As Ever – Betty Guy

I will never forget Betty Guy, a truly remarkable woman with a life story worthy of an epic novel. It was the brilliant John Steinbeck who introduced us – indirectly of course. And it was a red raincoat that ultimately brought our paths together. Betty’s legacy will live on through the many inspiring and beautiful pieces of art that she created and through the lives she touched during her 95 years. I’m so lucky to have shared even a short chapter with Betty, and will never forget her spark, her style and her incredible passion for life.

Our story is captured below and her life story is best told here. The post below is a shortened version of my blog series “The Steinbeck Connection,” published (with Betty’s input and edits) in 2010. Here’s to you, Betty… may you always be surrounded with brilliant watercolors, moving operatic arias and the fanciest of teas.

Julie and Betty, 2010

The Journey

When packing my bags, I was sure to bring my red raincoat. The weather report for England showed two weeks of continuous rain – fitting weather for a literary pilgrimage – dark, stormy and dramatic.

It was the fall of 2009 and I had just finished my masters thesis, which focused on the literary legacies of four California-based writers. John Steinbeck turned out to be my favorite subject and I was enthralled with his letters written in the late-1950s from a small cottage in the southwest corner of England. These letters would have a far greater effect than he surely ever expected, weaving a web of serendipity over the next fifty years, ultimately connecting three Americans in England – a writer, an artist and a student – each with different inspirations but a part of the same story.

The tiny town of Bruton – with its tiny winding streets, quaint shops and restaurants – is a place steeped in history, the storied former stomping grounds of King Arthur and burial spot of the Holy Grail. These legends are what brought John Steinbeck to Bruton in 1959, where he researched content for his book: The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights.

It just so happens that a good friend of mine lives in Bruton; it’s a town that’s become familiar to me after several visits over the years. The Steinbeck legacy is still alive in this tiny little corner of the English countryside. What are the odds that Steinbeck’s little corner would be just the same as mine?

The Inspiration

Caroline’s family helped me gain access to Discove cottage, which was Steinbeck’s base while he worked there. On a blustery November morning, we began our adventure. I wore my trusty red raincoat and anxiously stood in the threshold of the main estate, knocking heartily on the imposing wooden door. As we were invited in, I spied the cottage – a modest residence on a windswept meadow. We chatted with the owners who had never read a word of Steinbeck. They handed me a thin, beige book from the shelf titled “Surprise for Steinbeck,” written and published by Betty Guy in San Francisco.

The current owners knew only that Betty was an American artist commissioned to paint a portrait of Steinbeck’s cottage while he was staying there. I thumbed through the book’s illustrated pages, and noticed a color photo taped onto one of the last pages with the caption: “John Steinbeck and Betty Guy, 1959 taken by Elaine Steinbeck.” Betty was a young brunette woman about my age wearing a red leather jacket with zipper pockets. Her smile exuded confidence as she stood next to the towering author.

I set aside the book and we ventured into the torrential rain toward the cottage, where vines crawled up the white stones and an overgrown path led us to the front door through a wild, unkempt garden. In the kitchen I found what I was looking for. The “flagstones . . . smoothed and hollowed by feet” that Steinbeck had written about in his letter to friend Elia Kazan. I took a few meditative breaths there on those stones – the same stones that he stood on exactly fifty years earlier.

We walked out to the yard and I recognized the doorway as the one from the book, where Steinbeck and Betty had stood. We snapped a few photos and continued on, creeping our way up the rickety stairway to the second floor and to Steinbeck’s writing room. It was indeed an inspiring perch and was no surprise that he wrote in another letter to Kazan: “I feel more at home here than I have ever felt in my life in any place.” Standing there, it was easy to understand the sentiment.

The Steinbeck Connection

After ten days of traipsing around England through other literary haunts, I returned home to California. As I unpacked my bags, I came across a scrap of paper on which I had scribbled the name “Betty Guy.” The image of the woman in the red coat flashed through my mind and I sat down at my computer to begin another phase of research. Search engines returned several references to this painter, and I tracked down an address in San Francisco.

Three days after sending my inquiry, I returned from work to her reply: “That was a surprise opening your envelope with my photo . . . yes, lots of coincidences.” She left me with her phone number and an invitation: “Call me and we can meet.”

On a wintery Saturday afternoon, I ventured to Betty’s home. The years had altered her appearance since the photo with Steinbeck half a century prior. But the bright smile remained and I felt instantly welcome as she jokingly inquired about why I wasn’t wearing my red raincoat.

Betty’s house was an eclectic mix of her personal artwork, photographs, antiques and collected treasures from her many travels. Opera music filled the air and while Betty made us a pot of her “fancy” tea, I looked through a pile of watercolor paintings of European scenes piled up on the living room floor.

She related tales of dinner parties with poets, authors and artists; stories of traveling by ship across the Atlantic from the time she was 20 years old, meeting friends – like Steinbeck’s editor Pat Covici – who would be a part of her life forever. She laughed as she shared the memories of times spent with legends like Arthur Miller and Saul Bellow, and even a narrowly missed meeting with Marilyn Monroe.

I had not yet read Betty’s account of her meeting with Steinbeck, so I begged her to tell me the story. It was Pat Covici who provided the key, as he and Betty met on a ship while traveling through the Mediterranean in 1954. When Betty came down with a headache, Pat and his wife (who were traveling to visit poet W.H. Auden in Naples) offered her an aspirin and the trio spent the evening chatting and cementing a life-long friendship.

Years later, during the Spring of 1959, Betty stayed as a guest of the Covicis while preparing to leave for her annual painting trip to Europe. Pat received a letter from Steinbeck describing the cottage in England where he was staying, expressing his intense fondness for the place. That very letter – one I’d undoubtedly read for my own research – formed the center point of connection between Steinbeck, Betty and myself. It was the inspiration for commissioning Betty to go to England and paint this cottage as a surprise Christmas gift for the Steinbecks. And so it began.

The Legacy

There we were, half a century later, as Betty presented me with my own copy of “Surprise for Steinbeck,” the same book I had held in my hands on that blustery day in England. We looked at our photos side-by-side and laughed at the similarities – both of us in red jackets, bright-eyed, knowing we were standing on hallowed ground. She shared the story of her experience at Discove Cottage, meeting Steinbeck and spending meals together chatting over wine, becoming close friends. The details of her memories were recorded in the beige cloth-bound book, but listening to her relate her personal memories was the real treasure.

I visited with Betty several times, every meeting providing a wonderful glimpse into a life lived fully in color. On one such visit, she signed my “Surprise for Steinbeck” book, “As Ever – Betty Guy.” The real surprise, however, was the connection formed through a letter, a chance meeting and a tiny pocket of a distant land. No one could have expected such a gift.

Discove Cottage, 2009

Painting of Discove Cottage, Bruton by Betty Guy, May 28, 1959

Under my feet are a great stack of men and women and I am sitting on the top of it, a tiny living organism on a high skeletal base, like the fringe of living coral on the mountain of dead coral rising from the sea bottom. Thus I have the integrity of sixty generations under me and the firm and fragrant sense that I shall join that pediment and support another living fringe and we will all be one. I’ve never known this sweet emulsion of mortality and continuum before.

-John Steinbeck, from Discove Cottage in a letter to director Elia Kazan

Caroline walking along the tiny winding roads of Bruton

 

 

 

Portland’s Legacy: The Pittock Mansion

The light changes by the moment, filtered through quickly moving clouds that bring a fickle combination of rain and breaking sun. The grand stairway darkens as droplets patter at the windows. Through the hall just opposite, bright rays perfectly illuminate the gilded music room.

The majestic old home bathes in the changing light, as it has for 102 years. A true reflection of the history of Portland, the Pittock Mansion stands as a legacy of not just a family but an entire city.

Henry Pittock was nineteen years old when he and his brother traveled over the rugged Oregon Trail to Portland, which in 1853 was not much more than a clearing in the forest. Henry began working for The Oregonian as a typesetter and seven years later took ownership of the newspaper. So began his rise to prominence, which culminated five decades later with the construction of his mansion on the hill.

Henry had married Georgiana, daughter of a local businessman, when she was 15 years old (not so much a scandal then as it would be today). The two lived a long life together, raising six children and 18 grandchildren. They moved into their mansion late in life, in 1914 when he was 80-years-old and she, 68. Sadly, Georgiana passed away only four years after moving in and he followed six months later.

Pittock ancestors – including the two daughters, Kate and Lucy with their families – lived in the home until 1958, when grandson Peter finally decided it was time to sell. Lucky for us, the City of Portland stepped in to purchase the property in 1964, after years under the looming threat of demolition and destruction (including the Columbus Day storm of 1962, which badly damaged the estate).

Henry’s legacy has been preserved by passionate supporters who continue to treat the home with the respect and adoration it deserves. I’m proud to be among the dedicated group of volunteers who work to share the home’s stories with modern visitors. While I’ve only been a volunteer for a few months, I have met such wonderful people who devote their heart and soul to keeping this piece of Portland history alive. Nothing makes me happier than talking about history and I feel lucky for the opportunity to share the stories of the Pittocks, the caretaker’s family (a whole other blog in itself), and the city of Portland.

What’s most heartening is the enthusiasm encountered from the guests touring the mansion. They walk through the rooms enchanted by this glimpse into time gone by – the library welcoming guests with a game of cards, the dining table set for a feast, the butler’s pantry stocked with goods of the day, and the small office ready to tackle the day’s business. There’s a 19th-century Steinway in the music room framed by a picture window showing a panoramic view of the city that’s often enshrouded in rainbows (a magical sight to behold).

The intercom system (a technical rarity of its day) still has the old labels for the rooms in the house: Mr. Pittock, Writing Room, Childs Room… generations of voices, decades of news, chapters of change. Henry may have known he was leaving his legacy with the building of this mansion. However, he could hardly have realized the connection it would provide to visitors a century later and beyond. The Pittock Mansion has become a place of gathering, enlightenment and inspiration. There’s no doubt Henry would have been proud.

> Please visit pittockmansion.org for more information.

Beverly Cleary’s Portland

Me in 1983 creating my own little library

When I was a kid, I anxiously awaited summer – not just for the break from school – but for the chance to read whatever I wanted to my heart’s content. It was the decade before smart phones, DVRs and the distraction of technology. I feel so lucky that I was able to enjoy a childhood unobstructed by screens. TV was really the only technology that beckoned, and I can still hear the familiar chime of the “Reading Rainbow” theme song and LaVar Burton encouraging us to “take a look, it’s in a book…” as we ran off to the Oakland Library for our latest stash. There was a reading chart in the kids’ section where we monitored our progress with yellow star stickers; it was one of the few things that brought out my competitive side.

I guarded my books carefully and created my own personal library – to this day if I look through my childhood books that were saved, I find hand-made lending tickets inside dated for return in the mid-1980s.

Beverly Cleary Sculpture Garden, Grant Park in Portland, OR

About six months ago, I moved to Portland, Oregon, and found myself renting an apartment in the same neighborhood as the childhood home of one of my beloved childhood authors, Beverly Cleary. The local school is named after her and a sculpture garden in Grant park depicts her most famous characters. To get reacquainted with her stories, I took the old-fashioned route and got a library card to check-out my favorite Ramona books. Just stepping into my neighborhood branch brought back a multitude of memories. The kids running around, the “Summer Reading” posters and the stacks of cellophane-covered books made me anxious for one of those yellow star stickers.

Cleary’s Ramona books were pivotal stories of my youth. They depicted the typical west coast childhood of a mischievous girl and her sister. She dealt with school bullies, challenging teachers, sibling scuffles and the realities of moments like losing a pet. I always related to Ramona and feel quite honored now to live in the neighborhood of her literary spirit.

I drove past Beverly’s former home and visited the Sculpture Garden at Grant Park a few weeks ago. I’m glad to see such respect given to a woman enriched so many children with her characters and imagination. With all the distractions of technology, her’s is an important literary legacy to preserve.

Robert Frost’s New England Farm

Robert Frost was my first favorite poet. I remember being assigned to recite by memory Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, when I was in middle school. I practiced incessantly for weeks and I can still recite most of it by heart. The words echoed through my mind as I wandered through Frost’s homestead in Derry, NH last summer.

From those early school days, I’ve identified with Frost, as many have. His words are accessible and easily applicable to life. Who hasn’t stood at a fork in the road and thought: ” I took the road less traveled…” That sentiment rings true in so many of life’s situations, literally and figuratively – it often does make all the difference.

While providing a glimpse into the poet’s life and inspiration, walking through Frost’s home and the surrounding woods offers a sense of solace and reflection. It’s said that he wrote most of his noteworthy work at this home during the nine years that he lived on the property with his wife and young children (1900-1909). In a letter written later in life, he said: “The only thing we had was time and seclusion”.* Even now, more than 100 years later, walking through the same woods provides a blissful detachment from modern distractions. Nature’s nuances come into sharp focus among the willowy trees, graceful fields and welcoming ponds. Along the trail is a low, stone wall, which was the inspiration for Frost’s poem, Mending Wall, and the spot where it was said he sat when he returned to the homestead following the death of his wife, and decided the place was too changed for him to follow her wishes and spread her ashes on site.

After selling the property in 1911, the Derry homestead had gone into disrepair and was eventually sold to an automobile salvage company, turning Frost’s beloved fields into a vehicle graveyard. At the end of his life, Frost pushed for the property to be returned to its original pastoral state. The Robert Frost Farm website has a detailed history of the property, and credits Frost’s friend and colleague, John Pillsbury, for ultimately orchestrating the final purchase of the homestead and converting it to the historic site we are able to enjoy today.

Robert would be pleased at the restoration and preservation of his former home. Though he only lived on the site for a relatively short time, it was clearly instrumental to his poetic development and central to his career. Despite a century of change, the site continues to inspire, and Frost’s ghost rustles the leaves.

Though it was a hot summer day when I visited, I could imagine a light snow falling. I let the woods envelop me in their simplicity.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

*From: Selected Letters of Robert Frost, Lawrence Thompson, ed. New York: Holt, 1964. Sourced from http://robertfrostfarm.org/historyproperty.html

Whispers of Walden Pond

Walden Pond

“Simplify, simplify.”

If only it were so easy. I’ve long been enamored by Henry David Thoreau and his idealistic philosophies, urging humanity to slow down, embrace nature and “live deliberately.” While I can admire his intentions, I’m not one to give up the comforts of home to take up residence in the woods. But, spending one afternoon hiking around Walden Pond provided ample inspiration.

Emerson House

We had started our tour of Transcendental Concord earlier that day at Orchard House, home of the Alcotts. We then made our way down the street to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s home, where we were provided a thorough and personal tour and anecdotes about Thoreau’s connection to the family.

Interestingly enough, as we sat in the dimly lit dining room where it was said many of the Transcendental Club meetings had occurred, my husband asked the tour guide for a definition of “Transcendentalism.” She refused to provide it, sheepishly looking around the room and informing us that she’s not allowed to talk about the philosophy in the house because people come and attempt to perform seances and other ceremonies. It was odd. and a little creepy… kind of like the definition of Transcendentalism, which I’ve always admired yet have found it hard to wrap my mind around. The Transcendentalists were all about self reliance in every aspect of life. They shunned institutional politics and organized religion, instead favoring a genuine commune with nature and self. They focused on creating ideal versions of themselves and fine tuning their mental expression. I find it an admirable venture and a philosophy I’d like to embody myself in a sense, but I have always had a feeling there was more behind it that I haven’t yet grasped, which this tour guide confirmed.

Henry David Thoreau (from walden.org)

When we exited the dining room, the air lifted considerably and I was pleasantly surprised to learn about Thoreau’s playful nature. He and Emerson started hanging out in 1837, when Thoreau was 20 and Emerson was 34. The two shared a thoughtful and poetic sensibility, Emerson urging Thoreau to write down his thoughts in a journal. Seven years later, Thoreau began building his cabin in the woods on Emerson’s property. The cabin was just about a mile’s walk from the Emerson home, and Thoreau returned regularly for meals and conversation. It wasn’t as solitary an existence as the reader is led to believe. Emerson’s children would stop by the cabin for visits and he’d venture out for companionship. He stayed at the cabin gathering inspiration for his Walden for two years before returning to civilization.

I couldn’t imagine visiting Concord without seeing Walden Pond and was happy that we had enough time to walk around it completely. Visiting the former site of Thoreau’s cabin is a necessary pilgrimage for any literary historian. Only remnants of the cabin’s foundations remain along with a large sign carved with the quote most identifiable to the man:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

As I stood looking at the towering trees that frame Walden Pond, I couldn’t help but listen for the whisper of the Transcendentalists who walked those paths more than a century before. To stand in their well-worn footprints  instills a sense of wonder and yearning.

With the multitude of modern distractions in our midst every day, it’s a challenge to “live deliberately,” but a walk through Walden Pond serves as a good reminder of why its important. When life gets overwhelming, my mind will return to that quiet and serene spot in the woods where the whispers of a thousand philosophers float through the leaves.

Emerson Grave

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery – Transcendentalist graves

A Wedding at Orchard House

 

Exactly 154 years ago to the day, a grand celebration was being held within those very walls. As I stood looking over the wedding gown that Anna Alcott wore on May 23, 1860, in this modest yet iconic little home, a familiar sense of historic intimacy washed over me. Remove a century and a half and a roomful of tourists, and it was as if Louisa could traipse into the room at any time, anxious to share this momentous day with her sister. Only time prevented us from being right there to experience it with her.

The Parlor (foreground) and Dining Room (background) of Orchard House (Photographer: Herb Barnett). Images used by permission of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House

I could hear the din of guests in the living room below – Emerson and Thoreau would have been there along with numerous other Concord residents and family. At the time, Louisa was a precocious 28-year old budding author, gathering inspiration for her novels. Anna’s wedding scene that day would serve as prime material for Little Women, which would be written in that very room eight years later.  The memory was soft and lovely, captured perfectly by Louisa – a family preparing for its next chapter and a simple ceremony that intertwined the lives of two individuals.

Louisa May Alcott’s Bedchamber (Photographer: Herb Barnett). Images used by permission of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House

The Alcott sisters’ spirit remains vibrant and alive at Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts. Beth had died shortly before the family moved to the house in 1858, yet her presence is noted by her piano and portrait in the dining room. Paintings by May (“Amy” in Little Women) hang throughout the house and her room is filled with charming sketches she made on the wall. A visit to Emerson’s house, just down the street, reveals the source of some of her inspiration, as he often loaned her paintings from his own collection to use as sketch patterns. Louisa’s room remains notably unchanged from her time

Louisa May Alcott’s shelf desk in her bedchamber at Orchard House; calla lilies and other artwork on the wall above the desk painted by her sister, May. Images used by permission of Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House

there and any literary pilgrim can’t help but stand in awe of the small, half-moon desk created by her father and illustrated by her sister, on which she penned Little Women in a matter of just a few weeks. Anna (“Beth” in the novel) is memorialized by the display of her wedding gown, as illustrated by Louisa (herself, “Jo” in the novel): “she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which ‘her John’ liked best of all the flowers that grew.”

I visited Orchard House with my husband of two weeks, on our East Coast wedding celebration trip to visit family. It just so happened that it was the anniversary date of Anna and John’s wedding. Standing there, with the memory of my own wedding fresh in my mind, it struck me how little has changed in the way such monumental occasions bring family together and ceremoniously mark moments in our genealogical history. Such moments echo through time. If proper attention continues to be provided to historic sites such as Orchard House, future generations will be lucky enough to experience the inspiration that witnessing seemingly simple details of the past can offer. The Alcott girls could have had no inkling that their story would continue to be told or that Anna’s simple wedding gown would inspire such insight so far in the future.

One woman, inspired by three sisters and two very eclectic parents, managed to keep her family’s story alive. One house, backed by passionate preservationists and ardent supporters, allows a new audience a glimpse into a world centuries past yet warmly familiar. Walking through Orchard House evokes the spirit of lives lived with a resilient and deliberate connection to their surroundings. The Alcott family had opened its doors to a new world of thinking and philosophy thereby impressing its younger generation with an appreciation of arts, culture and the written world. We are the beneficiaries of that legacy.

 

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long.

Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have. “I don’t want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self.”

So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which ‘her John’ liked best of all the flowers that grew.

“You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn’t crumple your dress,” cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done.

“Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don’t mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today,” and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old.

– Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Tattered pages, inspiring words

From Where I Sit: In the Vineyards of Napa Valley
> Published in the UCDavis College of Letters & Science Alumni Magazine, Spring 2014
> PDF Article

The beauty here in Napa Valley astounds me. As I drive down Highway 29 through Napa, making my way through lush vineyards, I feel lucky to call this place home. While a student at UC Davis, I used to take jaunts over to Napa occasionally to shop the outlet malls and make my first clumsy attempts at wine tasting. I’d always felt compelled to visit, and was happy when my path eventually led to a job opportunity
in Napa five years ago. Now, I put my English degree and years of experience as a student writer for the California Aggie newspaper to work in my role as director of communications and marketing at the Napa Chamber of Commerce. I make use of my history degree on the board of the Napa County Historical Society. Often, the hauntingly beautiful vineyards trigger memories of adventures inspired by books read and deciphered in those UC Davis classrooms.

In 1998, during the summer following graduation, I embarked upon a two-week adventure through London and the British countryside, chasing the ghosts of literary legends. My path ultimately led to the fabled inspiration for Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights in the misty Yorkshire moors deep in Northern England. The sky there felt like an extension of the earth, almost as if I had to duck down to avoid hitting my head on the clouds. With the abandoned stone farmhouse in view, I was sure I could hear Heathcliff’s tortured pleas on the wind. Words first read during late-night study sessions came alive, as if I was now the one directing the characters to act out their roles. (read more about that adventure…)

That summer, I soaked up the atmosphere and inhaled their legacy. Ever since then, I have been determined to follow in the footsteps of great writers, many of whom formed the basis of my UC Davis English degree. Four years of dedicated guidance and instruction from professors like Jack Hicks sparked a life-long interest in the stories behind the words. His “Literature of California” course brought my love for literary history home. At the time, I was a bright-eyed Aggie reporter. I remember distinctly the April 1997 memorial that Professor Hicks held for poet Allen Ginsberg. Aware of my interest in the Beat genre, he invited me to meet writer Gary Snyder following the memorial. Both intimidating and inspiring, it was a moment that cemented my desire to build upon introductions made in the classroom and shake
hands with the great figures of literature.

Eleven years after graduating from UC Davis, I found myself back in the Bay Area, embarking upon a masters’ thesis project focused on California writers. I often thought back to Professor Hicks’ classroom, where we delved into the poetry of Robinson Jeffers, the tales of Jack London, and the words of John Muir, John Steinbeck, and Mark Twain. Studying the life stories of the writers—exploring that intersection of literature and history—often interested me as much as the words themselves. These explorations have formed the basis of my “Literary Legacies” blog, a growing collection of stories about my literary ghost hunts.

The tattered, college-issued novels remain on my bookshelf. These books serve as reminders of long nights spent devouring language and days in the classroom searching for the meaning behind it. These books have inspired journeys. Isn’t that what education is all about?