Fuchsia
by Katrina Vandenberg

That summer in the west I walked sunrise
to dusk, narrow twisted highways without shoulders,
low stone walls on both sides. Hedgerows
of fuchsia hemmed me in, the tropical plant
now wild, centuries after nobles imported it
for their gardens. I was unafraid,
did not cross to the outsides of curves, did not
look behind me for what might be coming.
For weeks in counties Kerry and Cork, I walked
through the red blooms the Irish call
the Tears of God, blazing from the brush
like lanterns. Who would have thought
a warm current touching the shore
of that stone-cold country could make
lemon trees, bananas, and palms not just take,
but thrive? Wild as the jungles they came from,
where boas flexed around their trunks —
like my other brushes with miracles,
the men who love you back, how they come
to you, gorgeous and invasive, improbable,
hemming you in. And you walk that road
blazing, some days not even afraid to die.


Katrina Vandenberg, “Fuchsia” from The Alphabet Not Unlike the World. Copyright © 2012 by Katrina Vandenberg. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Milkweed Editions, milkweed.org. (buy now)

It was on this day in 1776 that 70-year-old Benjamin Franklin set sail on a diplomatic mission to France (books by this author). It was his fourth and final transatlantic trip. He was accompanied by two of his grandsons. When they arrived in Paris in early December Franklin took up residence in a fancy hotel in Passy whose proprietor insisted that Franklin didn't have to pay until the Americans won their independence. Franklin was famous in France — mostly because of his scientific work — and news of his arrival spread quickly. Everyone had a theory on why he was in France: for his health; to protest America's break with England; to put his grandsons in a better school; to broker a commercial deal; or to retire to a Swiss chalet. Both the French and the British spied on him ceaselessly, intercepting his mail and enlisting his servants. They reported on everything, from his grocery bills to his laundry.

During Franklin's nine years in Paris he made himself at home. He acquired hundreds of books and set up a small printing press — he even invented a typeface called "Le Franklin." His home was always open for entertaining, and the French loved him despite the fact that he spoke French poorly, didn't understand elaborate French social code, and often ignored it even when he did understand it. But he was passionate about the American cause and wildly exaggerated the strength and organization of the Continental Army. France secretly aided the cause of the revolution, sending money and supplies, but was reluctant to declare a formal alliance. In October of 1777 the British lost the Battle of Saratoga and the French decided that the rebels might win after all and signed an alliance.

In 1783 Franklin signed the Treaty of Paris which officially ended the war. He returned home in 1785 when Thomas Jefferson was appointed to succeed him. Many of his friends thought that on the ship ride home he should write a memoir of his years in France, but his brain was back in science. Instead, he wrote a pamphlet called "Cause and Cure of Smoky Chimneys."

It's the anniversary of the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825, a canal to connect New York City and the Atlantic Ocean with the Great Lakes. The canal was 360 miles long, 40 feet wide, and 4 feet deep — just deep enough to float barges carrying 30 tons of freight. It was built by European immigrants — mostly Irish — who were paid $10 a month. They were also given whiskey which was stored in barrels along the construction site.

When the canal was finished cannons were lined up along the towpath just barely in earshot of each other. They fired one after another from Lake Erie to New York City, finishing the relay in 81 minutes, establishing the fastest ever rate of communication in the United States at that time.

 It's the anniversary of Norway's separation from Sweden in 1905. A hundred years earlier Denmark had given Norway to Sweden but relations between the two countries had been rocky all the way though the 1800s. Around the turn of the century, Norwegian nationalism was on the rise, so on this day in 1905 the union was peacefully dissolved and a Danish Prince, Carl, took the name Haakon VII and was made king of Norway.

It's the birthday of the playwright John Arden (books by this author), born in Barnsley, England (1930), who was bookish and well behaved until he joined the army, where he said, "I heard a lot of stories which I found rather distressing and not what I thought the army was for." He came home and started writing plays that attacked British conformity. He's best known for his play Serjeant Musgrave's Dance (1959) about four deserters from the British army who try to persuade the local people in their town that war is pointless. John Arden said, "Theater must celebrate noise, disorder, drunkenness, lasciviousness, nudity, generosity, corruption, fertility, and ease."

It was on this day in 1900 that Henry James (books by this author) wrote his first letter to the budding novelist Edith Wharton (books by this author), beginning a long friendship. Wharton was an admirer of James's work and she sent him one of the first short stories she ever wrote, about a young woman in Europe. He wrote back to say that he liked the story but he also said, "Be tethered in native pastures, even if it reduces [you] to a back-yard in New York." His advice inspired her to write about the New York society she'd grown up in and the result was The House of Mirth (1905) which became her first big success.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.^®

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