Reading a book by a writer from every country in the world. That’s what Ann Morgan did. This isn’t a bad goal for us readers as we think of what we’ll read in the coming year. Be inspired.
I found and am posting a conversation with Charlotte Gill, author of the memoir, Eating Dirt. I hope you enjoy this quick compelling interview from B&N:
I have the best job in the world, and Charlotte Gill’s Eating Dirt made me want to drop everything, ditch NYC, and head out into the wilderness to plant trees — and I’m hardly the only selection committee reader who felt that way. Eating Dirt is more than a memoir about Gill’s 20-year stint planting trees in Canada; it’s also an exploration of the natural world, and our place in it, written with incredible verve and exuberance.
Charlotte discusses planting trees, writing about natural history, and wanting to be transported by fiction, among other things, with Discover Great New Writers.
You were a professional tree planter for nearly 20 years. You grew up in New York State, thousands of miles from the wilderness you describe in Eating Dirt. How did you get involved in the business?
I moved to Canada to go to college. Tree planting was a very common summer job for undergraduates, but I had never heard of it before. My roommate was a tree planter. She would return from summers spent deep in the woods looking fit, bug-bitten and suntanned. She told me stories about her coworkers—they sounded to me like crazy woodland gypsies. She showed me photos of clearcuts that went on in all directions as far as the eye could see. To me, this strange occupation looked both totally fascinating and deeply intimidating. But I knew I just had to try it myself. Certainly there’d been nothing in my upbringing that had prepared me for hard physical labor. If I had known what I was getting into, I would never have gone in the first place.
Planting trees is hard physical labor. You say that it’s one of the dirtiest jobs left in the modern world. Why would anyone want to make a career of such a thing?
Planting trees is a sweaty, filthy job. It’s done by hand and on foot, often through very rough, steep terrain. There are heavy loads of seedlings to carry. There is bad weather and heat exhaustion. There are biting insects and sore backs, and all the other repetitive strain injuries that come with doing something a few thousand times a day. Most tree planters are in some kind of discomfort all the time. On the upside, tree planters go places most people would never get to see in the course of their entire lives. Some of these are stunning, wild geographies. We commute to work in boats and helicopters. We cross paths with exotic wildlife. And we make incredible friendships—a kind of soldier love. Writing the book, I wanted to explore what that attraction was all about. What makes anyone take on an adventure like this, even though they know they’ll get dirty, they’ll weep, they’ll wish they’d never said yes? Maybe we suspect we’ll get to the bottom of ourselves and discover some hidden well of courage and fortitude—often enough that’s exactly what happens.
There is also a love story inside the book. Can you say a little bit about that?
There is a character in the book named K.T. He was my boyfriend at the time. We shared our planting experience for several years, and the narrative follows our time together in the woods. I never intended to cover our relationship when I began Eating Dirt. I think it’s incredibly difficult to do justice to a workplace romance, especially when it’s going reasonably well. But as I wrote I discovered that our work and our companionship were intertwined. Together, we’d experienced exhaustion, stress, hunger, competition and danger. These are reasonably normal things to face on the job, but they’re also deeply revealing moments when you’re in a relationship. They distil one’s character traits. After planting trees, I knew he’d make a patient, caring, hardworking husband, which he is even now. We still talk about our old job. It’s a topic of fond nostalgia at our house.
You describe the biology and the planetary evolution of trees and forests in a way that’s easy to understand. Do you enjoy writing about natural history?
I’ve always loved reading natural history, and I find it a wonderful challenge to capture science in a way that’s engaging and easy to read. My research began with burning questions. Is planting trees a cure for climate change? Can it do all the things we hope it might ecologically, aesthetically and economically? I discovered that the answers were more nuanced and variable than I’d expected. Does planting trees work? It depends on what we want it to do. Do we want to renew a timber supply? Or are we attempting to recreate forest ecosystems in all their layered complexity? The answers lie embedded in the history of trees on this planet, which in itself is quite an elegant story.
You’ve planted over a million seedlings in your career. Have you ever revisited some of these places?
We don’t often go back. Ours is a forward-moving business, as is the logging industry. We plant the trees and move along to the next place. On the few occasions when I’ve gone back to see the trees that I’ve planted I’ve been astounded by their resilience as a species. It’s as if survival is part of their in-built design. You can plant a tree in a cupful of dry dirt sandwiched between two rocks and that tree will try to grow. That’s a forest’s only job—to build. The trees that I planted when I was a teenager are over twenty years old now. They’d be the size of exceptionally large Christmas trees. And they’ve still got a lot of growing to do.
Who have you discovered lately?
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is just the kind of non-fiction I love—a book that begins with a deceptively tiny idea but explores themes as big as immortality. HeLa cells: they’re in practically every biology lab in the world. Their original donor, Henrietta Lacks, is brought back to life in vivid detail—her clothes, her children, even the color of her toenail polish.
In my other life I’m a fiction writer, and lately I’ve been indulging my abiding love of novels. Ever since reading Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief I’ve been taken with the geography of Florida swamps. I’ve never visited any of these places, but the heat and the humidity, the lush vegetation—well, it’s the perfect place to set a novel, which is why I knew I’d read Karen Russell’s Swamplandia. I’ve also got Heidi Julavits, The Vanishers on my bookshelf. Who wouldn’t want to read a story set in a school for psychics? When I read fiction, I love to be whisked off to other worlds where different laws of physics apply. I want to be transported.
Beautiful is what we see. More beautiful is what we understand. Most beautiful is what we do not comprehend.
Nicolaus Steno’s words as quoted in Mira Bartok’s The Memory Palace
I just finished Will and Spirit by Gerald May, a commitment of careful reading. I took a year and a half to read it slowly while reading other things. Here’s a list of the ten books in my current pile. I’m holding the ones with asterisks now:
- The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok
- Blacks by Gwendolyn Brooks*
- The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
- Exploring Prosperity Preaching by Debra Mumford*
- Lying Awake by Mark Salzman*
- Faith in the Fire by Gardner C. Taylor*
- Mothers and Sons by Colm Toibin
- An Altar In The World by Barbara Brown Taylor
- Allah: A Christian Response by Miroslav Volf
- A Happy Marriage by Rafael Yglesias
Any recommendations for me, particularly for novels, short story collections, memoirs, or psychology and theology?
And what are you reading?
The other week I finished Stanley Hauerwas’s memoir, Hannah’s Child. Hauerwas spoke a bit in the beginning of his book about the reasons he wrote a memoir. He mentioned the obvious in that theologians are not known for completing such works. He said by their nature and by the nature of their work theologians don’t spend many energies in the apparent effort of telling their own stories as much as they tell another story, the story of God and God’s things. Of course, that’s a very rough summary of his introductory remarks, in my own words.
Coming away from his book, thinking it through slowly while I read it, I am convinced and glad at how peopled his remembrances are. He even said that he nearly subtitled his memoir so as to make it a clear tribute to his friends. Over and again he commented on how necessary and significant others were for the work he had done and the work he was doing. Friends–and he named them and told their stories as well–were the ones who framed how this thinker about God told of his life.
I’m not writing a memoir and I won’t most likely, but I think Hauerwas, theologian that he is, has left us with more than his own story in Hannah’s Child. I think he’s given us a method of doing theology. I think he’s given a way of going about the work of God and God things and in God’s world. I think his example of pointing to people, getting into trouble and fun with them, and of making a life for and full of others is more than commendable for us, whether or not we consider ourselves theologians.
Of course, we all talk and make sense of God; in that way, aren’t we all theologians? But we can benefit from the way this teacher and servant has chronicled his life. If you’re interested, please read the memoir. The content in the first pages is worth the purchase. Then there’s the added benefit in getting through the pages.