Jack London Park Glen Ellen, Calif. |
As
my Shelley garden effloresced, another once-expansive one—my Jack London
garden—was returning to weed and waste. I’d just finished about ten years with
London. It began in 1982. That year, I’d returned to Aurora (after an absence
of four years) and discovered that the school had adopted a new literature
anthology for eighth graders—Interpreting
Literature. The final selection in the book was the full text of London’s The Call of the Wild, a novella I’d
never read except in its Classics Illustrated version when I was a kid. I soon
was ensnared by it all (dogs, the Yukon, the Gold Rush, and all), and before my
London garden declined, I’d read all of his fifty books (he wrote them in only
fifteen years), taken a six-week summer seminar in London under the auspices of
the National Endowment for the Humanities, explored California’s Santa Clara
County (where the story begins), hiked thirty miles over the Chilkoot Trail
from Dyea, Alaska, to Lake Bennett in the Canadian Yukon (a trail that figures
prominently in The Call of the Wild),
visited—several times—the Jack London State Historical Park in California (site
of his former ranch),[1] read
every biography of him, met and corresponded with scholars, researched and
published an annotated edition of Wild (University of Oklahoma Press, 1995)
and a biography of Jack London
(Scholastic Press, 1997).
Simultaneously,
I’d been pursuing another passion—for Anne Frank. In 1991, the school replaced Interpreting Literature with Explorations in Literature, an anthology
that contained The Call of the Wild (yes!) but also Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett’s stage adaptation of The Diary of Anne Frank. And before all
was over, I’d read widely about the Holocaust, the camps; I’d spent a week in
the Netherlands and Germany visiting sites related to Anne and her family (including
Bergen-Belsen, the camp where she died in 1945); I’d published a major feature
piece in the Cleveland Plain Dealer’s
Sunday magazine—“Anne Frank: Revisiting the Horror,” 25 October 1992.
And
now, as Jack London and Anne Frank were packing up and moving out of my
imagination, Mary Shelley was moving in. She would stay for nearly another
decade until others eventually eased her out. She would send me out into the
world, into libraries and archives, sad hotels, to bookshops and book sales, to
a half-dozen European countries, and, of course, to Burg Frankenstein and one
spectacular sundae. (Okay, two
spectacular sundaes.)
Castle Frankenstein Darmstadt, Germany |
[1] On 13 May 2011, the state
of California announced its plans to close the Jack London State Historic Park
(state budget woes); it had opened in 1959. However, it was promptly taken over
by the Valley of the Moon Natural History Association—and it remains open.
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