attention he needed.
Fred gave me a good critique, but I could tell he did not like the poem and
said he really thought I needed a new title for it.
By then, I had heard from Nancy how revered he was in
this state, having been Poet Laureate of North Carolina from 1997 - 2002, and had won all kinds of accolades. But to
me he was just a nice man who had a sense of humor and did not let me know how
foolish I was being when I first met him.
Later, I submitted the poem About Jack to a literary
journal and it was published. In fact, almost every time anyone reads the poem
or hears me read it, they say how much they like it.
About Jack
by Glenda C. Beall
Squeaking brakes, Bus 37 drops Jack home.
He races inside to pour out news from third grade
around bites of PB&J and a mug of milk.
Sherry threw up on her reader!
Alex brought some cool,
long worms to school.
Miss Cook hugged me -- twice.
His nubbin nose crinkles.
Grandma sits at the table with him,
wishing she could bottle this moment;
his grape-stained face, the light of the sky
in his eyes, the impassioned voice
proclaiming events that rival the evening news.
She would give the bottle to Jack's mom
who hurries in from a twelve-hour day at the diner,
flings her first words, like flaming arrows, at him.
Turn that damn thing down!
Jack never looks up, engrossed in Power Rangers,
laser noises, death battles on TV.
About Jack
by Glenda C. Beall
Squeaking brakes, Bus 37 drops Jack home.
He races inside to pour out news from third grade
around bites of PB&J and a mug of milk.
Sherry threw up on her reader!
Alex brought some cool,
long worms to school.
Miss Cook hugged me -- twice.
His nubbin nose crinkles.
Grandma sits at the table with him,
wishing she could bottle this moment;
his grape-stained face, the light of the sky
in his eyes, the impassioned voice
proclaiming events that rival the evening news.
She would give the bottle to Jack's mom
who hurries in from a twelve-hour day at the diner,
flings her first words, like flaming arrows, at him.
Turn that damn thing down!
Jack never looks up, engrossed in Power Rangers,
laser noises, death battles on TV.
I was tempted to write Fred Chappell a note and tell
him it was published and with that title he hated. But I didn’t. Many years
have passed since then and I have not seen him again. I am happy he has a
new poetry book, As If It Were, and I certainly will order a copy.
Read more of Fred’s words in this interview done with
the Smoky Mountain News recently. https://www.smokymountainnews.com/archives/item/27375-fred-chappell-releases-new-poetry-collection
