Unproblematic Domestic Bliss and Great Camps

Through his exaggerated use of hazy highlight and unrealistic glow, Thomas Kinkade creates quaint tableaus of American nostalgia. His work fundamentally reveals distorted depictions of cottages nestled within the natural world, filtered through the gaze of “unproblematic domestic bliss,” as astutely noted by Onno. A similar haze of traditional Americana seems to cloud the Great Camps of the Adirondacks, and while Kinkade paintings portray obvious falsities, the domestic bliss presented in The Truth and Legend of Lily Martindale seems more temptingly consumable.

While reading the novel I hoped Lily’s role as a Great Camp caretaker might present the possibility of rupturing a patriarchal space, with Lily acting as an active agent in a masculine sphere. Instead, in her hermitage Lily seemed to centrally orbit in this traditional space of domestic bliss. Perhaps the most fundamental ‘legend’ and myth of the novel is thus that of the Great Camp itself as an accessible place where families are endlessly happy and immersed in tradition, straight out of a Kinkade painting, singing hymns in holy light. The novel is as unaware of its underlying context of wealth as avid supporters of Great Camps seem to be of the problematic themes that the places reproduce and reify. To write about the rich while not knowing you’re writing about the rich is problematic, just as the unselfconscious patriarchal conservatism, masculine dominance, and appropriation of animals as a symbols of power and wealth is rooted in deeply problematic Great Camp traditions.

And yet, I wonder why criticism along this vein seems to be absent in discourse about these institutions. I find it perplexing and unsettling that the pride owners and supporters of Great Camps feel in preserving tradition manifests in their minds as a utilitarian duty – that they believe their efforts contribute to the greater beneficial ‘good’ in the Adirondacks. Perhaps this notion of cultural work is an unconscious effort to downplay their wealth, but the context of the stark wealth disparity of the Adirondacks makes this privilege-blindness feel all the more disconcerting. 

At Camp Wenonah, once Dennis Phillips presented the case and the mock trial began, I watched a table of old white men in front of me finish 3 bottles of wine throughout the first 40 minutes of his speech. I was perplexed both by this scene and that something seemingly so banal and unimportant as a singular person canoeing down a stretch of water could amount to such serious and deliberated discussion. It quickly emerged that the significance of ownership as a marker of masculine authority is perhaps foundational in Adirondack private and public land disputes and discourses. I felt like an intruder in an overly masculine space flanked with animal busts and racist paraphernalia - a true celebration of “authentic Adirondack tradition.”

Shartle's Language

In class I stated that I liked the first paragraph of Lily Martindale because of how poetic the language is. I really enjoyed hearing a polar opinion from Taryn. She felt the exact opposite way. Actually, she even thought "Oh no..." after reading the first sentence. After I read the first paragraph  I thought, "Wow, I should have started reading this book a week ago."

Although I did appreciate the language in the beginning, I wondered how successful the book would have been had it been written in such poetic language throughout its entirety. I imagine it would have been a very different story if Shartle took the poetic approach. The language she initially used implied a greatness and a fairy-tale-esque tone that painted Lily as an intangible legend of the Adirondacks. This was not the story Shartle told. By the end of the second paragraph, the reader is able to see Shartle shy away from this story line by placing wire and duct tape into the image.

I do wonder why Shartle decided to open the book up in this way if she intended to no longer continue that voice or use of language after the second paragraph. It could be assumed that it was simply to have the contrast of a mythical setting with the factual one she provides shortly after. Although, there were some fairy tale like elements sprinkled throughout the story, such as Lily talking and spending time with animals. Maybe she hoped to constantly use these elements as a contrast to the raw, gritty elements of Lily's story and character.

Short journal bit:

Janelle reminded us that there remain only six weeks until our semester's conclusion.  As time goes, I sink into my standing here, like when my feet plunge into the wet sand under the weight of lapping waves.  I like it here, and I don't want to move.

I moved to the Adirondacks in June, which this year acted as my version of January.  The month of release: from academics and commitments, into the woods.

Four months into the so-called new year and the place looks different.  We ask ourselves what it means to be a "local" and I'd like to say being a local means to bear witness to things dying and being born.  This is to say, that you sweep away the leaves you saw burgeon, what is the word for that?  I've found companionship in my dictionary this new year, which is strange because I speak less but have more words in my head.

But my definition is reductive.  To be a local, to bear witness, goes deeper than just foliage.  Like in Banks' novel, there's more to see.  In the texture of a town, there's history.

I'm a local in myself.  I don't live anywhere except in my thoughts and mostly, in my memories. So I cultivate my place, the sensory experience of it decided upon meticulously, to use in my memories.  The Adirondacks have afforded me myth because of its physical grandeur.  It's landscape is a whole story in itself that climaxes at the peak of Giant Mountain and concludes at the picnic bench in front of my house.  There are no characters except me and it has no dialogue, only the landscape at different hours of the day.

I'll miss it here.  What a strange and beautiful idea this was!

"coincidence" is a word that covers up the magic of everyday life

In class today, I was pretty uncomfortable when people were sharing "coincidences", - events in their lives that seemed to happen by chance in an amazing way, much like the way events in "The Truth and Legend of Lily Martindale" unfolded. Onno left us with the thought that perhaps, as his wife theorized, events such as meeting someone personally connected to you in a populated city or taking the flight right before the one that crashes occur because of the laws of statistics. At the beginning of the semester, I would joke that I felt safe here because killers escaped from a prison through the Adirondack Park earlier this year and a fire occurred at the Mountain House seven years ago, so chances were in our favor that nothing so bad would happen to us during our stay. Yet, reading and interviewing people about topics related to the power of energy and the purpose of souls has made me think deeply about what coincidental events really mean and what causes them.

I believe in something until it is proven, not the other way around, and the concept of coincidences has been totally punctured for me. I cringe inside when people use the word "coincidence", because I so desperately want to shout out that it isn't real; everything that happens has meaning and happens for a reason, even if we cannot perceive it. As we grow up, we are taught to analyze everything that happens in our life by looking through a filter of our limited ability to discern logic and reason. We call ourselves the most intelligent species on the planet, and our worlds shatter when we cannot figure out solutions to our own problems. When we look back at our lives and are in awe of how if I had not done "x" at "x" time then "x" would never have happened, we are compelled to go past the beauty or tragedy of the harmonious sequence of events to try to find reason for it. In the case of a negative event, such as not being able to get a loved one to the hospital in time, this can lead to guilt and regret that can burden us for our whole lives, or in the case of a positive event, such as meeting your lifelong lover halfway across the world, it can lead to putting too much faith in something beyond ourselves and neglecting to be accountable for our actions. So, how do we strike a balance between attributing everything to logical human acts and attributing everything to a force beyond ourselves? It was not until the mid 20th century when Carl Jung introduced the term "synchronicity" to explain paranormal events. Jung defines synchronicity as: "the coming together of inner and outer events in a way that cannot be explained by cause and effect and that is meaningful to the observer." Synchronicity happens all the time, but we are aware of it more so when we are in an open and perceptive mental state, which is likely why children notice events that defy cause-and-effect. 

Synchronicities in "Lily Martindale" were somewhat convincing to me, but the prevalence of them throughout the book should have been explained, since the average reader would find them jarring. Our society is so critical of a-causal events that it is very risky for writers to include too many of such, since they seem like an easy way to resolve complex plots. I have no doubt that a character such as Lily Martindale would have produced a daughter that listens to her heart rather than her mind, a daughter that thinks about what she wants more than worrying about her life as an adopted child. Yet, Shartle neglected to delve into the character qualities of Jenny, among various other characters who experienced striking "coincidences", so the way Jenny found Jim and Lily so haphazardly seemed exaggerated. Shartle could have used her story as an opportunity to me fall in love with her a life alone in a Great Camp and believe in fairy tales again, but instead she left me questioning the magic of so many fairy tales I've encountered. There was a line that Shartle needed to cross to make Lily's story successful to a population that is grounded in finding a rational explanation for events, and she just didn't deliver. The truth behind Lily's "legend"-- the fact that she is an ordinary human afflicted by loss -- was just too mundane considering the novel's build-up. The more I think about it, it was disheartening for me to read a book that reinforced the ultimate successful return of a woman of privilege who has isolated herself from a system she is sick of and sacrificed everyday luxuries to be a caretaker of her home, since separation, abstinence, and submission are not the ways to spiritual growth, as people are often culturally taught. In the end, the love Lily regained was mere luck, and to me, this is such a superficial phenomenon. 

The Adirondack Novel

For me, The Truth and Legend of Lily Martindale felt more like an Adirondack novel than Banks' The Sweet Hereafter. I think that the Adirondacks as setting was more important for Shartle's novel than Banks'. The Sweet Hereafter, as I wrote before, felt as though it could have been set in any small town in rural and impoverished America. And maybe some of that feeling comes from his inspiration for the novel coming from an event that happened in rural Texas, but Shartle's novel cannot be easily set outside the Adirondacks for a couple of reasons. One, hermits are rare outside the Adirondack Park. Hermits can only happen in places where solitude and a good measure of self-sufficiency is possible, which reduces the wild areas in which to be a hermit down to only a few places with the Adirondacks being one. Two, the Great Camps are pretty uniquely Adirondack and the flocking of the rich to the mountains is, at this time, something that defines the Adirondacks, though now the rich also flock to the hills of Montana and Idaho and Colorado for similar mountain retreats. Three, the Adirondacks are already a place of mystery and so would be a good place to set a legendary character. I think that, in order for a book to be an Adirondack novel, it needs to justify being set in the Adirondacks, give a reason to be set there other than it is a small, insular mountain community. There needs to be a strong tie to something undeniably integral to Adirondack identity and culture that would make setting the book in another mountain community like Colorado or Idaho difficult.

Hopes, Homes and Hermits

Lily Martindale went to the Adirondacks to live alone, to live independently and away from the public eye, and to live her life as a hermit. When we talked about her hermitage in class today, we talked about her desire to live alone as a decision to have a relationship with nature rather than having a relationship with other people. Living in the Adirondacks was for her an escape from the unwanted media attention of the urban world after the plane crash. Her choice to escape by moving permanently to the Adirondacks was what qualified her as a hermit, but it seems to me that this decision is not uncommon.

The most obvious appeals of life in the Adirondacks are the natural beauty and the opportunity to live in a remote and uncrowded community. The relationship with nature that Lily gains is one that many people do have in the Adirondacks, and in many other rural communities that are tied to a landscape. Lily’s classification as a “hermit” stems from her initial decision to exclude all other relationships and only have a connection with the natural world. Is this really so different from people who choose to live in the Adirondacks because of its relative isolation? She mentioned that her choice to isolate herself in the Adirondacks was a kind of death, and a complete escape from all restrictions that come with human societies. I can easily imagine that many people in the Adirondacks, even people less isolated than Lily Martindale, came to this place with a similar hope: a hope of erasing a past life and starting over through limited human connections and a relationship with the land.

Mendel Would Turn in His Grave

As I read Lily Martindale’s story, I found myself hung up on some of the smaller, more insignificant details - a beautiful image here and there, a name I couldn’t quite remember, a character’s profession. One in particular that comes to mind is the scene we discussed briefly at the beginning of class, the suicide attempt of Eleanor’s grandmother. The graphic image took me by surprise, and I didn’t know enough about any of the characters yet to assign any sort of meaning to the event. I thought maybe it was just a sad, but for the most part irrelevant detail to the overall plot.

When the event was mentioned a second time however, I thought there must have been a reason we were supposed to remember it. If not commit it to memory, we were to at the very least think about it more than once. As someone who is fascinated by the brain and consequently, its pathologies, I supposed that this might set up a family precedent for a character who would struggle with mental illness later on in the novel. However, as it turned out, Eleanor was the one who triumphed in the face of tragedy. She thrived in all areas of life: her social life, career, marriage, and took full responsibility for taking care of those around her.

Mental illness is partially genetic, and like in many other aspects of our lives, the genes involved will affect our behavior if and when they are activated. It’s not nearly as black and white as some hereditary diseases, like Huntington’s disease. For the child of a person affected with Huntington’s disease, he or she has a 50% chance of inheriting it. Mental disorders, on the other hand, are genetically predisposed, but don’t guarantee that a person will struggle with whatever illness has affected their family. Instead, stressful environments at any given time in their lives might bring out pathologies for those who carry those particular genes. This is an oversimplified summary of the science behind this topic, but I found it curious that this detail didn’t fall within my expectations in this story. Given the trajectory of the young girls’ paths, I would have expected such a traumatic detail to belong in Lily’s family history, not Eleanor’s. I hate that I think about it this way, that one ailment belonged to someone else, but the scientist in me can’t help but reject this piece of the Hill’s family history.

In case you have any interest in Gregor Mendel:

http://www.biography.com/people/gregor-mendel-39282