A Monroeville Memoir
Although I can hear the squawk of literaii, I condider TRUMAN CAPOTE the greatest American writer--ever.
I discovered Capote in my teens and spent many happy hours devouring his every published word.
The omnibus A Capote Reader remains my favorite volume to pursue on rainy days.
On December 13, 2004 my father and I toured Monroeville, Alabama where Capote, in part, grew
up.
Although I had visited Alabama several times I had mainly highway impressions en route to Florida.
I've read several dismayed accounts of Monroeville as a tiny Southern town with little to offer
the modern entertainment hungry tourist.
A tourist however I was quite not. Further, myself hailing from Burr Oak, Michigan I knew all about
small towns.
Driving straight through from MI. I was quite exhausted yet the Alabama light revived me as
I made my way to Monroeville, off I-65 S.
The first stop was a Texaco gas station where an elderly gentleman informed he personally serviced
Harper Lee's car, being a lifelong friend of the author of the classic novel To Kill A Mockingbird.
He hadn't however known Capote.
My father and I dutifully signed our names in the Old Monroeville Courthouse guestbook,
I mistakenly dating my entry a day earlier due to sleep deprivation.
We chatted with several locals and walked to the remains of the Faulk house where Capote spent
part of his childhood and returned to visit throughout his life.
Little changed, I found Monroeville as beautiful as the Alabama day.
I was well armed with a camera and lost little time being photographed where TC once played.
I felt rather haunted, Capote's poetic words on Monroeville playing like a symphony in my mind.
Too, I felt a bit awed and humbled. I had been informed that over 20,000 visitors made the
pilgrimage to this rural Southern town a year. I wondered if any tourists would visit Burr Oak when I was long gone.
Leaving Monroeville I drove slowly savoring the scenery and joyful to have been there.
Lines Composed in Monroeville Alabama, 12/13/2004
Upon the remains of the literary bower
blooms a bouquet of pale winter flower
trembling in the December cool air
amid the charred brick, exposed and bare
The house is gone but not forgotten
it's remains cherished, history begotten
I stand where Capote played in the sun
and remember his life so long ago done.
