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by Gary Kong
Throughout his book "Trout Fishing in America," Richard Brautigan revisits a bronze statue of Ben Franklin in the middle of Washington Square Park. In fact, the photograph on the book's cover is of him and Michaela Clark le Grand, a woman he identified as his muse, posing beside the statue, love beads and all. But it isn't the likeness of Franklin that strikes his fancy. Instead, it's the four-sided solid granite base upon which Franklin stands, each side crowned by a gabled "roof," not unlike a four-sided house a child might draw. Brautigan imagines life inside the solid stone house, the little stone people sitting at their stone tables, lounging on their stone sofas, asleep in their stone beds, freely going about their stony lives until the day a sculptor immobilizes them mid-gesture.
I'm standing in front of the statue with my elderly mother, telling her this. We've dropped Dad at his Chinese Benevolent Association in Chinatown so he can play mah-jongg with his cronies, and Mom and I have hours to kill. Being Japanese, Mom never felt comfortable among Dad's associates, and not understanding a word of Chinese doesn't help. I thought a sunny stroll through North Beach would be a pleasant diversion because Mom rarely sees much of San Francisco outside Chinatown.
Our walk had been slow as Mom negotiated the rickrack sidewalks of Chinatown and North Beach, her sciatica flaring up the whole time. "It's in my bones," she complains, rubbing her hips. Now I feel guilty for bringing her out so far.
"I don't know who this is," Mom says apologetically when I finish my story.
"Ben Franklin? He's the guy with the kite." I often doubt how much American history Mom knows, even though she was born and educated in California.
"No, the other guy."
"Richard Brautigan? He's a fairly well-known writer from the '60s," I tell her.
"Well, I wouldn't know," she says. "I don't read too much."
It's true. Growing up, the only literature around the house was my brother's Mad Magazines, and Mom's Photoplays and Spiegel catalogs. Mom has since branched out to Sunset, Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping and People. But the only books in my childhood home were from school or gift givers, who hadn't a clue that reading wasn't on my family's agenda.
I pat the statue and say, "Well, I just wanted to show you something you haven't seen before is all."
Mom takes a second look, blinking and frowning. "I've seen this, though." She points to the white spires of Saint Peter and Paul's Church across Filbert Street. "I've seen that too. That's where Joe DiMaggio married Marilyn Monroe. Why do you think I don't know these things? Dad and me lived here, you know. Right on the other side of Russian Hill," she says pointing. "It was less than a year, but I saw all this. I was a housecleaner for some people who lived on Telegraph Hill. This was all here, just like it is. This looks new," she says, pointing to the inscription on one side of the base, which reads:
Time capsule 1979-2079 A.D.
Dedicated to the citizens of San Francisco.
"No, that's not what I'm talking about. The stone house. Look." I knock on the base. "The stone family. I mean, this is solid granite. Isn't that funny? Well, not funny in a ha ha way, but funny in the isn't-that-odd way."
"So you mean to tell me he thought there were people living in there?"
"Well," I croak, "no. But — "
"How could anyone live in there? It's too small, and it's stone, isn't it?"
It's times like these when I just want to throw my hands in the air and surrender to whatever is trying to undermine my poetic soul.
We abandon the statue in search of food, ending up at a sidewalk cafe, sharing a panini and Italian soda under a broad canvas umbrella. During lunch, Mom reiterates a story she's often told (seemingly for her own amusement) about when I was an infant and rolled down three flights of stairs at their Russian Hill flat. "I was carrying you and a bag of groceries and I got to the top and was so tuckered out. I put you and the groceries down to catch my breath, and when I turned around, you were gone. Oh! I ran all the way down the stairs and there you were, just sitting there looking around. Not crying or anything."
"Parents are thrown into prison for less these days," I mutter.
"You weren't bruised or anything. I guess it was those big diapers we used in those days. It must've cushioned your fall." Mom is laughing now, unable to chew, blinking with astonishment. "Just like that."
"Funny. I tell the story from a completely different angle."
The sun is bright and warm on our faces. Tourists stroll past, some grinning at Mom's guileless delight. Even the traffic along Columbus Avenue seems to slow to catch the lilt of her childish giggling. Mom doesn't always understand me, but that doesn't matter today. I want to lift her in my arms and carry her back to the statue, open the door and let her live inside the stone house forever and ever.
That's how old she is.
San Francisco Chronicle?
June 4, 2006: CM-20
Online SOurce: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2006/06/04/CMGDOIM6U41.DTL
Copyright note: My purpose in putting this material on the web is to provide Brautigan scholars and fans with ideas for further research into Richard Brautigan's work. It is used here in accordance with fair use guidelines. No attempt is made regarding commercial duplication and/or dissemination. If you are the author of this article or hold the copyright and would like me to remove your article from the Brautigan Archives, please contact me at birgit at cybernetic-meadows.net.
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