- Important: All passwords were reset on 06/15/11. Old passwords will no longer work. Click here to retrieve your password.
- Subscribe to Our Free Dewsletter
We are non-commercial, all volunteer and supported by our readers. Please help sustain the Dew by making a donation.
Flannery O’Connor, Notre Dame du Perpetuel Secours, and My Redneck Daddy Must Converge
Our Lady of Perpetual Help, the hospice and urban garden, did not rudely elbow its way to a tight squeeze between Atlanta Braves Stadium (Turner Field) and the Crew Street police precinct. The free cancer home at 760 Pollard Blvd was there first, when the address still went by the name of Washington St., and occupied an undeveloped, open field. Our Lady of Perpetual Help will remain after the Atlanta/Milwaukee/Boston Braves have abandoned another city and become the Cobb Crackers/Smyrna Suburbanites. Classical icons of Notre Dame du Perpetuel Secours preceded the founding by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s daughter Rose of the order of Dominican nuns who operate the Atlanta cancer hospice.
By 1960, Boston Irish Catholic John Fitzgerald Kennedy (JFK) had been elected president of the United States, and the serious literary reputation of Georgia writer Flannery O’Connor (FOC), born in Savannah, raised for a while in Atlanta, then in Milledgeville, was in full bloom with the publication of two novels, Wise Blood and The Violent Bear It Away, and a volume of short stories: A Good Man Is Hard to Find. The times they were a changing.
The Sister Superior of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Free Cancer Home in Atlanta contacted Flannery O’Connor in 1960 through mutual friends at the Trappist Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers. Flannery O’Connor lived on a farm she called Andalusia on U.S. Hwy 441 outside Milledgeville.
Although Flannery O’Connor was at the height of her rise making miracles of southern literature, she was crippled with lupus, dependent on steel crutches and the care of her snarky, widowed mother Regina, who also ran Andalusia, a working dairy farm, with the help of tenant labor, including refugees from WWII Poland. There were chickens, ducks, peafowl, cows, a donkey, and a barn loft, a challenge to climb with a wooden leg, a dangerous descent hard to explain, without it (Assume here the usual denial concerning any resemblance between fictional characters and real persons living or dead as purely coincidental). Flannery O’Connor died in 1964, barely age 39.
In a letter to her New York editor and publisher Robert Giroux, Flannery O’Connor described the Atlanta home for incurable cancer patients. “The Sister Superior there wrote me about a child with a face cancer whom they had kept for nine years … ” Sister Evangelist “is determined that something must be written about her. Fr. Paul thinks it’s quite comic that they have lit on me to do this. He asked them which of my murder stories gave them the idea I should help them with it.” FOC was already known for her lack of sentimentality. Her story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” contains one of her most memorable and often quoted lines: “She would of been a good woman,” The Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”
FOC answered the Atlanta Sister Superior of Our Lady of Perpetual Help that the child Mary Ann’s life and death in the Home “was not the sort of thing that made fiction and that if it had to be written, the Sisters should write it themselves and it should be a factual account … I told her if they did happen to write it, I’d be glad to go over the manuscript and would supply a little introduction if that would help. I thought that would be the last I’d hear of her. Never underestimate them.”
“The manuscript is not very good, of course,” O’Connor cautioned her editor. “I set about to get the obnoxious pieties out of, and that proved almost impossible. I’m still working on it, and they are expecting me not only to turn it into a decent manuscript but to get them a publisher … ”
Flannery O’Connor wrote the introduction to A Memoir of Mary Ann. Among other things, it said that when Mary Ann “entered the doors of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Home in Atlanta, she fell into the hands of women who are shocked at nothing and who love life so much that they spend their own lives making comfortable those who have been pronounced incurable of cancer.”
The Milledgeville author told her New York editor about the introduction, “The Sisters were very pleased, and even Regina liked it which means something as she is usually bored by my productions.” Flannery O’Connor mailed Robert Giroux the address for Our Lady of Perpetual Help Free Cancer Home, 760 Washington St , Atlanta, Ga. The location was still called Washington St., and there were no encroachments, when I visited my daddy there.
My daddy likely never heard of Flannery O’Connor, though his spirit haunts characters in her writing, particularly and disturbingly the bigoted grandfather in “The Artificial Nigger.” I do not know how great writers conjure their fiction from my real life experiences. I only know when I read that story, every mis-step on every sidewalk of mid-20th century Atlanta from train station to train station were ones I took with my daddy.
To my knowledge, the significant female relationships of my daddy’s life were a mother, three daughters, two wives, and someone he knew in Japan, where he served in the U.S. occupation forces after President Truman dropped atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. My daddy would explain, though nobody ever asked, that a Geisha was not the same as a prostitute. A Geisha was trained in dance, playing a musical instrument that looked like a banjo, and serving cups of tea. I never knew my daddy drank tea in a cup. His Japanese friend gave him a real pearl as a parting gift. My mother refused to accept any form of jewelry that could be made with the pearl.
My daddy’s last wife once baked a special casserole for rare company come to dinner, my only wife and me. My wife, a renowned cook, asked for the recipe, though duplicating the dish from memory would present no difficulty: diced sweet potatoes, Granny Smith apples, raisins, Georgia pecans, sugar, cinnamon. At the table, my daddy’s last wife asked him, “Do you like it?”
He replied, “I’m eatin’ it, ain’t I?”
And Flannery O ’Connor thought a good man is hard to find!
There are lots of things fathers cannot do for their sons. Nothing they can provide is more enduring and powerful than their genetics and their own example. Often when I am working, concentrating intensely, perhaps even straining with some physical effort, I suddenly become aware of holding my mouth in just such a way that I recognize immediately from my daddy, who looked like John Wayne. As a lanky young man, he could have passed for the handsome star of “Stagecoach.” In the fullness of his life, he looked like “The Quiet Man”. He grew old at John Wayne’s pace, all the way to the pot-bellied, one-eyed has-been of “True Grit”. In my mind, John Wayne and my daddy might as well have been the same person. My daddy, a Marine Corps veteran, was absolutely the strong, silent type. Still waters run somewhere nobody ever knows.
Although he only graduated from the seventh grade, he took great pride in the fact that he could read and write. He enjoyed working the jumble word puzzle in the newspaper. He loved a good joke. He loved a bad joke. He took me to Atlanta Cracker games at Ponce de Leon Ballpark, across the street from Sears. On hot days and nights, he would say, “They need to turn on the fans.” My love for baseball made me a reader.
One Saturday, my sister and I sat at our redneck daddy’s bedside in the Our Lady of Perpetual Help Free Cancer Home with the Hawthorne Dominican Nuns scurrying in the halls, as he lay dying. His admission application certainly must have been prepared too hastily to mention he was an anti-Papist and past master of the Grant Park Masonic Lodge. Every time I visited, he was motionless and speechless. My sister and I recalled the women’s softball games on summer nights in Piedmont Park long before the days of Title IX requirements of equal opportunity for women’s athletics.
“What was the name of that team that was so good?” my sister tried to remember. “The one with the pitcher that looked like Little Orphan Annie.”
“And the catcher that looked like Yogi Berra,” I added.
After a long silence of neither she nor I being able to think of the answer, from Daddy’s pillow came the last words I ever heard him say: “Dixie Darlings.”
- Photographs by the author. Classical icon by Byzantine fresco artists.
Worthy of Comment
Also on the Dew
You knew in the beginning it was folly, no good -- like that girl who lived around the corner your Momma said was "fast." “She's gonna take your money and your stomp on your heart,” Momma said. You knew it too ... but you went anyway. YOU You promised yourself you would not get involved this time. You knew all about the probabilities ... the impossibilities, really. You knew all about the odds against success, heard Nate Silver -- or somebody -- use $5 words like “implacable,” “infinitesimal” and “asymptotic” to assure Charlie Rose the odds were ridiculous. And yes, you knew it was a Fool's Notion Read on →
The modern oil industry, vertically integrated exploration, extraction, refining and distribution of oil on a mass scale, began no later than 1825 in Tsarist Russia. In 1825 Russia produced 3500 tons of crude and refined it, mostly into kerosene. By 1850 the Russian output had doubled to over 7000 tons. By 1906 Russia had a pipeline over 400 miles long stretching from the oil fields in Azerbaijan to the Black Sea port of Batumi, the first major pipeline in the world. By the 1900 there were great strides being taken to develop oil fields in the United States and at Read on →
A few of us borrowed a friend's cabin up near Blue Ridge and drove up for the weekend, took the scenic route through Dahlonega, Blairsville and up 19 to 76. Something uplifting about the mountains. We navigated those winding roads slower than the traffic behind us would have preferred but it was a safe speed and very visually engaging, what with the roadside leaves gone for winter. The distant ridge lines were accessible to hungry eyes and the slopes themselves were similarly denuded, kind of raw, primeval maybe. Puts you in touch with the old profound being thing that Jung Read on →
Before I fell asleep last night, my wife Jody read aloud to me from her copy of Barbara Kingsolver’s book The Lacuna. The passage she chose was a diary entry that opened: “Tonight’s news: the Allies broke open the dikes along the Netherlands coast, letting in the open sea and drowning thousands of German soldiers in the flood. Like the Azteca opening dikes to drown Cortés and his men on the shores of Lake Tenochtitlan. But fiction is nonsense, the war is real. Tomorrow the farmers of Walcheren will wake to see a tide standing over their crops, the floating corpses of the Read on →