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The Fruits of Memory

The Fruits of Memory Not Forgotten BY AMY E. WELDON Each fall I receive an exact intimation of how far away I have become. Such signs are not always dramatic, the Old Testament notwithstanding. When God, or memory, or the past, or any stern force wants to get your attention, the ways are legion. Ravens shriek over Ezekiel's cowering head, branches burn and are not consumed, a child turns in a ninety-year-old womb. There's a secular version too: a taste of a coming season in the wind can sweep your whole life past you, rich in portent. Elizabeth Spencer in The Voice at the Back Door describes this as "the dusty stir of autumn in the twilight," with the indescribable "quality beneath the eagerness and color that tried to speak and could not." Such thoughts are designed to haunt, in one way or another. But there are different kinds of haunting. And different kinds of ghosts, which live in different places. The most powerful ghost that reaches for me in early fall, here in Chapel Hill, lives in a grocery store, in neat ranks of plastic snap-top boxes above: "A taste of a coming season in the wind can sweep your whole http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Southern Cultures University of North Carolina Press

The Fruits of Memory

Southern Cultures , Volume 9 (2)

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2003 Center for the Study of the American South.
ISSN
1534-1488
Publisher site
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Abstract

Not Forgotten BY AMY E. WELDON Each fall I receive an exact intimation of how far away I have become. Such signs are not always dramatic, the Old Testament notwithstanding. When God, or memory, or the past, or any stern force wants to get your attention, the ways are legion. Ravens shriek over Ezekiel's cowering head, branches burn and are not consumed, a child turns in a ninety-year-old womb. There's a secular version too: a taste of a coming season in the wind can sweep your whole life past you, rich in portent. Elizabeth Spencer in The Voice at the Back Door describes this as "the dusty stir of autumn in the twilight," with the indescribable "quality beneath the eagerness and color that tried to speak and could not." Such thoughts are designed to haunt, in one way or another. But there are different kinds of haunting. And different kinds of ghosts, which live in different places. The most powerful ghost that reaches for me in early fall, here in Chapel Hill, lives in a grocery store, in neat ranks of plastic snap-top boxes above: "A taste of a coming season in the wind can sweep your whole

Journal

Southern CulturesUniversity of North Carolina Press

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