DRIVING TO VERNONIA, A Novel

<dri•ving-to-Ver•non•ia> v phrase: The act
of locating a person of significance in one's past.

In my new novel, DRIVING TO VERNONIA, Edmund Joyce Kirby-Smith is approaching his fitieth birthday. But just when he should be at his peak, Edmund loses everything by which a fruitful life is judged: his marriage, his job, his assets, and contact with his grown children. By some standards - he's lost everything.

Edmund's appraisal of his ruined life ranges from rage to despair, and bottoms into lassitude. His sister, Sugar, frantic over her big brother's state of mind, tongue-lashes him into pulling himself together: "Where's your drive? Your pride?" she challenges.

Finally stirred to act, Edmund borrows a 1970 muscle car and strikes out to find Richard Vickerman, a man to whom he owes much and with whom he may find what he needs to rediscover himself. His search for Vickerman is awkward, suspensful, and tinged with risk.

DRIVING TO VERNONIA explores man's loss of self and chronicles his journey to reconnect with his past and reclaim what is there. This is a penetrating story of deprivation, laced with love and anger, violence and self-discovery.

Excerpt from first chapter

My downward spiral began with the divorce. That’s going on seven months ago. If I go all the way back, I suppose I could blame it on my sky blue 1950 Nash Ambassador Airflyte—at least partially. That homely hunk of steel, dubbed the upside-down bathtub in its day, had a split-back front bench seat, and both halves could be reclined into a full-sized double bed—truly a modern miracle. And when Sylvia and I tested out this ingenious feature, which was often, I gave a silent prayer of thanks to those visionary engineers at Nash.

Even on that particular night, Sylvia and I had again enjoyed the comfort of the Nash at a favorite spot off old Germantown Road on the outskirts of Portland. But it wasn’t until we were in her parent’s driveway that my life objectives slid away like a rude guest. The old car’s stilled engine was ticking in the warm night air when Sylvia gripped my arm, fingernails digging in, and announced with emphasis: "Edmund, I’m pregnant." Everything I’d planned on, much of it somewhat underway: those anticipated carefree days of young adulthood, my college years, a degree in business—for which I had great hopes—that all evaporated in one wide-eyed moment, a moment engraved on my brain like a bad debt. It was the middle of August 1972.

Sylvia was staring at me, the porch light casting a pasty whiteness on her face. "Edmund," she said, her brown eyes waiting, "what are we going to do?"

Indeed, I thought.

Hence came my big life lefty, as I called it. Goodbye to college; all eighteen months I had in by then, after waiting two years to get started—that was over. We debated how to keep me in college and start a family; but we had no luck, no rich parents, no scholarships, nothing. So zippo to college, then a quick I do, sign on as the breadwinner, hunker down and take on life. That’s what you did back then. I’m not saying we were unique in experiencing this age-old dilemma, just that it happened to us, damn it all. At twenty-two, I was caught trying to go up the down escalator. Sylvia at nineteen and still flush with her own idyllic dreams must have had regrets the moment we were legit and she saw me yawning and scratching in the morning. Sure seems that way in retrospect.

From a quick weekend honeymoon on the Oregon coast in the Nash until our recent ugly patch of road, Sylvia and I, we racked up twenty-seven years. At my age, a man is supposed to be cruising right along: building up his retirement, at the peak of his earning years, an empty nester - or close to it - and mostly at peace with life. I’m not cruising anymore. It’s over and can’t be fixed. I’ve replayed everything that happened, gone over it and over it. It’s broken and must have been mangled for longer than I knew. I’m talking about the marriage, but there’s more to it.

NOVEL AS METAPHOR? Whenever I was asked about this novel, most people would acknowledge that they too had one or more persons in their past to whom they owed a debt of thanks. For most of us, such persons were bigger than life, others were people of quiet guidance: mentors, role models, maybe even a Dutch uncle who got us out of a jam or two. In spite of all that support, we often forgot to thank them - maybe still haven't.

So in the end, DRIVING TO VERNONIA became the metaphor you see at the top of this page. I hope its message resonates with you and many other readers.

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