mattress of the top bunk. I had pleaded to go to camp. At first my parents had resisted. But I kept on for the better part of a year, and eventually they agreed to send me, in the company of several hometown friends. For three weeks I would be drinking in the beautiful customs of Camp Illahee in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Transylvania County, North Carolina. Oh!
Illahee means “heavenly world” in Cherokee. The camp had been encouraging campers to “be a great girl” for nearly seventy years. It was an old-fashioned place, offering horseback riding, woodworking, archery, needlecraft, camping trips to crests that looked out on the deckled blue haze—it appeared to have been rendered from torn strips of construction paper—from which the range took its name. The ethos was brightly self-improving. According to the Log, the camp’s collective diary, earlier generations of Illahee girls had been divided into three groups: “under five-three,” “average/tall,” “plump.” A camper from 1947 wrote, “Vesta told us our figure defects and we found each other’s. We studied the ideas of some of the world’s great designers and found the clothes best suited for us.”
By the time I arrived, the mode was Umbros and grosgrain hair bows. On Sundays we wore all white—shorts and a polo shirt buttoned to the neck, a periwinkle-blue cotton tie—to a fried-chicken lunch. Vespers was conducted in an outdoor chapel, nestled in a grove of pines. Each of us was allowed one candy bar and one soda per week. Swimming in the spring-fed lake was mandatory, as was communal showering afterward, unless you had swimmer’s ear, a case of which I soon contracted.
The wake-up bell sounded at 7:45. I would sail through the morning activity periods, counting my cross-stitches and plucking my bows. But after lunch, when we repaired to our bunks for an hour of rest, my spirits would plummet. While my bunk-mates jotted cheery letters to their families, I whimpered into my pillow, an incipient hodophobe racked by some impossible mix of homesickness and wanderlust.
Several nights into the session, I wet the bed. I told no one. Even with the parrots as camouflage, rest hour became a torture. Each afternoon I sat there, marinating in my ruined sleeping bag, convincing myself that catastrophes happened to people who ventured away from their hometowns. “COME GET ME! I can’t make it three weeks,” I wrote in a letter home. “I will pay you back, just take me away, please!”
THE PROGNOSIS, in the weeks that my father remained in intensive care, was that he would never work again. One day he got up out of bed and, ignoring the protests of his doctors, checked himself out of the hospital. He resumed his law practice the next week. His recovery was an act of obstinacy, an unmiraculous miracle attributable only to a prodigious will.
Still, it was hard when he came home. Like many victims of brain injuries, he was forgetful and paranoid. His temperament had changed; he was irrational where he’d been lucid, irascible where he’d once been calm. Even more confusingly, as the years went by, I had to take the fact of this transformation on faith from my mother—I’d been so young when it happened—mourning her version of a father I couldn’t quite recall. The accident knocked our confidence, aggravating an already fearful strain in the family history. My mother coped with the situation, my brother accepted it, but I was furiously bereft. My desire to tackle Romania, or the Blue Ridge Mountains—my sense of confidence that I could, even—evaporated as I imagined my fate mirroring that of my mother, who was nine when her father had his accident.
John Zurn—she and her siblings always called him that, in the manner of a historical figure—had been the vice president of Zurn Industries. It was a plumbing products company, founded in 1900 by his grandfather, John A. Zurn, who had purchased the pattern for a backwater valve from the Erie City Iron Works. At thirty-four, John Zurn was a man of the world. As part of his prep school education, he had studied French and Latin. Now a tutor came to his office once a week to drill him in Spanish. Zurn Industries was counting on him, in the coming years, to take its floor drains and grease traps into Spain, Cuba, and Puerto Rico.
On December 3, 1959, John Zurn boarded Allegheny Airlines Flight 317, en route from Philadelphia to Erie. Attempting an emergency landing in a snowstorm, the plane slammed into Bald Eagle Mountain, near Wayne. The crash killed everyone aboard except for a sportswear executive, who declared, from his hospital bed, “The Lord opened up my side of the plane and I was able to jump out.” As the Titusville Herald reported, John Zurn had been particularly unlucky: “Mr. Zurn boarded the ill-fated Flight 317 on a reservation listed by J. Mailey, who was coming to Erie to conduct business for the Zurn firm. Apparently last-minute plans were made for Mr. Zurn to travel to Erie in his place. Five children are among the survivors.” The Maileys and their seven kids were my mother’s family’s next-door neighbors.
My grandmother, a thirty-one-year-old widow, remarried two years later. Her new husband was a cancer widower, with a girl and a boy of his own. Together they had two more children. In a photograph taken sometime in the mid-1960s, the brood, outfitted in floral dresses and bright sweater vests, is lined up by height—nine bars on a xylophone. Glimpsed through the window to the basement of the drafty fieldstone house on Fetters Mill Road, where children of various ages and provenances vied to become house champ in air hockey and foosball, or out on the snowy lawn, whooshing down hills on dinner trays, they might have been a poor man’s Kennedys.
They were Protestants, though, descendants, on the Zurn side, of gentleman farmers who had immigrated from Zurndorf, one of the easternmost villages in Austria, to the Bodensee region of Switzerland. There, before moving to Philadelphia, they had been followers of Huldrych Zwingli, the reforming pastor who whitewashed the walls and removed the organ of the Grossmünster in Zurich. (I learned all of this only recently, reading an amateur genealogy produced by a great-uncle. Did I bridle at Geneva because I detected there something of my own congenital rigidity?) If trauma seemed to embolden the Kennedys to the point of recklessnesss, it made my mother’s family cautious. The ultimate wage of travel, John Zurn’s death engendered in his survivors and their descendants a steadfast, preemptive provincialism—an aversion toward risk and adventure, which seemed to them indistinguishable.
MANY YEARS AFTER my father’s accident, I learned that you can be less or more of a bird. Researchers asked college students to rate the “goodness” of different entities as examples of certain categories. Birds, in descending order of birdness:
robin
sparrow
bluejay
bluebird
canary
blackbird
dove
lark
…
hawk
raven
goldfinch
parrot
sandpiper
ostrich
titmouse
emu
penguin
bat
I wondered how many words there were between a me and a bluebird.
IN NINTH GRADE I transferred to New Hanover, a public school of almost two thousand students. It had a football team and an on-campus cop, Officer Waymon B. Hyman. (Another great perk of a small-town upbringing is the names—one of our teachers was called Lawless Bean.) There was a new argot to master—a discriminating, and sometimes discriminatory, lineup of “thespians” and “yo-boys” and jocks and goths. The Catwalk was a
