Book 797: My Drowning – Jim Grimsley

Jim Grimsley is probably one of the most depressing writers I’ve ever read, and yet I keep going back to him every 5-10 years. Depressing may not be the correct descriptor, he just writes such desolate books and truly embraces the southern gothic style and maybe that’s what draws me to him?

This was my first time reading My Drowning and it was very different from Winter Birds and Dream Boy but at the same time very similar (mostly through that southern gothic style). In addition to the style, he really excels at writing children’s voices.

My Drowning is the story of Ellen from her earliest memories (which may or may not involve the titular drowning) to her present where she is an old woman flashing back to the various memories in the first part of the book. She grew up in abject poverty in North Carolina during World War 2 with many siblings and her somewhat-abusive parents.

I have grown old enough that a memory becomes as real as the real thing. (2)

Freedom is a great thing, and consists of a thousand insignificant details. (206)

Grimsley is a master at writing a maturing character. The sentences and observations of his characters match their ages and mature/become more complex throughout the book. There’s a big jump from Ellen’s childhood to her old age with a large chunk missing in the middle, but you can see a clear distinction between the two. The real turning point of the novel is when Ellen discovers that her parents are fallible people.

Aching memories of my mother begin in those days, when I betray her in my thoughts. I feel the ache as bitterly now as I ever felt it then, when I began to stand in judgment of her. I see her in her thin dress, pinching snuff into her mouth, and I think: I will not live like this. She reaches for a pot to cook in, and I know the pot was not cleaned well, but my mother does not know or care. I sweep the floor carefully in the kitchen, and my mother drops biscuit crumbs onto the clean part of the floor and hardly pauses to notice. The feeling remains as vivid now, in the present, as if it had happened this morning. (211)

It seriously brought up memories of my own understanding that my parents were real people. I still remember the first time I swore at my mom and really meant it. I wasn’t an adult but I was quickly becoming one with a job and a car and had begun buying my own clothes and food and it was a different world at that point.

And it’s not only a mental state Grimsley brings you to, when I read this passage I was immediately transported to my grandparent’s side yard where my sister and I would play pretend or hide and seek under the vines:

I look out one window and she looks out the other, and we are faced with the whole garden, the pebble paths and the fish pool and the arbor where I trained wisteria to grow, the climbing tomato plants at the back, the scuppernong vine, the fig bush, and the young, short apple trees, for tonight they all blaze, all the flowers, and every branch bows heavy with fruit or berry, every place I turn. (221)

The smell came back immediately of wisteria and scuppernong (Wikipedia link) and I asked Tim if he knew what they were and he had no clue. Talk about a blast from the past though!

And his writing in general is visceral. When I read this passage I immediately thought of the little girl in the unit beside ours who has such a powerful set of lungs (her mom does too). Between that and the memories of the thunder storms of my childhood growing up in North Carolina I was immediately transported to the scene.

We never had any doubt Corrine would live. When she was hungry, she roared. When she was wet or uncomfortable, she roared. When she wanted to be washed, she roared. When she needed any attention of any kind, she roared: she opened her mouth, her face flushed red, and a sound came out, like the whole fury of a storm wrapped up in a baby and stuffed into her lungs. (89)

But the one that really got me, and I only copied this one part was the scene where her father died. If you’ve never been in a room where someone’s taking/taken their last breath it’s really hard to describe, but Grimsley got it as close as I’ve read it,

. . . but we simply sat there in our straight-back chairs and listened to that rasp, like an old hinge, louder and drier until he died. (251)

Again, I was immediately transported into the scene, but with my own lens on it thinking of when my mom died and how loud it was. All the machines had been turned off and it was the dry breaths and the sobs/sniffing of those of us in the room. That was it and they all just echoed so loudly.

As for the actions of the story, they were actually pretty small and insignificant. The story itself I think is more about the reminiscing of Ellen in her old age and the specific memories that created anchor points for her life. The revelation of the titular drowning was kind of a letdown after all of the other seemingly every day horrible things Ellen had to deal with growing up. When you add in that it could also have just been her brother being a dick, even on his deathbed, it kind of reiterates the mundane down-trodden-ness of her life and the amazing fact she was able to escape that poverty after a time.

Recommendation: Grimsley has such a way with writing that he pulls you into the scenes—I don’t know if this is because I have the NC connection and some of the things he mentions have such strong ties to my own childhood, or if it’s his overall ability as an author. The book overall was well written even if the story and subject matter weren’t the easiest to read, but you don’t read southern gothic for the joy and humor. Reading this has made me want to go back and revisit Winter Birds and Dream Boy, both of which I read in undergrad and I hope really stand up to time!

Opening Line: “I can still remember the whiteness of my mother as she slips beneath the surface of the river.”

Closing Line: “Relieved, she led me to our car and drove me home.” (Whited out to avoid spoilers, highlight to read.”

Additional Quotes from My Drowning
“I had been flying with the baby boy. I replayed the dream in my head, and the memory kept me buoyant. The bushel basket still held more than half its apples. Tonight Nora and I would sleep in the kitchen again, with the ghost fire glimmering in the stove. All these were good things. But above all, I had eaten as much as I could hold. I had learned of the possibility of abundance.” (22)

“That I had become more conscious of myself deepened everything, through every moment of the day. Everything I saw became clearer, and the days began to make a river of themselves, running under everything else. In my mind was a chain of memories, and I began to accumulate a past. I began to think, this week we have more food than last week. I began to think, I wonder if next winter we will be as cold as we were last winter.” (57)