About Alice (5 page)

Read on for an excerpt from Calvin Trillin's

Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin

Chubby

It's common these days for memoirs of childhood to concentrate on some dark secret within the author's ostensibly happy family. It's not just common; it's pretty much mandatory. Memoir in America is an atrocity arms race. A memoir that reveals incest is trumped by one that reveals bestiality, and that, in turn, is driven from the bestseller list by one that reveals incestuous bestiality.

When I went into the memoir game, I knew I was working at a horrific disadvantage: As much as I would hate this getting around in literary circles in New York, the fact is that I had a happy childhood. At times, I've imagined how embarrassing this background would be if I found myself discussing childhoods with other memoirists late at night at some memoirist hangout.

After talking about their own upbringings for a while—the gluesniffing and sporadically violent grandmother, for instance, or the family tapeworm—they look toward me. Their looks are not totally respectful. They are aware that I've admitted in print that I never heard my parents raise their voices to each other. They have reason to suspect, from bits of information I've let drop from time to time, that I was happy in high school. I try desperately to think of a dark secret in my upbringing. All I can think of is Chubby, the collie dog.

“Well, there's Chubby, the collie dog,” I say, tentatively.

“Chubby, the collie dog?” they repeat.

There really was a collie named Chubby. I wouldn't claim that the secret about him qualifies as certifiably traumatic, but maybe it explains an otherwise mysterious loyalty I had as a boy to the collie stories of Albert Payson Terhune. We owned Chubby when I was two or three years old. He was sickly. One day Chubby disappeared. My parents told my sister, Sukey, and me that he had been given to some friends who lived on a farm, so that he could thrive in the healthy country air. Many years later—as I remember, I was home on vacation from college—Chubby's name came up while my parents and Sukey and I were having dinner. I asked why we'd never gone to visit him on the farm. Sukey looked at me as if I had suddenly announced that I was thinking about eating the mashed potatoes with my hands for a while, just for a change of pace.

“There wasn't any farm,” she said. “That was just what they told us. Chubby had to be put to sleep.”

“Put to sleep!” I said. “Chubby's gone?”

Somebody—my mother, I think—pointed out that Chubby would have been gone in any case, since collies didn't ordinarily live to the age of eighteen.

“Isn't it sort of late for me to be finding this out?” I said.

“It's not our fault if you're slow on the uptake,” my father said.

I never found myself in a memoirist gathering that required me to tell the story of Chubby, but, as it happened, I did relate the story in a book. A week or so later, I got a phone call from Sukey.

“The collie was not called Chubby,” she said. “The collie was called George.
You
were called Chubby.”

1998

Geography

Geography was my best subject. You can imagine how I feel when I read that the average American high school student is likely to identify Alabama as the capital of Chicago. I knew all the state capitals. I knew major mineral resources. Missouri: lead and zinc. (That's just an example.) I learned so many geographical facts that I've had to spend a lot of time in recent years trying to forget them so I'll have room in my brain for some things that may be more useful. I don't hold with the theory that everyone is just using a little bit of his gray matter. I think we're all going flat out.

For instance, I've worked hard to forget the longest word in the English language, which I had to learn for a high school club. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. It isn't a word that's easy to work into conversations. There are only so many times you can say, “Speaking of diseases usually contracted through the inhalation of quartz dust …” I finally managed to forget how to spell it, and I was able to remember my Army serial number.

I think my interest in geography grew from the long automobile trips across the country I used to take with my family as a child. I grew up in Kansas City, which is what the real estate people would call equally convenient to either coast. We usually went west. My father would be in the front seat, pointing out buttes and mesas, and my sister, Sukey, and I would be in the back, protecting our territory. We had an invisible line in the center of the seat. At least, Sukey said it was in the center.

There were constant border tensions. It was sort of like the border between Finland and the old Soviet Union. I played Finland. Sukey played the Soviet Union. Then my father did something that we now know was politically retrograde and maybe antifeminist. He told me, “We do not hit girls. You will never hit your sister again.” Sukey was not visited with a similar injunction. So I became a unilaterally disarmed Finland, while she was a Soviet Union bristling with weaponry. If I hadn't had to be on constant alert because of Sukey's expansionist backseat policy, I might now know the difference between a butte and a mesa.

If I had followed my geographical bent, I would have become a regionalist, a geographer who decides where to draw the lines dividing the regions of the United States, like the Midwest and the South and the New England states. Actually, I do the same sort of thing, without a degree, except I only use two regions—partly because of my math. Math was my worst subject. I was never able to convince the mathematics teacher that many of my answers were meant ironically. Also, I had trouble with pi, as in “pi r squared.” Some years ago, the Texas State Legislature passed a resolution to change pi to an even three. And I was for it.

The way I divide up the country, the first region is the part of the United States that had major league baseball before the Second World War. That's the
Ancien
United States, or the Old Country. The rest of the United States is the rest of the United States—or the Expansion Team United States.

For those of you who didn't follow baseball closely in 1948, there's an easy way to know whether you're in the Old Country or the Expansion Team United States. In the Old Country, the waiters in an Italian restaurant have names like Sal or Vinnie. If you're in an Italian restaurant and the waiter's name is Duane, you're in the Expansion Team United States.

1988

Spelling Yiffniff

My father used to offer an array of prizes for anyone who could spell yiffniff. That's not how to spell it, of course—yiffniff. I'm just trying to let you know what it sounds like, in case you'd like to take a crack at it yourself. Don't get your hopes up: This is a spelling word that once defied some of the finest twelve-year-old minds Kansas City had to offer.

The prizes were up for grabs any time my father drove us to a Boy Scout meeting. After a while, all he had to say to start the yiffniff attempts was “Well?”

“Y-i …,” some particularly brave kid like Dogbite Davis would say.

“Wrong,” my father would say, in a way that somehow made it sound like “Wrong, dummy.”

“How could I be wrong already?” Dogbite would say.

“Wrong,” my father would repeat. “Next.”

Sometimes he would begin the ride by calling out the prizes he was offering: “ … a new Schwinn three-speed, a trip to California, a lifetime pass to Kansas City Blues baseball games, free piano lessons for a year, a new pair of shoes.” No matter what the other prizes were, the list always ended with “a new pair of shoes.”

Some of the prizes were not tempting to us. We weren't interested in shoes. We would have done anything to avoid free piano lessons for a year. Still, we were desperate to spell yiffniff.

“L-l …,” Eddie Williams began one day.

“Wrong,” my father said when Eddie had finished. “Next.”

“That's Spanish,” Eddie said, “the double
L
that sounds like a
y
.“

“This is English,” my father said. “Next.”

Sometimes someone would ask what yiffniff meant.

“You don't have to give the definition to get the prizes,” my father would say. “Just spell it.”

As far as I could gather, yiffniff didn't have a definition. It was a word that existed solely to be spelled. My father had invented it for that purpose.

Occasionally some kid in the car—usually, the contentious Dogbite Davis—would make an issue out of yiffniff's origins. “But you made it up!” he'd tell my father, in an accusing tone.

“Of course I made it up,” my father would reply. “That's why I know how to spell it.”

“But it could be spelled a million ways.”

“All of them are wrong except my way,” my father would say. “It's my word.”

If you're thinking that my father, who had never shared the secret of how to spell his word, could have simply called any spelling we came up with wrong and thus avoided handing out the prizes, you never knew my father. His views on honesty made the Boy Scout position on that subject seem wishy-washy. There was no doubt among us that my father knew how to spell yiffniff and would award the prizes to anyone who spelled it that way. But nobody seemed able to do it.

Finally, we brought in a ringer—my cousin Keith, from Salina, who had reached the finals of the Kansas State Spelling Bee. (Although Keith, who eventually became an English professor, remembers the details of his elimination differently, I'm sure I was saying even then that the word he missed in the finals was “hayseed.”) We told my father that Keith, who was visiting Kansas City, wanted to go to a Scout meeting with us to brush up on some of his knots.

“Well?” my father said, when the car was loaded.

“Yiffniff,” my cousin Keith said clearly, announcing the assigned word in the spelling bee style. “Y-y … “

Y-y! Using
y
both as a consonant and as a vowel! What a move! We looked at my father for a response. He said nothing. Emboldened, Keith picked up the pace: “Y-y-g-h-k-n-i-p-h.”

For a few moments the car was silent. Then my father said, “Wrong. Next.”

Suddenly the car was bedlam as we began arguing about where our plans had gone wrong. “Maybe we should have got the guy who knew how to spell ‘hayseed,' “ Dogbite said. We argued all the way to the Scout meeting, but it was the sort of argument that erupts on a team that has already lost the game. We knew Keith had been our best shot.

1986

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C
ALVIN
T
RILLIN
has been a staff writer at
The New Yorker
since 1963. He lives in New York.

ALSO BY CALVIN TRILLIN

A Heckuva Job

Obliviously On He Sails

Feeding a Yen

Tepper Isn't Going Out

Family Man

Messages from My Father

Too Soon to Tell

Deadline Poet

Remembering Denny

American Stories

Enough's Enough

Travels with Alice

If You Can't Say Something Nice

With All Disrespect

Killings

Third Helpings

Uncivil Liberties

Floater

Alice, Let's Eat

Runestruck

American Fried

U.S. Journal

Barnett Frummer Is an Unbloomed Flower

An Education in Georgia

Copyright © 2006 by Calvin Trillin

Excerpt from Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin copyright © 2011 by Calvin Trillin

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book originally appeared, in somewhat shorter form, in
The New Yorker.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Trillin, Calvin.

About Alice / Calvin Trillin.

p. cm.

1. Trillin, Calvin—Marriage. 2. Trillin, Alice Stewart. 3. Authors' spouses—United States—Biography. 4. Cancer—Patients—Biography. 5. Authors, American—20th century—Biography. I. Title.

PS
3570.
R
5
Z
46 2007

814'.54—dc22 2006045573

www.atrandom.com

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming title Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin by Calvin Trillin. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eISBN: 978-1-58836-578-1

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