The same holds true for his consideration of punctuation. Behold the lowly but upright exclamation point! Cormac McCarthy recently declared that it has no place in literature (ditto the semicolon), but Portis’s expertise argues for its retention. Two separate Portis fans I know who are wider, closer, and more astute readers than I, Little Rock lawyer Michelle Kaemmerling and author and humorist Joe Queenan—I name them because they deserve credit—independently commented to me about Portis’s judicious and effective use of exclamation points. Midge upbraids himself for waking up too late with “What a piddler!” And Lamar Jimmerson in Masters of Atlantis fumes over the claims made by Churchward’s Lost Continent of Mu: “What a hoax! Three hundred pages of sustained lying!” In “The Forgotten River,” he notes the use of exclamation points in a historical source and riffs on their meaning:
At another point [Dunbar] suddenly seems to remember that he is writing this report for Jefferson, the great democrat, and he praises the industry and sturdy independence of a man and his wife who had cleared a little two-acre farmstead in the woods.…“How happy the contrast, when we compare the fortune of the new settler in the U.S. with the misery of the half-starving, oppressed, and degraded Peasant of Europe!!” Dunbar is not a man for exclamation marks, and when he gives us two of them here, we feel his discomfort with this kind of talk—however genuine the sentiment.
The larger point (!) is that Portis will use every tool in the box and for one purpose: to engage and entertain the reader. He rarely talks about the writing process, but he does repeat one piece of advice, or even exhortation, that he attributes to his editor at Knopf, Robert Gottlieb, and that earns its exclamation point: “Make them turn the page!”
VI. ?
What’s left to say? Or, rather, there’s much left to say (we haven’t even gotten to cars or guns or the Civil War), but not by me, other than, Read this book. Those who know Portis’s work well I hope will find much here they’d like to reread and some new Portis to enjoy. For those who don’t know anything about him, they’re likely to be as wowed by this collection as Austin Popper is by the display of simultaneous ambidextrous writing and calculation and conversation performed by Professor Cezar Golescu in Masters of Atlantis. As Popper says, “Oh boy, is he cooking now! How about this fellow?”
Little Rock, Arkansas
April 2012
One
SELECTED NEWSPAPER REPORTING AND WRITING
Memphis Commercial Appeal 1958
Portis’s work in Memphis is of interest chiefly for his coverage of Elvis Presley’s mother’s illness and funeral. The first story, full of civic tomfoolery, already demonstrates his trademark wry humor and keen observation.
July 13, 1958
Yankees Taken as ‘Renegades’ ‘Capture’ Boat
The Rockport, Ind., Jaycee flatboat entered Memphis waters yesterday morning, and was duly captured by Memphis Jaycees after a few cap gun volleys and a lot of rebel-yelling.
The Memphians were aboard the Memphis Queen II, local excursion boat, which furnished a background of Southern music (“Dixie” played 42 times) for the battle.
The Yankees are making a voyage to publicize the Abraham Lincoln Sesquicentennial (150th birthday anniversary) to be celebrated next year in Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois.
Lincoln once lived at Rockport and the Jaycees are re-enacting a flatboat trip he made when he was 19—except that Abe had to get down the river without screened-in quarters, two 35 horsepower outboard motors, and an LP gas lighting and refrigeration set-up.
The Memphis Jaycees, going along with the stunt, played the part of the renegades who attacked young Lincoln’s boat and almost killed him. Taking a few historical liberties, they were dressed like Confederate soldiers, in Davy Crockett get-ups, and there was one wearing a Harry Truman shirt and Japanese sandals.
Included in the welcoming group of Jaycees and guests were the Jaycettes, dressed Southern belle fashion; Pete Sisson, president of the Memphis Jaycees; Stanley Dillard, city commissioner; Roy T. Combs, Indiana state auditor, and Miss Terry Lane, Miss Memphis of 1958.
Skipper of the Pride of Indiana is Frank Swallow, also president of the Rockport Junior Chamber of Commerce.
After a small but noisy parade downtown, the 10 bearded prisoners were taken to the Peabody for lunch and a kangaroo court trial presided over by Municipal Judge Beverly Boushe. They were found guilty of “being Yankees, a most heinous offense, spying on the city of Memphis, running whisky, and carrying concealed ideas.”
The judge let them off by making them honorary Confederates. They were then presented miniature keys to the city by Sam Hollis, executive assistant to Mayor Orgill.
The flatboaters plan to cast off about 10 a.m. today, and hope to reach the next stop, Helena, Ark., by 5 p.m. tomorrow. They left Rockport July 4 and are scheduled to arrive at New Orleans Friday.
August 13, 1958
Elvis Visits Sick Mother; Granted Emergency Leave
Pvt. Elvis Presley made a rare flying trip here last night from Fort Hood, Texas, on an emergency leave to see his mother, Mrs. Vernon Presley, who is seriously ill at Methodist Hospital.
Her physician said last night she is suffering from “acute severe hepatitis with evidence of liver damage.” Four specialists are aiding the family physician, but have not been able to pin down the cause of the illness.
“She improved somewhat today, and feels a little better,” her doctor said last night, “but she is very sick.” He did not list her condition as critical.
Elvis arrived here about 7 last night apparently on either a military or private plane. He said he would “rather not say how I came. I might want to come the same way again sometime.”
The singer has flown only one other time in the last two years because his mother worries when he uses such methods of travel. His other flight was to return to Fort Hood after his two-week leave this summer.
He has a seven-day emergency leave and may get an extension, he said last night. It was granted after the family physician phoned Fort Hood.
When Elvis and his father entered Mrs. Presley’s room last night, she was heard to say, “Oh, my son, my son,” as they embraced.
When he came out he said, “Mama’s not doing too well right now. Not well at all.”
There were tears in his eyes as he spoke of his mother in a subdued tone. He was wearing his Army tropicals and looked drawn and haggard. Elvis gave waiting friends only a brief greeting as he strode to the sick room about 7:45.
“I nearly went crazy when I put her on the train down in Texas,” he said. “She looked awful bad then.”
Mrs. Presley was admitted to the hospital Saturday after returning from a visit with her son. No visitors are allowed except for the immediate family. The door is guarded by a police officer.
Elvis just completed advanced tank training at Fort Hood and is scheduled to go to Europe, “probably sometime in September,” he said. He is in the 2nd Armored Division.
August 14, 1958
Mrs. Presley’s Spirits Raised; Elvis Tells of His Devotion
Mrs. Vernon Presley was reported in better spirits yesterday in Methodist hospital after the Tuesday night arrival of her famous singer-son, Pvt. Elvis Aron Presley.
Mrs. Presley has been confined at the hospital since Saturday with an acute liver ailment—hepatitis. Her condition is still serious.
Elvis flew in Tuesday night on a seven-day emergency leave from Fort Hood, Texas.
Elvis and his father spent the day in Mrs. Presley’s room yesterday, a routine he intends to follow for the rest of his leave. Flowers have been coming in steadily for Mrs. Presley from well-wishers all over the country, and Elvis said yesterday he was probably going to have to take some of them home.
The singer’s flying trip here reflects a constant affection for his parents, noted and re-noted in news stories. A good part of the thick clipping file on Elvis at The Commercial Appeal is made up of stories dealing with the largesse he has showered o
n his parents.
When possible, he moves his family to wherever the exigencies of show business and the Army bring him. They stayed in Hollywood with him while he was making a picture, and just recently returned from a stay near him in Texas while he was undergoing training at Fort Hood.
“I just enjoy having my family around,” he said yesterday in a hospital hallway interview. “I don’t look at it as just a duty—something I ought to do. I love them and I like them and I like to have them around. They can’t be replaced. They’re all I’ve got in the world.”
He said he didn’t feel his closeness to his family unusual.
“Doesn’t everybody feel the same way?” he asked.
While on the way up to the million-dollar bracket, Elvis shared his fortune by buying the family progressively larger and more expensive homes and, of course, cars. They now live at Graceland, a $100,000 mansion in Whitehaven, and have a garage full of Cadillacs.
Leaning on a windowsill in the hallway yesterday, he reflected moodily on the family’s pre-Cadillac days: “I like to do what I can for my folks. We didn’t have nothin’ before, nothin’ but a hard way to go.”
About that time a small fat boy appeared and asked Elvis for an autograph. He grinned and ran his hand through the boy’s hair and said in flawless diction, “You little rascal. You were standing there all that time and didn’t say anything. Let me see that pencil.”
He was talking to his public again. He was Elvis Presley again.
August 16, 1958
Elvis Presley Tells Mother, ‘Goodby, Darling,’ at Grave
Singer Elvis Presley, shaken and limp with grief, almost collapsed several times yesterday afternoon during the funeral services and burial of his mother.
After the brief graveside rites at Forest Hill, Elvis leaned on the casket and said, “Oh, God, everything I have is gone. Goodby, darling, goodby, goodby…”
Services for Mrs. Gladys Smith Presley were held at National Funeral Home before a crowd of about 700 persons. The group, mostly women and teenage girls, packed the chapel and overflowed into the hallways and outside parking lot.
Mrs. Presley, who was 42, was the wife of Vernon Presley. She died at 3:15 a.m. Thursday at Methodist Hospital after a heart attack brought on by acute hepatitis.
Most of the crowd at the service, and later at the cemetery, appeared more interested in the singer than the funeral.
The Rev. James E. Hamill, pastor of the First Assembly of God Church, officiated at the 30-minute service at the funeral home. He said:
“Women can succeed in most any field these days, but the most important job of all is being a good wife and a good mother. Mrs. Presley was such a woman.
“I would be foolish to tell this father and this son, ‘Don’t worry, don’t grieve, don’t be sorrowful.’ Of course you will miss her. But I can say, with Paul, ‘Sorrow not as those who have no hope.’”
Mr. Presley, his son and members of the family sat in a small room, closed off from the audience, at the front of the chapel. The room was heavily banked with flowers on all sides. Five uniformed policemen stood self-consciously on guard in the chapel during the service.
The Blackwood Brothers sang several hymns at the service including “Rock of Ages” and “Precious Memories.”
Both Mr. Presley and Elvis were at the point of hysteria throughout the ceremony, and Elvis had to be helped in and out of the car at the cemetery.
The streets on the way to Forest Hill were lined with spectators watching the funeral procession, and a large group had gathered at the cemetery beforehand. The traffic and crowds were handled by about 80 officers, including city police, sheriff’s deputies and state troopers.
There were about the same number at the cemetery as at the funeral home.
Mr. Presley stood by his son at the grave and said, “She’s gone, she’s not coming back, everything is gone now.”
Police had set up ropes and formed a cordon near the grave to keep the crowd from intruding. Some spectators seemed to be honestly bereaved, but the majority craned their necks and chattered.
After everything was over and the policemen gone, the crowd milled around the grave awhile, some took flowers, and then drifted away.
Arkansas Gazette 1959–1960
After joining the Gazette early in 1959, Portis covered some of the political machinations in the aftermath of the integration crisis of 1957–58; one result of the turmoil was that the public schools were closed for the entire 1958–59 school year. By summer of 1959, Portis had been asked to take over the “Our Town” column, which ran on page one, column one of the B (local) section on weekdays and in a larger format on Sundays. The daily version featured the column’s name and the writer’s byline inside a picture of a downtown Little Rock street, and at all times, the columnist referred to the city as “Our Town” rather than “Little Rock.”
Portis tells Roy Reed in the Gazette Project interview (Epilogue, page 285), “I thought I would do it well, but I could never—I don’t know—get into a stride.” It’s true that many column inches were devoted to interviews with local “characters,” like the woman who ran a bird hospital from her home, and mildly amusing squibs about city life, such as overheard malapropisms. On a number of occasions, however, Portis was able to let his imagination run and produced the kind of hilarious set pieces that would mark his later work in both fiction and nonfiction.
The occasion of the first piece below was the reopening of Little Rock’s public schools in the late summer of 1959 and the gaggle of newsmen who once again, as in 1957, descended on Little Rock; Portis’s eye and pen are rarely sharper, both here and later, than when he’s applying it to his own kind: journalists. He also found a comfortable voice in “Our Town” when discussing language.
He filed his last column on October 9, 1960, then left for the New York Herald Tribune. Among those who stepped into that space after him was William Whitworth, who would later join him at the Herald Tribune before going on to write and edit for the New Yorker and, most notably, to become editor-in-chief at the Atlantic, where he would publish three of the pieces contained in this volume.
August 13, 1959
Biggest Spectacle
Among the spectacles at Our Town yesterday which brought in newsmen (and women) from all over the world, the one we would like to report on here is that of the news gatherers themselves.
They came early to Hall High School, about 100 [of] them, and stood around in little groups of wilted Dacron and damp mustaches, chattering and picking each others’ brains.
The photographers diddled with their cameras and shot everything in sight. The reporters engaged in small talk, shop talk and speculation, occasionally taking notes on nothing.
We stood across the street from the School in the pine trees that come right up to the street, and someone wanted to know what kind of pines they were.
Somebody else said they were jack pines and we felt that was wrong but we didn’t say anything. The tree man wrote in his pad, “jack pines.”
A reporter from the London Daily Graphic told his colleague from the London Daily Mail that he had filed two pieces the day before—one on Cuba and one on Little Rock.
“They buried the Cuba story and ran only two inches on Little Rock,” he said. “I guess I’m just not at the right place.”
A man from Newsweek walked up to a group of prosperous-looking reporters, most of them from New York, and said, “I want to get with the high-priced help here and find out what’s going on. What’s the poop?”
There was no poop, just anecdotes about how it was when they were here last, in 1957.
As they watched the schoolchildren showing their identification cards to the police, one man in the group suggested that they needed a fresh-faced young reporter to sneak in with the students.
“Didn’t you guys have some kid in blue jeans go in last time?” someone asked the man from Life.
“Hell, he’s managing editor now,” the Life man said.<
br />
We ambled over to another group where the man from Time was shedding his Robert Hall coat. (We glimpsed the label and note it here in the best traditions of that magazine.)
“Jeez it’s hot here,” he said.
We talked about the heat until a trim young blonde student got out of a car and started up the hill to the School. We stopped talking and watched her.
“Well, I’ll say one thing,” said Time, his eyes on the young lady. “You can grow that down here. She’s a little Dresden doll.”
As the morning wore on, the lack of rest room facilities presented a problem to the effete Eastern newsmen who couldn’t see the forest at their backs for the trees. And they couldn’t very well ask the police to let them go in the School.
Some made out all right, though. About a half-dozen newsmen, including CBS, AP, UPI and Gazette personnel, were spotted sitting in lawn chairs drinking buttermilk in the front yard of a house on the corner of H and McKinley Streets. They had flagged a milk delivery truck. Why buttermilk, the Lord knows.
Meanwhile, back in the jack pines, three reporters (New York Post, Minneapolis Star and Tribune and X) stood together talking it over.
“I can just see Time next week,” said X, “‘Integration came peacefully last week to modern, red brick Hall High School at Little Rock when three Negro children who had been denied an education for three years took the long walk…’” He trailed off here.