Earlier this week, I wrote about the ever-changing landscape of my physical self and about my coming to terms with my increasing limitations. After I posted it, I thought, "Oh my gosh, I left out Jesse Stuart."
Jesse Stuart was a writer, now not often recalled or even mentioned in most places, although at one time he was one of the most anthologized writers in America. He is now largely remembered as a regional writer, as a writer of Appalachia, as a minor writer. His works included poetry, novels, children's books, and memoirs.
My own connection to Stuart is far more direct than just reading his books. Stuart was born in the hills outside of Greenup, Kentucky, in the same area where my father's paternal and maternal families were also rooted. W-Hollow Road was a turnoff right by where my Grandma Gullet, my great-grandmother, lived in her later years. Stuart grew up in that area, taught in that area, and eventually established a home and farm on W-Hollow. (The farm is now a State Nature Preserve, created by Stuart before his death.) My grandfather, Grandpa Nelson, very close in age to Stuart, gave him a ride (on horseback) at least once when Stuart was walking back and forth between the hills where he taught and the town of Greenup, where he bought supplies for his classrooms. When I read Stuart, I hear familiar language and recognize the landscapes he describes.
So what does that have to do with my thoughts about my own changing capacity?
When Stuart was 49 years old, he had a massive heart attack that all but killed him. He had a long, slow convalescence, all of which took place at W-Hollow once he was stable enough to be moved. (He was on a speaking tour when it happened; it was over a month before he could be moved safely back home, some 400 miles away.) Stuart was weak, he was depressed, and he was an invalid. No visitors, no excitement, very limited walking and movement until he built up his resistance and his heart healed. Although Stuart was a writer, his typewriter (this is 1954) had been put away because the doctors were concerned that he would damage his heart further using it.
Stuart's hands were stiff and he had no intention of squeezing a rubber ball to bring them back to life. So his doctors agreed he could write, with pen and paper, for a limited amount of time each day (two pages worth, initially).
The result of Stuart being given back a means to write was a yearlong journal, started on January 1, 1955, and ending on December 31. Stuart did not write every day, but he wrote often. He captured his moods, his physical well-being, and his slow and often painful journey to better health. He was acutely aware that he was now a "cardiac," and that this was a permanent disability that he had to live with for the rest of his life; his entries are threaded through with reflections on what that means. He wrote about his parents, he captured the sweep and scope of the seasons in his beloved W-Hollow. In his very last entry, Stuart wrote "[T]his is the year of my rebirth, from my death to my morning."
I had read excerpts from the journal, aptly titled The Year of My Rebirth, over the years. Coming into this summer, aware of my changing capacity, I remembered Stuart's book. No copies exist within the library systems I can tap into (most of the state) so I bought a copy. (I know, April doesn't buy things. But sometimes there are exceptions.) I have read it in pieces, setting it aside as library books with due dates come available. Presently, I am in October.
Reading Stuart has been a gift. His words from almost 70 years ago have given me reassurance and, perhaps, some needed support. My capacity has changed (and will continue to change) but I am still here.
