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Falling into Place: An Intimate Geography of Home
     

Falling into Place: An Intimate Geography of Home

by Catherine Reid
 

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Quietly powerful essays, weaving keenly observed insights into the mysteries of nature with those of family and community
 
“It’s not easy,” Catherine Reid writes, “to love a person and a place in equal measure.” Love she does, however, as described in these intimate, lyric essays about the land and people around her.

Overview

Quietly powerful essays, weaving keenly observed insights into the mysteries of nature with those of family and community
 
“It’s not easy,” Catherine Reid writes, “to love a person and a place in equal measure.” Love she does, however, as described in these intimate, lyric essays about the land and people around her. With the inside perspective of a native New Englander combined with her outsider status as a lesbian, Reid explores such paradoxes as those that arise from harnessing wild rivers or legalizing same-sex marriage. Her fascination with natural phenomena—whether bird hibernation, the arrival of fishers in suburbia, or the explosion of amphibious life in the wet weeks of spring—is captured in writing that pays as much attention to the sounds of a sentence as to the rhythms of the landscapes she wanders.
 
Ultimately, Reid finds herself having to choose between her farmhouse near the Berkshires and a job in the South, between her known role in the land’s stories and a new story yet to be written. Solace comes from companions as varied as a praying mantis, an otter, and her hundred-year-old grandmother, while resilience shows up in the stories of streams recovering from toxic spills and in communities weathering floods and town meetings. Reid celebrates the joyous engagement that comes with developing a deep connection with the places we call home and the life—human, animal, botanical—that surrounds us. At the same time, she offers keen insights into the way nature ultimately remains mysterious, beyond our knowing.
 
Sensuous and provocative, Falling into Place faces the beauty and challenges of our changing world head-on.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Hypnotically poetic.”
O, The Oprah Magazine

“Sharply observed and deeply pondered.”
Kirkus Reviews

“This book will be savored by those who relish reading beautifully written essays about natural history and environmental concerns, as well as by readers who enjoy memoirs.”
Library Journal

“Brings a fresh voice to time-honored subjects: the death of a loved one, the search for oneself.” 
Massachusetts Review

“Under the spell of this book, I felt as if I were entering into a truly wild world.”
—Jeff Wasserboehr, The Massachusetts Review
 
Falling into Place shows a successful quest for elusive, hard-won goals, on natural territory.”
The Gay & Lesbian Review

“The perfect example of how the personal becomes global through familiar tropes.” 
Lambda Literary

“Reid manages to skillfully connect with the art of physically and primally knowing a landscape, as an animal might. . . . This collection is a stunning representation of the multiplicity of place, and our station within it.”
—July Westhale, Lambda Literary
 
“Listening for birds or following the riddle of a bear roaming the woods in winter; remembering a near drowning and the trace of her stranger-savior in spare asides; pursuing the nature of the 'natural' or calling us to meet her in wonder and in activism, author-naturalist Catherine Reid writes with an uncommonly enthralling acuity and grace. A major contribution to the re-vitalization of the essay and lyric nonfiction short form, Falling into Place creates groves of contemplation in a reactive world. Gerard Manley Hopkins. Rachel Carson. Catherine Reid. Like the precursors whose soundings gorgeously echo in her work, Falling into Place invites a new kind of listening.”
—Mary Cappello, author of Called Back, and Swallow

“In these beautifully written essays Catherine Reid combines her homing instincts with an astute awareness of the ramifications of global events. As she explores the way in which the local, in our time, must also be far-ranging, she also considers the inextricable links between the human and natural worlds. Falling Into Place is a deeply rewarding book marked by maturity of thought and lyric richness.”
—Jane Brox, author of Clearing Land: Legacies of the American Farm

Kirkus Reviews
2013-11-18
An uneven collection of sharply observed and deeply pondered essays, mainly on the environment but informed by the author's perspective as a Quaker and a lesbian. "In their shapes and meanders, the personal essay and the long walk have much in common, most notably in their valuing of the journey over the destination," writes Reid (Creative Writing/Warren Wilson Coll.; Coyote: Seeking the Hunter in Our Midst, 2004), who invites readers to share some walks, most of them in nature generally and many of them involving birds specifically. She continues to observe that these two linked pursuits involve "a heightened attention," and most of these essays pay very close attention to detail, as the author finds significance in distinctions to which many observers might remain oblivious. She also makes connections between her solitary contemplation of nature and her relationships with those close to her, as when she writes after the death of her grandmother, "She and I may not have said much about the matters of our hearts but in the language of birds we shared plenty." Two essays rise above the rest. "Hitched, Massachusetts, 2004" seems deeply felt as well as pondered, as the author works her way through the ambivalence of becoming legally wed to her partner, "because there are lots of reasons besides fidelity and commitment why queers might want to marry and why doing so might cause palms to sweat." In "Wild Geese and Other Nostalgias," the author illuminates how love for birds might be bad for them, making it too easy for them to stay in one place and multiply, interrupting their natural migratory cycles. As a self-conscious writer and ardent environmentalist, Reid makes fine company for those who share her passions, yet there's little trace of humor, self-deprecating or otherwise, that might broaden her circle of readers.
Library Journal
11/15/2013
Essayist Reid (creative nonfiction & environmental writing, Warren Wilson Coll.; Coyote: Seeking the Hunter in Our Midst) has penned a series of lyrical pieces celebrating her rural western Massachusetts home (she is there part time), embracing the woods, the ponds, and the rivers, as well as their many inhabitants. Her subjects include her volunteer work with the Wetland Birds Project, identifying and counting birds by their calls; the mystery of the disappearance of chimney swifts each fall; and the large number of amphibians on the prowl, ready to mate during foggy spring nights. Reid also explores the effects of pollution on the environment and the land's ability to recover. She weaves memoir throughout these essays, discussing topics such as her close relationship with her grandmother and her family history, past and present. Her relationship with, and marriage to, her partner, Holly, is central to her story across the essays, as is her self-reliance and the importance of home in this wild land. VERDICT This book will be savored by those who relish reading beautifully written essays about natural history and environmental concerns as well as by readers who enjoy memoirs.—Sue O'Brien, Downers Grove P.L., IL

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780807009925
Publisher:
Beacon
Publication date:
02/04/2014
Pages:
184
Product dimensions:
5.60(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.90(d)

Read an Excerpt

Resilience

1. Summer Storm

The river has turned into a boiling brown force, a creature hulking above the banks, the rocks, the old bleached logs stacked for years along the shore. In the night, it roared through a nearby campground, giving people barely enough time to wake and flee their tents before it absorbed what was left—cameras, sleeping bags, stoves, wallets, clothing, food. It churned across roads, carried away culverts, and roughed up the footings of the bridges and trestles.

The gates at all the dams have been opened, and the boards meant to break away from the dam tops are gone. The upper reservoirs hold much of the excess, which keeps the towns themselves from being flooded, but below them nothing can slow all that water cascading through the valleys. 

At Gardners Falls, just below our house, the river runs at 19,000 cubic feet per second, or about twenty-seven times its normal speed. It wrenches free the orange barrels, which warn boaters of the upcoming dam, and flings them downriver like corks. 

Three towns declare a state of emergency. Sudden gullies bisect roads, cutting off access to several homes, with no one able to drive in or out until the holes are patched. Road crews redirect traffic with cones and barricades, creating detours over narrowed ground still able to support the weight of cars. Meanwhile, on the river itself, rescuers scurry to pick kids out of trees, collect people and their inner tubes off islands, and ferry back the family that set out in canoes before the waters turned dark, not realizing how fast the river was rising.

 Despite the close calls, no one dies and no one is seriously hurt, due to a series of fast actions—the man who lay on his car horn to wake sleeping campers; the man who raced from tent to tent, slitting doorways open with a knife; the passerby who spotted two girls trapped on an island and placed the 911 call; the rafting guides who plucked a naked man from a tree, where he had clung since the wild current tore off his shorts.

There had been no coordinated alarm, announcing the rising waters, no town crier carrying the warning downstream, nobody keeping others from launching a boat, an inner tube, a whitewater raft. Just neighbors and rescue workers and whitewater guides trained and living in this area, loving and knowing and always wary of the river, and then a heavy rain, way too much rain, and all those people reacting as the river churned brown, scouring the banks, the rocks, the small islands.

2. Headwaters

Everywhere we travel in this valley, on each ridge and slope, there’s evidence of the rivers’ drain. It’s in the air we breathe, in the shapes of the towns, and in the sounds that enter our houses at night. A river’s tug is also in the stories I have loved, of John Wesley Powell, paddling one-armed on the Colorado, of William Bartram on the St. John's, Mark Twain on the Mississippi, and Kathleen Dean Moore on so many rivers of the northwest. And, of course, Thoreau on the Concord and Merrimack in Massachusetts, on the 151 Allagash and East Branch in Maine, and alongside a small pond for two years, forever linking a body of water with a way of inhabiting a life.

I imagine rivers shaping our very beings, until we’re like salmon that have adapted to their natal waterways, wiry and strong where it’s shallow and rocky, and bigger and slower in more languid streams. Though a person may have to remain in place for decades before it happens, I can already hear the river in the vernacular of friends, particularly those loathe to attend events that take place outside their watershed.

In a hunt for more clues about the effects of the Deerfield, I wander through southern Vermont, searching for its origin. The going isn’t easy; there is no bankside trail, no steady opening in the underbrush. There are the few access roads that crisscross this part of the Green Mountain National Forest, and occasionally there are moose paths, with signs of heavy browse and antler-scarred trees. But mostly I push through thick brush and unmarked areas, keeping close to the increasingly narrow waterway. In shaded areas the rocks are green with algae and moss, while the dark pools of water swirl with red and yellow leaves.
 
Soon the stream is so narrow, water striders cross it in several easy sweeps. A short distance beyond, I reach a level area of land, a small pond made by beavers in its middle. Balancing across a tangle of branches, I walk the perimeter, and find but a dozen dead trees, a silent pair of wood ducks, and a thick muddy trough that a moose has dug, and into which it has peed—or so the smell says—as part of its claim to this place. 

The lack of feeder stream means that somewhere inside this body of water, a spring percolates out of the ground—the northernmost source of what will become the Deerfield, a river that drops roughly 2200’ in elevation on its journey from here to the Connecticut. It feels like reaching the story’s first chapter at last, which up to now I had been reading out of sequence. It’s like that moment years ago, when I stood on the New Hampshire-Canada border and fit all of what would become the Connecticut into the cup of my hand, and then turned around, settled into a canoe and paddled its length to Long Island Sound. 

I’m not sure how far I’ll travel from here but decide to trust my instincts, bushwhacking through the woods in the direction of my car. I don't have a compass, and the sky has become too overcast for shadows. Still, I want to trust my sense of direction, as though I could follow my notion of east. An access road is relatively close, and if I veer too far to the north or west, I'll eventually meet the well-marked Appalachian Trail, though that could take more time than I have food or water to do easily. But striking out like this seems worth the risk, there’s plenty of sign of deer and ruffed grouse, and the hobblebush berries have begun turning red. 

It doesn't take too long before I can't tell where I'm going; I can't see far enough in any direction to know if I'm pursuing a straight line, and there's no height of land to afford perspective in these thick woods. There's just a light area in the distance that may or may not indicate the cut of the road. 

And then I see the stream ahead, a place I passed earlier in the day. The rocks look familiar, as does the spill of current over a long flat stone. I have walked in a big half circle, as though my body were pulled by a gravitational force rather than a magnetic one, and it moved downhill like water, as in that pre-dawn hour when Holly and I hauled our sleeping bags to the meadow to watch the best meteor display in recent history, hundreds of light streaks parting black sky. Two of us, cocooned in fat bags, awed and silent and sliding slowly toward the brook at the bottom of the field. It was the slipperiness of our sleeping bags. It was gravity's pull. And it was the draw of water, which our bodies couldn't resist.

Meet the Author

Catherine Reid directs the undergraduate creative writing program at Warren Wilson College, where she teaches courses in creative nonfiction and environmental writing. She is the author of Coyote: Seeking the Hunter in Our Midst and of essays that have appeared in such journals as the Georgia Review, Fourth Genre, Bellevue Literary Review, and Massachusetts Review. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

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