The premise of Independence Day, Richard Ford’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, is simple. Frank Bascombe takes his sixteen-year-old son Paul on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, which ends badly. In Be Mine, the final installment of the series, the narrator and his dying middle-aged son embark upon a last road trip, this time to Mt. Rushmore.
My son Alex and I are going on a short road trip to Moana, but our first stop is Writers’ Week as I want him to again witness the merits of a life with conversations and stories. He’s largely agreeable so with little persuasive effort, we’re here to listen to Richard Ford speak about his writing and probably, the characters of Frank and Paul.
While that’s fiction and our experiences are (aspirationally) real, the parallels seem both captivating and unsettling. The thought comes to me again: I’ve delayed a road trip with my sixteen-year-old son to hear a novelist enlarge upon a father and son on two heart-breaking road trips. I trust I’m not tempting any type of cosmic irony to drape its wicked self over this bonding weekend away.
Lunchtime underneath the canopy in the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. That Alex is here with an open mind and open heart, and willing to indulge his dad strikes me as a scarce act of teen-aged generosity. I vow to afterwards buy him a coke for the drive. I spot Harmsy and we have a quick chat.
Richard Ford is interviewed for about forty minutes, and it’s engrossing. Profoundly considered and droll and pleasingly, approaching stern when provoked, he makes references to Virginia Woolf (he’s a fan) and Samuel Beckett (he’s not a fan). I record the discussion on my phone, and Claire (elsewhere unavoidably) and I will listen to it one night soon over a Shiraz as if it’s an unedited podcast.
I rarely carry my backpack but do today just in case there’s a book signing and in it is my beloved copy of The Sportswriter. I’ve not anticipated an autograph since Joel Garner at an Angaston Oval cricket clinic in 1975. He was the biggest human I (or likely the Barossa) had ever seen. Following our applause, the interviewer invites us to form a queue.
Rushing politely, I find myself about a dozen deep in the line. Alex stands with me. He’s a Beatles fan (for which I’m also thankful) and I say, ‘You know that chatting with this writer will be my meeting McCartney moment?’ He nods.
Introducing ourselves, we shake hands. He’s sitting at a table. Eighty-years-old and greyhound fit, Ford has hypnotically blue eyes (matching his socks) reminiscent of the late Bond but alive actor, Daniel Craig. I’ve hazily rehearsed what I say, and the opportunity doesn’t get to me as I imagined it might.
I begin, ‘I’ve read all the Bascombe novels three times except for the last. But I will. They’ve made such a huge impact upon me, and I’ve happily accepted that I’ll pretty much re-read them constantly from here on in.’
Desperately gushing? Probably.
Richard (we’ve progressed to first names) replies with an affirming chortle, ‘Well, some books can hang around.’
I tell him the story of a Saturday night last autumn just prior to the publication of his final Bascombe novel. I explain, ‘I’d read a preview of the book and was telling my wife Claire about it over a Shiraz (now a theme, I know). And I mentioned the central tragedy of the father and son relationship and the son dying. I then realised that all this represented a loss for me too as a reader, so I shed a few tears.’
Richard continued peering at me fixedly with what I imagine’s a blend of deeply practised writerly attention and unshakeable southern manners. Acknowledging my revelations, he nods.
I’m now in full Sunday confessional mode, for I need this man to know how important his creations are to me. Perhaps I’m epiphanic, emblematically at large in New Jersey, like Frank Bascombe himself. ‘It’s the only time I’ve cried at a book before I’ve read it, such is the power of your storytelling, and the remarkable insights. Thank you for this.’
As he signs the title page, I feel a sense of gifted camaraderie. The line is lengthy, and so I conclude, ‘I’m urging my wife to read your books when we retire. I talk about them so much.’
Richard laughs, ‘You’ll hand her a list!’
I also cackle, ‘I think so.’
He thanks me for coming and again we shake hands. The adage cautions against meeting your heroes but encountering this literary giant has been joyous. Alex and I stroll through the garden’s dappled light and up sundrenched King William Street.
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About Mickey Randall
Now whip it into shape/ Shape it up, get straight/ Go forward, move ahead/ Try to detect it, it's not too late/ To whip it, whip it good
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What a terrific moment! Thanks for the story Mickey. It felt like I was in Adelaide for the event.
Well played Mickey.
Well played Richard Ford.
Frank Bascombe continues to offer me a Very Great Deal on almost a daily basis.
That is quite a trick.
Great see that R Ford made a lie of that old adage
Terrific MR, your McCartney moment – love it. Cheers
Thanks to everyone for their thoughts.
For a range of reasons, I’ve not been a regular at Adelaide Writers’ Week but it was great. The first one I went to I met Tim Winton who in boardshorts, singlet and with a ponytail down to his bum, looked like the surfie he also is. And I can see now that not uncommonly for someone of my age, Winton was probably the defining author of my twenties. He was like Ford in that he was approachable, humble and instructive. And he signed my copy of ‘Lockie Leonard, Human Torpedo’ which I was using with Year 8 classes on the West Coast. One day soon I’ll treat myself to a rereading of The Riders, in all its despairing beauty.
Thanks for sharing this with us Mick. I am going yo buy the last book today.
Thanks Ben. I found the fourth book (the collection of short stories) disappointing, but the final novel is amazing: sad and funny and the writing is superb, even by Ford’s unmatched standards.
If we get across to Melbourne this year, we’ll be sure to yell out!
another great piece, Mickey, many thanks.
loved it all, the Joel Garner memory on Angaston oval made me chuckle – late last year, on a Friday visit to the Angaston butcher, I decided to swing past the Lions Club Friday book sale at the ‘Ango’ show grounds. (another new Barossa experience) – I drove in, straight past the Lions Club shed, and ended up beside the club rooms – where a group were already in full Christmas party swing.
I did find the Lions Club shed, found a few books, including Malcolm Knox’ “Bradman’s War.” Not surprisingly, not a rugby league books to be seen!
I also lined up for Joel Garner’s autograph once, on the back of my Slazenger ‘Chunky’ bat, at Caloundra, on the Queensland Sunshine Coast, when the Qld Country XI played the West Indies. Early 80’s?! The big bird was a very accurate nickname, a huge man, even alongside, to quote Richie Benuad, the very muscular Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards.
Thanks Russel. Lots of memories at Angaston Oval for both footy and cricket. Mum and Dad told me there was some recent outrage when a significant number of trees in the complex were felled to make way for a second oval, ruining the aesthetic but building the capacity.
IVA Richards has a great trinity of initials. Hugely evocative. VVS Laxman right up there too.
Cracking piece Mickey. I found RF to be a captivating and generous person for a writer of his prestige. Easy going with his interactions with fans and well wishers during book signings revealed his genuine appreciation of his audience. I must reread the Bascombe books soon. Cheers.
Grand stuff. I read The Sportswriter and Independence Day sometime back in the 90’s not long after they came out. Both lost somewhere in the tangle of lost books, loves and loans over ensuing years. Canada and Let Me Be Frank With You are staring accusingly at me from the bookshelf. Time to man up and get stuck in.
Your comments about “meeting your heroes” and “gushing” reminded me of a couple of repressed episodes, that I might share on the Almanac sometime once the 40 year statute of limitations on Personally Embarrassing Moments has expired.
Thanks Col. We listened to the recording I made of his Saturday interview, and as I first thought, he was great: bristling intellect, warm and witty. I reckon rereading his novels is hugely rewarding as they’re endlessly rich and revelatory.
Appreciate that PB. Canada’s on my list too. I’ve a couple of less-than-ideal meeting my heroes’ episodes too! One day.
Great write up Mickey…almost had me in tears too.
I am curious though, as to how the road trip to Moana with Alex went?
Thanks Karl. It was a tremendous hour or so.
The road trip (the brevity of which probably precludes it being described thus) was excellent: fun drive accompanied by a Steely Dan CD and a particular chat about their longest and, folk might suggest, best song in ‘Aja.’ (still big with some kids), a swim and bodysurf, dinner at the very good Deep Blue Cafe and then Skyfall in our cabin on FTA tele. All with pretty positive conversation ranging over many topics so hopefully a strong investment.
Cracking read Mickey. Just curious – do you and Richard go to the same hairdresser?
Has Feres Trabilsie opened a salon in the French Quarter? Thanks Someone.
Hey Mickey
I like to know that Aja has a nice father/son bond.
My son (now 31) & I have Jeff Buckley’s ‘Grace’ album as own bonding album – been that way for well over 10 years.
The road trip definitely sounds like an exceptional ‘ROI’. Well done, dad!
Thanks Karl.
Here’s an interesting connection regarding the Grace album. My wife’s an Auslan interpreter and she’s been busy during the Fringe working at various performances. During the week she asked me to locate the lyrics and provide an interpretation of Hallelujah. The reason? She’s the interpreter for Isaac Humphries who’s a nearly seven-foot power forward for the Adelaide 36ers but has a second career as an accomplished singer and cabaret performer. He’s doing a show tonight in the Garden of Unearthly Delights.
Cool aside, Mickey. Hope the translation into Auslan went well. Cheers….