I’ve been huge into biographies lately. I read one on F. Scott Fitzgerald last summer, and I picked up one on John Steinbeck after writing to a Steinbeck preservation society to ask for the one they tend to endorse. I got a quick reply from a volunteer who waxed critical of a particular one I should definitely avoid. So I picked up the other one, but honestly, none of them are earth-shattering. I like them informative and focused, but I suppose the limits of the genre take away much of the literary artistry that I look for in a lot of what I read now. I have to be careful, though, because I’m trying to avoid using biography to drive the literary discussions I facilitate in my high school classes. When I started teaching – even during the first ten years of my teaching career – I leaned on the lives of the authors almost exclusively. Just like the genre of the biography or the historical text, analyzing literature through the pages of an author’s life is too myopic and it hinders organic discussion by shoving the “why” right down their throats.
Paul Alexander’s biography of Salinger started my fascination. I was particularly interested because of my lifelong love of The Catcher in the Rye and that Salinger’s life has been a reclusive one. How could anyone really penetrate well enough to give me anything of substance? After I read this book I learned that Salinger’s daughter, Margaret, wrote an autobiography that explored her childhood. I was going to pick it up until the day I took my family on an excursion away from the normal route home from my wife’s mother’s house and into the driveway of J.D. Salinger.
As I mentioned before, I had no intention of going to his house that day. I think the whole idea of autographs and hallowed ground is ridiculous. I didn’t used to think so. I visited Seattle in 1994 with a friend in search of Eddie Vedder, and I visited Bruce Lee’s gravesite. His son Brandon had just been killed during the filming of “The Crow” and his site was fresh, with a temporary stone in place while the permanent one was being engraved. He was buried next to his father, so my friend and I thought it cool to have our pictures taken standing next to the headstone of Bruce Lee. It was decidedly uncool, like most things I did fifteen years ago.
The Connecticut River separates Vermont and New Hampshire and runs along Interstate 91. The key to finding Salinger’s house was finding Windsor, Vermont a beautiful little town that served as the summer retreat of the great, Maxwell Perkins, editor of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas Wolfe (This is where the rash stuff was about Tom Wolfe, author of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, and I removed it. See the comments for the gist of what I wrote. This is the nice thing about blogs, I suppose: being able to retract an irresponsible statement.)
Alexander did the rest. As I drove, my wife read aloud:
“I turned left coming off the covered bridge from Windsor and drove down the main road that wound along the river. On my right I passed a side road which, a sign informed me, led to Saint-Gaudens Historical Site.”
“You’re going to fast,” I said to my wife, “I just came off the bridge.”
“OK, OK,” she said.
“Soon, I passed a green history marker commemorating the old Cornish Colony. The marker stood near the Blow-Me-Down Mill, a three-story stone structure with wood siding. Past the mill, at the Chase Cemetery, a small graveyard surrounded by a white picket fence, I turned right onto a narrow asphalt road. Next I drove just over a mile, passing a three-story slat-shingled mansion and then two huge red barns built among green sloping hills, until I turned right at a small abandoned guard house.”
We were a little confused because of the “small abandoned guard house.” It’s like a little toll booth, and we were expecting something bigger. We saw a house with a porch and I was like, “Well, that could be a guard house, ’cause you can sit on the porch with a shotgun and guard stuff…Like farmers do, or like the farmers do on television.”
“You are a dumbass,” my wife said.
“Going up the asphalt road, I passed Austin Farms. Just beyond the farms, the asphalt road turned into a dirt road, which then ran under a long heavy canopy created by rows of tall green trees growing on either side of the road. In time, to my left I saw a red house that appeared to be a converted barn. Next, continuing up the road, I topped a hill, which was bordered by spacious pastures – pastures, I later learned, that belonged to J.D. Salinger. Driving up the road, I stopped at an old dilapidated barn.”
This is the part I love to recall in my mind, yet, I’m not ever able to tell it well because two things were happening simultaneously, my wife was reading and my eyes were doing what Alexander said he was doing. It was really quite magical, I assure you.
“Finally, I looked up through the trees on the hill in front of me and I saw it – Salinger’s house.”
Out of all the things to be amazed and wondrous about, I was obsessed with his mailbox. Look at the size of this monster. Not only must he get a lot of mail, but he must want a lot of mail, too. I was tempted to find a Kinko’s or something to print out the manuscript I had on my laptop and put it in his mailbox with a note. I wanted to write any kind of note to him.
“I’ll go knock on his door if you want,” my wife said.
“You’re just going to go up there and knock on his door.”
“Yes,” she repeated.
“No, you’re not,” I said. For her to go up and knock on his door, I would have had to been knocked out, like B.A. Baracus before getting on an airplane, and then she would have had to tell me the whole thing afterward.
So she didn’t knock on his door, and I didn’t leave him a note.
I read somewhere that you had to be a woman, or a teenage girl, for him to respond, and you needed to send a picture. I also read that he can sniff a fanatic from a mile away, that all his close friends call him Jerry and not “J.D.” or “Mister Salinger.” They really do. I swear they do.
Two houses, two reconnaissance missions, presumably two scenes of misery, one trip. Maybe the answer to everything that is eating me alive has been lying right next to me in our gritty, sandy bed for the last ten years – that all along it’s been Jennet who has kept me alive and breathing by suffering all of my impulses and broodings.
Jennet, please look at me closely. I’m not going to kill myself. I promise.
36 Comments
Tom Wolfe, a hack? He may not be on the level of Thomas Wolfe, but he’s certainly not a hack! (And what of this accusation that he’s a thief? I’ve not heard that story; please share!) If you’re going to criticize a major voice in new journalism, and a highly successful writer, you ought to avoid the allusions to Mr. T’s character on The A Team, lest you open yourself up to similar observations.
I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. If I reference Mr. T, I’m a lesser critic? In any case, I appreciate and respect that comments I make open me up to certain criticisms. I’m grateful to hear them, though. Tom Wolfe wormed his way onto the bus by being the post-Kerouac Beat generation’s little puppy. What he did with his “new journalism” was thoroughly done years — a hundred years, in fact — before. He slithered onto the bus, got high with some people, told us about it, and called it a revolution. That, I do not respect at all.
I pity the fool who doesn’t appreciate a well-placed A-team reference.
I’m not sure where you’re getting your information on Tom Wolfe, but he did not slither (or worm) his way onto the Merry Prankster bus, nor did he make a pretense of being anything other than what he was: a professional journalist. What’s more, he did not get high with his subjects (in this respect you might be confusing him with Hunter S. Thompson, who believed in actively taking part in whatever he was covering). Wolfe certainly told us about it . . . in what is still some of the most electrifying prose an American writer has rendered in the last 50 years . . . but he never claimed that New Journalism was entirely new, merely that it broke away from then-prevailing standards of news reporting.
Your most serious charge, however, is still unaddressed (and I suspect it was made rashly): In what respect is Tom Wolfe any kind of a thief?
Side note: Excellent Salinger piece. Though you realize he’s probably got security devices stashed all over those woods. I doubt if you would have got closer to his abode without some kind of silent alarm being set off.
Thanks for your thoughtful response to my entry, Tom. Yeah, my comments are a little too harsh to throw around without substantiating them. My information comes from constant thoughts while reading Wolfe’s work: Steinbeck and Kerouac already did all of this and THIS is now called the New Journalism? I had a hard time with the packaging of the whole movement, the hat, the white suit, and his prose that seemed lifted from stuff done already. A good blog to help make my point would be to put some of his paragraphs next to Kerouac’s. I see that Tom Wolfe is number one on your favorite author’s section, so I know I don’t have the depth of knowledge you do regarding Wolfe’s work. But you’re right: the comment was made rashly, probably in a subconscious desire to rile people. I’ll see you over at your blog. Thanks again.
No, the point about your A-Team allusion wasn’t that it made you a harsh critic; it makes you a hack.
Jay, I’m not sure you’re embracing the importance of the A-Team enough. I only mentioned the name B.A. Baracus, so you obviously have watched the show. I think you should revisit the series and consider changing your opinion of me. Please?
Hey Nice J.D. Salinger article
Any religious undertones in the name of the street saliner lives on?
Hi Frank. Was his house hard to find, or did you pretty much stay on a single road from Windsor? I hope to find it just for a pilgrimage, I have no hopes of meeting him or knocking on his door. I live in the region. Is there any chance that you cold give me the road or some hints? I understand if you’d rather not out of respect for Salinger’s privacy and also the search. Thanks.
hi im a huge fan of salinger and i would love to write to him, if you are comfortable doing this can you please e-mail me his adress for a class project.
thanks.
does anyone know what his adress is? I’ve been wanting to write him a letter since i was twelve…
hello.
if anyone know his address please let me know. i’ve been dreaming to phone or to write him a letter since reading first 30 pages of “catcher…”
thank you.
I also would love to have J.D. Salinger’s address. If you’re willing, could you send it to me too? Thanks.
Thanks for writing, Mary…To tell you the truth, though: I don’t know his address. I followed the directions in Paul Alexander’s Salinger biography and ended up in front of his house.
I still worry about Franny.
He’s 90 years old- leave the poor guy alone.
i can’t believe you road tripped all the way to his house and didn’t even have the courage to knock on his door! i mean, the guys 90, probably lives with a couple caretakers, and a few dogs – lonely as hell. are you serious! i think he would have been happy to have received a visitor to talk to, thats if you could have composed yourself enough to ask a few great questions. but then again, he’s 90 and may not even be coherent enough to respond. regardless, it would have been worth a shot. now what started out as a simple adventure is now a burden that you have to live with your whole life. i thought it was a good story until the end…u really should have thrown caution to the wind and went up to the door or at least had your wife do it while you stood behind her while she explained how you found the place. whats the worse that could happen. if i didn’t live so far away i would bring my first edition of the catcher and walk straight up to his doorstep and get at least a few words over tea in and leave with an autograph.
ps. did you look inside the mailbox?
Actually, he was 88 when I went, so it was open season on the spry gentleman.
I stopped on the way home. He lives right off I91, so it was easy. No, I didn’t have the courage, I guess, to knock. And I didn’t open his mailbox.
I am a little impressed you found the house. I grew up less than an mile from there. My family has refused to tell many folks where his house is. We used to call him if the person sounded like a friend plausibly lost. I encourage folks to give him his privacy. I think he’s earned it.
I agree that he deserves his privacy if he wants it, but if I were a 21 year old bathing beauty in a tight halter top, his rules might have lightened a bit…
Thanks for the nice article and for the Salinger’s house pics. I always wondered about how his house looks like.
Greetings from Uruguay…
i love salinger.
I really enjoyed reading this, thanks for sharing the article. Also, I’m glad you didn’t go up to his door and knock, you never want to meet your heroes.
I am just finishing my 2nd “literary” biography of Salinger and I wish there were more to read. I find it interesting, at least in my mind, that his life, while somewhat interesting, is not particularly noteworthy, notwithstanding his literary achievements. Certainly his service time is interesting, however his seclusion puts a damper on it for me.
Salinger is my favorite writer since I was l7 in l961.Nobody has characters so real.He once said someone told him they met Buddy Glass in a bar one night.
I love salinger’s books. the book “nine stories” is absolutely great.
a perfect day for bananafish is one of the greatest american short stories i have ever read (although i am only 17, so i’m sure there are more out there i haven’t experienced yet). i would love to write the man a letter, although i feel like it would be similar to sending leonardo da vinci a macaroni and glitter glue collage.
I, too, felt a need to reach out and try to initiate contact. I wrote a letter and mailed it to Windsor without an exact address. I figured in a town that small, they knew who he was and where he lived and the letter would find its way. It was like throwing a stone down a deep well and waiting for the thunk or splash when it hit bottom. I never got the letter back so somebody got it, but I never got a response so I will always wonder if it ever reached its destination. Life is full of mysteries.
Mr. T aside, “Jerry” may not even have been home. The fantasy of tea and a chat may be better left as a fantasy that might have been. It might also have been a visit from the local constable for trespassing or a rude encounter from a staff member. THAT certainly would have taken the glow off things. Let it be and enjoy yet another of life’s mysteries.
Sorry, I meant Cornish, not Windsor.
Really enjoyed this article. I grew up in New England but moved 3,000 miles away before I discovered Salinger, otherwise I would duplicate this trek. I also read Alexander’s book and it found it very interesting, despite poor reviews. It would be a shame if Salinger passes without any more public contact. So many questions could be asked and answered…
I spent many nights at Jerry’s house, watching movies from his classic movie collection, and eating vegetarian food. I was young, and didn’t know much about him, except he was the guy with the great movies, and shitty food! It was only later that I learned he was J.D. Salinger. I always knew he was “something” because my aunt always reminded us not to “talk about his books.” I didn’t really know what she meant.
My uncle and aunt divorced because my uncle was having an affair with Jerry’s wife, Claire. (sp) My cousin Becky was mentioned in Margaret’s book, as they were best friends growing up. My cousin’s lived in Plainfield, NH. The last time I saw Jerry, was at my cousin Jim’s funeral.
I tell this story to folks, and they can’t believe I actually spent time at Jerry’s house. Once again, we was just a cool guy with the great movies and shitty food!
Thought I’d share this with you. Jeff
I recently went on MY voyage for “Jerry” and walked all the way up that driveway. I was standing in his front yard for about a half hour debating whether it was his house or not. Where was the huge fence, where was the mailbox with the name, almost too commonly printed on it, ‘SALINGER’? I wasn’t sure until a woman drove up the driveway. I said, “i’m sorry i’m lost. do you know what house number this is?” Bare in mind i asked this knowing his house number to be 301. She responded, “Well.. what are you looking for?” To which i admitted to her, “3-0-1.” A smile crept across her face and said i needed to leave or she would have to call the police. I complied and left never knowing for sure if this was his house. But now after seeing these photos, I know that i was, indeed, standing not more than 20 yards from those windows, staring, waiting for his face to glare out at me. Waiting for him to yell at me to leave. But i guess why would he – he had a housekeeper to do it for him. A true recluse.
Very cool, John. Thanks for sharing this.
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