Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library

My Introduction to Kurt Vonnegut

By: Melanie Calhoun

The basement of my grandparents’ house was my early childhood refuge. It was half finished, which, really, is putting it kindly. The bedroom’s mattress and boxsprings provided an excellent view of the insulation tucked between floors, a view that in the dark of night appeared utterly sinister. The makeshift bathroom had an odd little foldaway portable shower contraption and a chemical toilet. These were nestled smugly next to the storage freezer, where my thrifty MaMaw stored excess milk, bread, and other perishables bought on sale that probably should never be frozen. The whole basement smelled faintly of Easter eggs to me, thanks to PaPaw’s strategic placement of small cups and jars of vinegar throughout the space… something to do with how it countered the smell of stale smoke that lived in the walls after his four decade long Pall Mall habit. 

Unpleasant though all that may seem to most, that basement was pure heaven to me. Packed in boxes, crammed in every available space among the pretend living space, were all of my father’s earthly belongings; items gathered over his 40 years on the planet, but left there to gather dust as he wandered and tried to make sense of his life. As he was mostly absent from my childhood during these wanderings, this was how I got to know my father.

I would spend my weekends at my grandparents’ house with hours to kill alone, exploring the slightly eerie but altogether familiar underside of their house. I spent most of my time pawing through those boxes – careful not to leave traces of my snooping. The record collection provided hours of entertainment, schooling me in the joys of 70s era arena rock and 60s era pop. The boxes of clothing gave me some sense of the utter lack of style (or maybe the total hipness) my father possessed. The trinkets and tchotchkes collected from years of world travel were vast and varied. The small box, hidden away in the corner, of European porno magazines was bizarre to me, yet strangely interesting and exciting. The books though were mostly ignored, as the few times I leafed through them I found them to be above my head. Though I was a voracious reader early in life, and reading well above my age range, I preferred the fluffy high school romances and thrillers I could get from my local library to these dusty old tomes.

As a teenager my visits to my grandparents’ home – and thus that wondrous basement – declined in frequency as I discovered rock concerts, parties, driving and boys. My father’s things went unmolested for several years as I grew up.
Then there was that one day (I hesitate to call it fateful but I suppose that’s really what it was), at the age of 18 or so, that I paid a visit to that basement again and snooped through some boxes to see if there was anything cool I could pilfer. I found a box of books – all cheap mass market paperbacks with dates on the title pages that preceded my own birth, yellowed and musty but still mostly intact. My father and I had spent a brief time together during my teenage years and I’d come to appreciate his love of literature, so I reckoned there would be something of interest for me in this particular box. I picked up a smaller book packed at the top with a red cover and what seemed to me a crudely drawn illustration. Vonnegut… did I know anything by him? No… the name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall having read any of his books. Cat’s Cradle… ok, why not. It was short if nothing else.

To say that Cat’s Cradle changed my life is probably overstating an oversimplification of the truth of the matter. But still, that’s always kind of how I’ve felt about it, this unassuming little satire on the insanity of modern life. Bokonon – spouting foma to live by even as you’re admonished to disbelieve – became my hero as I discovered my own distrust of dogma. San Lorenzo sounded like a virtual heaven to me, even though I’ve never much cared for tropical climes. Mona was the embodiment of female perfection in my mind. I’ve referred to many people I’ve met in life as members of my karass, though I’m sure that I’ve fallen prey to more than a few granfalloons. I’ve yet to identify a current wampeter; it’s only in hindsight that I can peg those things. (I’ve still yet to find a soul who would practice boku-maru with me. I long for that day.) And ice nine… how badly I wanted some of this apocalyptic material, just to carry with me, just in case I ever needed it.

I’ve since devoured most everything Vonnegut published, save for a few bits and bobs, and while I appreciate (nearly) all of it, Cat’s Cradle still holds a special place in my heart and brain. Though I’ve purchased several newer editions of the book over the years, I still have that original paperback that I found in my grandparents’ basement many years ago. Reading that particular copy is nearly impossible now – the spine has been taped up several times over, the pages are brittle and prone to falling loose from the glue that held it together once upon a time, and many, many pages are dog-eared or torn. Yet every time I pack to move (I inherited my father’s wanderlust, it would seem.), even as I give away or trade in a number of my books to make moving a little easier, I always make sure to gingerly pack that little red volume in a place where it won’t be squashed or jostled too much, to make sure it survives to sit proudly on my bookcase in my newest home.

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