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Summary
Summary
With the same emotional generosity and effortlessly compelling storytelling that made All Over But the Shoutin' a national bestseller, Rick Bragg continues his personal history of the Deep South. This time he's writing about his grandfather Charlie Bundrum, a man who died before Bragg was born but left an indelible imprint on the people who loved him. Drawing on their memories, Bragg reconstructs the life of an unlettered roofer who kept food on his family's table through the worst of the Great Depression; a moonshiner who drank exactly one pint for every gallon he sold; an unregenerate brawler, who could sit for hours with a baby in the crook of his arm.
In telling Charlie's story, Bragg conjures up the backwoods hamlets of Georgia and Alabama in the years when the roads were still dirt and real men never cussed in front of ladies. A masterly family chronicle and a human portrait so vivid you can smell the cornbread and whiskey, Ava's Man is unforgettable.
Author Notes
Rick Bragg was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for feature writing in 1996. A national correspondent for the "New York Times", he lives in Miami, Florida.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Following up his bestselling memoir, All Over But the Shoutin', Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Bragg again creates a soulful, poignant portrait of working-class Southern life by looking deep into his own family history. This new volume recounts the life of his maternal grand father, Charlie Bundrum, who died in 1958, one year before Rick was born. Lacking a grandfather, the New York Times reporter sets out to build one "from dirt level, using half-forgotten sayings, half-remembered stories and a few yellowed, brittle, black-and-white photographs." His investigations in the Appalachian foothills along the Georgia-Alabama border turn up a beloved, larger-than-life rambler who inspired backwoods legend among contemporaries, undying devotion from his wife, Ava, and unabashed love and awe from his large extended family. Big-hearted but flawed, Bundrum was a man of contradiction. Genuinely devoted to his wife and children, he was a tenuous provider (a roofer by trade, he also cooked and frequently tasted his own moonshine) who fiercely defended his clan from trouble and hardship even as he occasionally brought it on them. He lived by a code of country justice that tolerated brawling with lawmen but disdained bullying, distinguished "good, solid biblical cursing" from mere "ugly talk," and forswore spitting in the presence of ladies.Bragg strives for an unvarnished portrait and succeeds, mostly balancing tremendous affection for his grandfather with the recognition that Bundrum, the last of his kind and a connection to a culture of backwoods self-sufficiency long dead in the South, deserves and would demand an honest rendering. "He is so much more precious smelling of hot cornbread and whiskey than milk and honey," Bragg writes. "The one thing I am dead sure of is that his ghost... would have haunted me forever if I had whitewashed him." A man like that, he concludes, "would, surely, want a legacy with some pepper on it." Bragg delivers, with deep affection, fierce familial pride, and keen, vivid prose that's as sharp and bone-bright as a butcher knife. In this pungent paean to his grandfather, Bragg also chronicles a vanished South that like the once-wild Coosa River Charlie liked to ply in homemade boats is becoming too tamed to accommodate those who would carve out a proud if hardscrabble living on its margins. (Sept.) Forecast: Knopf is pulling out all the stops for this; know they've got a winner: 200,000-copy first printing, 19-city author tour, and a nine-copy floor display including audio and large-print editions, and paperback copies of All Over but the Shoutin'. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Bragg paid tribute to his resilient mother in All Over but the Shoutin' (1997); now he tells the story of his grandfather, Charlie Bundrum. When Bragg asked his aunts why he had heard so little about his grandfather on his mother's side of the family, the response was tears. "What kind of man was this, I wondered, who is so beloved, so missed, that the mere mention of his death would make them cry forty-two years after he was preached into the sky? A man like that probably deserves a book." And what a book this is. Employing the same spare eloquence that marked his previous memoir, Bragg conjures a tall, bone-thin man who worked as a roofer, liked to run a trotline baited with chicken guts across the Coosa River and caught washtubs full of catfish, who made good whiskey in the pines, liked the taste of his own product, and loved to sing, laugh, talk, and buck-dance. Despite harsh poverty, Charlie displayed an unapologetic, hard-eyed independence and outran many a revenuer. In creating an indelible portrait of his grandfather, Bragg also brings alive a particular time and place, showing us just how much we've lost even as we've made "progress." --Joanne Wilkinson
Kirkus Review
The story of a man who could charm a bird off a wire, beat the tar out of a threat, dandle a baby, tend a still, and smile-no, live-right through the meanest poverty the South could throw at him, from New York Times reporter and Pulitzer-winner Bragg (All Over But the Shoutin', 1996, etc.). Bragg's grandfather, Charlie Bundrum, died a year before Bragg was born, so the author "built him up from dirt level, using half-forgotten sayings, half-remembered stories, and a few yellowed, brittle, black-and-white photographs." Speaking in a lovely southern voice out of northern Georgia and Alabama, with a juke in its bones and metaphors to die for, Bragg brings not just Charlie but an entire time and place to life. Charlie was the son of another piece of work, a man who "largely disregarded any laws or influence outside his own will, and some people did not like to look him dead in the eye because it made them feel weak." No stranger to a dust-up himself, Charlie would take the law down a notch if it was too mettlesome, but he had a softer side-one that would play a white-hot banjo, buck-dance under the stars (and under the influence of his own good white whisky, which made him sing rather than cuss), and offer a helping hand whenever the need arose. Most important of Charlie's virtues, from the author's point of view, was the fact that "if he ever was good at one thing on this earth, it was being a daddy." Searching for work (sometimes, just for food), he'd move his family about the wild and dangerous South, a landscape of ridges and hollows and deep woods, ramshackle houses, muddy rivers, water moccasins, primeval catfish (which he caught from a boat made of two car hoods welded together)-but he knew how to make his family feel secure and loved. A book that flashes with affection and respect for Charlie and the vanishing culture he represents, one we will be immensely the poorer for losing. First printing of 200,000
Library Journal Review
Bragg, national correspondent for the New York Times and author of the best-selling memoir All Over but the Shoutin', here resumes his family history. In the introduction, he repeats the question readers often asked about his mother where did her heart and backbone come from? Responding to readers' concern that he'd given short shrift to his mother's parents, Ava and Charlie Bundrum, the author set out to re-create the life of a grandfather who died before Bragg was born. This could not have been easy; 42 years after his death, Charlie Bundrum's children could not talk about him without weeping. They knew that no one could replace his unconditional love, appetite for life, and ability to chase away fear with storytelling and laughter. His death shredded their hearts. Bragg writes with compassion and honesty about this man, who earned his living as a roofer, a bootlegger, a carpenter, and a fisherman. No one writes about the South like Bragg. He reminds readers that the fabled agrarians weren't the only Southerners, as he refuses to whitewash the bootleggers, violence, and poverty of the Depression-era rural South. Bragg's empathy and humanity shine throughout. Highly recommended for all libraries. Pam Kingsbury, Alabama Humanities Fnd., Florence (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
From Chapter One: The beatin' of Blackie Lee The foothills of the Appalachians the 1930s Ava met him at a box-lunch auction outside Gadsden, Alabama, when she was barely fifteen, when a skinny boy in freshly washed overalls stepped from the crowd of bidders, pointed to her and said, "I got one dollar, by God." In the evening they danced in the grass to a fiddler and banjo picker, and Ava told all the other girls she was going to marry that boy someday, and she did. But to remind him that he was still hers, after the cotton rows aged her and the babies came, she had to whip a painted woman named Blackie Lee. Maybe it isn't quite right to say that she whipped her. To whip somebody, down here, means there was an altercation between two people, and somebody, the one still standing, won. This wasn't that. This was a beatin', and it is not a moment that glimmers in family history. But of all the stories I was told of their lives together, this one proves how Ava loved him, and hated him, and which emotion won out in the end. Charlie Bundrum was what women here used to call a purty man, a man with thick, sandy hair and blue eyes that looked like something you would see on a rich woman's bracelet. His face was as thin and spare as the rest of him, and he had a high-toned, chin-in-the-air presence like he had money, but he never did. His head had never quite caught up with his ears, which were still too big for most human beings, but the women of his time were not particular as to ears, I suppose. He was also a man who was not averse to stopping off at the beer joint, now and again, and that was where he encountered a traveling woman with crimson lipstick and silk stockings named Blackie Lee. People called her Blackie because of her coal-black hair, and when she told my granddaddy that she surely was parched and tired and sure would 'preciate a place to wash her clothes and rest a spell before she moved on down the road, he told her she was welcome at his house. They were living in north Georgia at that time, outside Rome. Ava and the five children--there was only James, William, Edna, Juanita and Margaret then--were a few miles away, working in Newt Morrison's cotton field. Charlie always took in strays--dogs, men and women, who needed a place--but Blackie was a city woman and pretty, too, which set the stage for mayhem. It all might have gone unnoticed. Blackie Lee might've washed her clothes, set a spell and then just moved along, if that was all that she was after. But we'll never know. We'll never know because she had the misfortune to hang her stockings on Ava Bundrum's clothesline in front of God and everybody. Miles away from there, Ava was hunched over in the cotton field, dragging a heavy sack, her fingers and thumbs on fire from the needle-sharp stickers on the cotton bolls. Newt Morrison's daughter, Sis, came up alongside of her in the field, one row over, and lit the fuse. "Ava," said Sis, who had driven past Ava and Charlie's house earlier that day, "did you get you some silk stockings?" Ava said no she had not, what foolishness, and just picked on. "Well," Sis said, "is your sister Grace visitin' you?" No, Ava said, if Grace had come to visit, she would have written or sent word. "Well," said Sis, "I drove past y'all's place and seen some silk stockings on the line, and I thought they must have been Grace's, 'cause she's the only one I could think of that would have silk stockings." Ava said well, maybe it was Grace, and picked on. Grace had wed a rich man and had silk stockings and a good car and may have come by, just on a whim. That must be it. Had to be. Edna, then only a little girl, said her momma just kept her back bowed and her face down for a few more rows, then jerked bolt upright as if she had been stung by a bee, snatched the cotton sack from her neck and flung it, heavy as it was, across two rows. Then she just started walking, and the children, puzzled, hurried after her. Even as an old woman Ava could walk most people plumb into the ground, and as a young woman she just lowered her head and swung her arms and kicked up dust as she powered down the dirt road to home. When she swung into the yard, sometime later, it was almost dark and Blackie Lee was on the porch, cooling herself. Ava stopped and drew a breath and just looked at her for a moment, measuring her for her coffin. Then she stomped over to the woodpile and picked up the ax. About that time it must have dawned on Blackie Lee who this young woman was, who these big-eyed children were, and she ran inside, put the latch down on the door and began to speak to Jesus. Ava just stood there, breathing hard, her long hair half in and half out of her dew rag, and announced that the woman could either open the door and take her beatin' or take her beatin' after Ava hacked down her own door. And "you might not want me to walk in thar, with a' ax in my hand." Blackie Lee, hysterical, unlatched the door and stepped back, and Ava, as she promised, dropped the ax and stepped inside. She might not have beat the woman quite so bad if it had not been for the dishpan. It had dirty water in it, from that woman's clothes. No one, no one, washed their clothes in Ava's dishpan. Edna stood at the door, peeking. Listen to her: "Momma beat her all through the house. She beat her out onto the porch, beat her out into the yard and beat her down to the road, beat her so hard that her hands swelled up so big she couldn't fit 'em in her apron pocket. Then she grabbed aholt of her with one hand and used the other hand to flag down a car that was comin', and she jerked open that car door and flung that woman in and told the man drivin' that car to get her 'on outta here.' And that man said, 'Yes, ma'am,' and drove off with Blackie Lee." Charlie was at work when this happened, which was very fortunate, so fortunate that, even now, his children swear that there was God's hand in it. Even with temptation at his house, he went off to work, and made a living, and it saved him, it saved everything. A weak man would have just laid out that day, and if he had been home Ava would have killed him dead as Julius Caesar. Ava and the five children went back to Newt Morrison's to spend the night. Newt was distant kin and Ava knew she was welcome there. But first she walked inside her house and threw that dishpan out into the yard as far as she could. That night, Charlie showed up to take them home. And Ava lit into him so hard and so fast that Charlie lost one of his shoes in the melee and had to fight from an uneven platform, which is bad when you have what seems to be a badger crawling and spittin' around your head. They fought, Edna said, all the way down the hall, crashing hard into the wall, making a hellish racket and scaring everybody in there to death. Children screamed and dogs barked and Charlie just kept on hollerin' over and over, "Dammit, Ava. Quit." Finally they crashed onto a bed, and into the room walked the old man, Newt, barefoot, one of his overall galluses on and one off. Newt thought that it was Charlie who was beating his wife to death, instead of the other way around, and all he knew was that this boy, Charlie, kin or not, had invaded his home, rattled the walls and frightened his family. Newt, stooped and gray and gnarly, was much too old to fistfight a man in his own house. So he reached into his overalls pocket, fished out his pocketknife and flicked out a blade long enough to cut watermelon. Ava took one look at that knife and flung her body across her husband, to shield him. Then she looked up at Newt, and when she spoke there were spiders and broken glass in her voice. "Don't you touch him," she hissed. * * * Everybody has a moment like it. If they never did, they never did love nobody, truly. People who have lived a long, long time say it, so it must be so. * * * They never spoke about it. They never had another moment like it again. They fought--my Lord, did they fight--for thirty years, until the children were mostly grown and gone. But they stuck. You go through as much as they did, you stick. I have seen old people do it out of spite, as if growing old together was some sweet revenge. Charlie and Ava did not get to grow old together. What they got was life condensed, something richer and sweeter and--yes--more bitter and violent, life with the dull moments just boiled or scorched away. She never bowed to him, and he never made her, and they lived that way, in the time they had. Every now and then, they would jab a little. She would stand over her new dishpan and recite a little poem as she gently rinsed her iron skillet and biscuit pans: Single life is a happy life Single life is a pleasure I am single and no man's wife And no man can control me He would pretend not to hear. And bide his time, to get even. "Daddy," Margaret asked him once, when she was still a little girl, "how come you haven't bought us a radio?" Charlie would just shake his head. "Hon, we don't need no radio," he would say, and then he would point one of his long, bony fingers at Ava. "I already got a walkie-talkie." And on and on it went, them pretending, maybe out of pride, that they did not love each other, and need each other, as much as they did. As time dragged on they would break out the banjo--Charlie was hell-hot on a banjo--and the guitar, which Ava played a lifetime. And in the light of an old kerosene lantern, as the children looked on from their beds, they would duel. Charlie would do "Doin' My Time"--his commentary on marriage--and grin while she stared hard at him from behind her spectacles: On this ol' rock pile With a ball and chain They call me by a number Not my name Gotta do my time Lord, Lord Gotta do my time Then Ava would answer with "Wildwood Flower" or something like it: I'll sing and I'll dance And my laugh shall be gay I'll charm every heart And the crowd I will sway I'll live yet to see him Regret the dark hour When he won and neglected This frail wildwood flower And Charlie would sing back at her with another song, about being on a chain gang, or doing time in a Yankee prison, or "All the Good Times Are Past and Gone": I wish to the Lord I'd never been born Or "Knoxville Girl": We went to take an evening walk About a mile from town I picked a stick up off the ground And knocked that fair girl down But it always ended in dancing, somehow. He would beat those banjo strings and she would buck-dance around the kitchen, her skirts in her hands, her heavy shoes smacking into the boards, and the children would laugh, because it is impossible not to when your momma acts so young. * * * Much, much later, when she had passed seventy, she still played and she still sang but she could not really see how to tune her guitar, and her hand shook too much to do it right, anyway. She would miss a lick now and then, and she would always frown at what time had done to her. But she never forgot the words to "Wildwood Flower." I'll think of him never I'll be wild and gay I'll cease this wild weeping, Drive sorrow away But I wake from my dreaming My idol was clay My visions of love Have all vanished away * * * It didn't all start there, of course, with the beating of that unfortunate woman. The beginning of their story goes way, way back, beyond them, even beyond the first Bundrum to drift here, to these green foothills that straddle the Alabama-Georgia border. In it, I found not only the beginnings of a family history but a clue to our character. All my life, I have heard the people of the foothills described as poor, humble people, and I knew that was dead wrong. My people were, surely, poor, but they were seldom humble. Charlie sure wasn't, and his daddy wasn't, and I suspect that his daddy's daddy wasn't humble a bit. And Ava, who married into that family, was no wilting flower, either. A little humility, a little meekness of spirit, might have spared us some pain, over the years, but the sad truth is, it's just not in us. With the exception of my own mother, maybe, it never was. For a family so often poor, we have, for a hundred years or more, refused to adapt our character very much. But then, if we had been willing to change just a little bit, we never would have gotten here in the first place. We are here because our ancestors were too damn hardheaded to adapt, to assimilate. We are here because someone with a name very much like Bundrum picked a fight with the King of France, and the Church of Rome. Excerpted from Ava's Man by Rick Bragg All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
