We humans naturally put up barriers between ourselves and others. We are alert to the wiles of strangers, foreigners and people who don’t look like us. But sometimes we find that we share interests — literature, gardening, birdwatching, dogs. In sharing those interests and loves, we find our own personalities expending. We feel ourselves getting bigger as we let others into our own little world. We make our world bigger when we include them. That growth brings joy.
It takes trust to make that work, and trust is not an easy thing. When trust is betrayed, even in small ways, tears flow.
We all know that on some level, but John Steinbeck’s story “The Chrysanthemums” makes me feel it. I don’t know if it will work for you, but the story hits me, every time.
If you’re a writer, you might look at the story out of purely technical curiosity, if there is such a thing. The story is about Elisa Allen, who lives on a ranch, and a knife-sharpening, pot-repairing peddler who travels in a kind of covered wagon. I’ve been told that short stories must get to the point quickly — and that’s one of the rules of short stories. But we don’t meet Elisa until the fourth paragraph. The beginning is a kind of prose poem about how winter takes hold in the Salinas Valley. It’s probably against the rules, but it’s a pleasure to see a writer like Steinbeck work.
As you might guess, I’m marking a birthday. Steinbeck was born Feb. 27, 1902.
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