Jayber Crow

by Wendell Berry Narrated by Paul Michael

Overview

From the simple setting of his own barber shop, Jayber Crow, orphan, SEMInarian, and native of Port William, recalls his life and the life of his community as it spends itself in the middle of the twentieth century. Surrounded by his friends and neighbors, he is both participant and witness as the community attempts to transcend its own decline. And meanwhile Jayber learns the art of devotion and that a faithful love is its own reward.

Editorial Reviews

Chicago Tribune

This is an important novelist with prophetic things to say and a poetic way of saying them... Jayber Crow is his best novel yet.

Bloomsbury Review

Jayber Crow belongs to the small company of truly remarkable characters in the American novel.... This is a fine novel, unforgettable and likely to send new readers of Wendell Berry off to look for his other books.

Publishers Weekly

Jayber Crow, town barber in Port William, Ky., recounts his life journey, which parallels the decline of sustainable agriculture throughout rural America. The agrarian threads also run through the novel's romantic triangle, in which Crow pines for the heart of the gracious and beautiful Mattie Chapman, whose ambitious "agribusinessman" husband, Troy, embodies the antithesis of Crow's sacred devotion to nature. Veteran narrator Paul Michael effectively portrays Crow's complexities and contradictions as both an insider at the hub of community life and a self-sufficient loner who eschews the material comforts and conveniences of the modern age. As Crow and his friends feast on fried catfish and corn pone at a "water-drinking party," Michael's whimsical imitation of the "good, good, good" sound of a moonshine whiskey jug evokes a wistful connection to the joyous simple pleasures of a contemplative existence. Michael's deliberate pronunciation of hard consonant sounds as Crow repeatedly scoffs at the machine-like momentum of "the war" and "the economy" may seem heavy-handed. Yet Berry's activism informs his storytelling, so listeners familiar with his body of work should not be surprised by the political edge. A Counterpoint paperback (Reviews, July 31, 2000). (July)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

The role of community in the shaping of character is a recurring theme in the work of poet, essayist and novelist Berry, as evidenced once more in this gratifying novel set in Berry's fictional Port William, Ky. Jayber Crow, town barber from 1937 until 1969, is born in the environs of Port William, but after the deaths of his parents and, later, his guardians, he is sent to an out-of-town orphanage at the age of 10. Returning 13 years later, in the flood year of 1937, the solitary young man goes on to learn the comradely ways of the town. "In modern times much of the doing of the mighty has been the undoing of Port William and its kind," Crow reflects--a reflection, too, of Berry's often-stated beliefs that salvation must be local, that rootlessness and a fixation on the postindustrial era's bright new toys will destroy us environmentally and economically. Crow earns his living with simple tools; he becomes a church sexton, though he is not unthinkingly pious; and his unrequited love for farmer's wife Mattie Chatham is pure and strong enough to bring him serene faith. In contrast, Mattie's husband, Troy, the novel's villain, disturbs the "patterns and cycles of work" on Mattie's family farm, trumpeting "whatever I see, I want" and using a tractor. The tractor stands for the introduction of new machinery and the unraveling of the fabric of family farming. It is not surprising when Troy cheats on his wife nor does it come as a shock when the Chatham's young daughter becomes a victim of dire chance. Berry's narrative style is deliberately traditional, and the novel's pace is measured and leisurely. Crow's life, which begins as WWI is about to erupt, is emblematic of a century of upheaval, and Berry's anecdotal and episodic tale sounds a challenge to contemporary notions of progress. It is to Berry's credit that a novel so freighted with ideas and ideology manages to project such warmth and luminosity. 12-city author tour. (Sept.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.

Library Journal

Kentucky poet and novelist Berry (A Timbered Choir) brings to life the title character, an orphan from a rural river valley near Louisville in the early 20th century. When his young parents die, Jonah (later "J," "Jay Bird," and finally "Jayber") is sent to live with older relatives, Aunt Cordie and Uncle Othy. They, too, die before he is grown up, and he is sent to the Good Shepherd orphanage, a grim institution where his name is shortened to an initial. After an abortive try at the ministry, Jayber wanders back to his hometown of Port William, where he is more an observer on the edge of society and yearns for local girl Mattie Chatam from afar. The richly portrayed community unfolds delicately and surely, with the human dramas of its inhabitants revealed from Jayber's perspective. A moving, lyrical work on a small canvas, this is recommended for most libraries.--Ann H. Fisher, Radford P.L., VA Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.

Stephen Whited

If you travel into north-central Kentucky where the Kentucky River joins the Ohio, you can still see a rural landscape much like Wendell Berry describes in his new novel, Jayber Crow. If you know Berry's work, you might assume I refer to lovely pastoral settings, clean, well-tended farms and a lively social life. With his novels Nathan Coulter (published first in 1960, then thoroughly revised and republished in 1985), A Place on Earth (1967/1983), The Memory of Old Jack (1974), Remembering (1988) and A World Lost (1996), as well as with his short-fiction collections The Wild Birds (1985), The Discovery of Kentucky (1991), Fidelity (1992), Two More Stories of the Port William Membership (1997) and Watch With Me (1994), Berry has chronicled the lives of some dozen families that are integral to the life of Port William, Kentucky. While Jayber Crow adds plenty of new history and pleasantry to the lore of Berry's Port William membership, it paints a very different picture: the decline and loss of rural America. Set in 1986, all of the great old characters of the other novels have died. Jayber is no longer the town barber, having retired to live at Burley Coulter's fishing camp, which sounds very much like Berry's favorite place to write, described in "The Long-legged House." Similarly, Jayber now has the time and place to record what he has seen, which is a compelling responsibility. For Jayber is the last of the Depression-era generation, the last to see families farming as a way of life. As the town barber, town gravedigger and bachelor intellectual, he fleshes out the brief details of his life that were given in A Place on Earth. Unlike The Discovery of Kentucky, in which Jayber merely recounts an amusing incident, this novel provides the workings of a keen, observant mind and a complex, poetic inner life. The novel recounts Jayber's infancy in Port William, before the death of his parents and grandparents. Later, during adolescence, he lives in an orphanage, and, after a call to preach, he goes to a small church college. When preaching doesn't seem right, Jayber briefly attends the university in Lexington with a mind to teach. Finally, through hell and high water, Jayber returns home during the flood of 1937 and, with Burley Coulter's help, sets up shop as a barber. He relates stories about his neighbors, in particular Athey and Della Keith, whose married daughter Mattie plays an important role in the imagination of a lonely man. However, the most emotionally powerful messages of this book are quietly presented by its backdrop. Jayber's rich but simple life is artfully contrasted with the "progressive" thinking and destructive consumerism that are destroying Port William and all other little towns like it across the country. Beginning with the events of the 1950s, Jayber reports on the loss of the young, the death of small-town businesses, the abandonment and abuse of old hillside farms, the mindless destruction of two-hundred-year-old timber lots and the "handy" addition of paved roads and large interstate highway systems that seem to cut through everything. The introduction of cars, new farm equipment, easy credit and health inspectors on the lookout for unsanitary barbershops all contribute to the changes that threaten to destroy the intimacy previously enjoyed by rural families. Jayber provides numerous anecdotes that illustrate the corrosive effects of substituting experts for self-reliance, credentials for experience, efficiency for love. And, finally, with the young people lured away by the promise of modern conveniences and careers, the "dignity of continuity had been taken away. Both past and future were disappearing from them, the past because nobody would remember it, the future because nobody could imagine it. What they knew was passing from the world. Before long it would not be known. They were the last of their kind."

DEC 07/JAN 08 - AudioFile

The celebrated novelist and poet returns to Port William, Kentucky, to tell the story of Jayber Crow, town barber. He is wonderfully performed by the talented Paul Michael. A one-time seminary student, Jayber now sits in his barber chair and watches the changes in his once agrarian world, espousing a Christian philosophy that is both ancient and fresh. Narrator Michael goes easy on the rural accents and handles the passages of life lessons with professionalism and grace. Michael allows his voice to age as the story pulls listeners deeper and deeper into Jayber’s quiet, unassuming life. Highlights include an unrequited love affair, eventually fulfilled just as life is drawing to a close. R.O. © AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940173490728
Publisher:	EChristian, Inc.
Publication date:	06/12/2007
Series:	Port William , #5
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The Barber in Port William

I never put up a barber pole or a sign or even gave my shop a name. I didn't have to. The building was already called "the barbershop." That was its name because that had been its name for nobody knew how long. Port William had little written history. Its history was its living memory of itself, which passed over the years like a moving beam of light. It had a beginning that it had forgotten, and would have an end that it did not yet know. It seemed to have been there forever. After I had been there a while, the shop began to be called Jayber Crow's, or just Jayber's. "Well, I'm going down to Jayber's," people would say, as if it had been clearly marked on some map, though it was so only in their minds. I never had a telephone, so I was not even in the book.

    From 1937 until 1969, I was "the barber" in Port William. The shop was at the bottom of the swag in the midst of the town. The road came up the river from Hargrave; about a mile from Port William it climbed the hill onto the upland, made a couple of dips and turns, passed the graveyard and the houses opposite, passed the church and the bank and the handful of business places, went by my shop and the garage down in the swag, and then rose up again, going by more houses; at the top of the rise it passed the school, and then it hurried on. Except for the law, and the local habit of stopping in vehicles to talk in the middle of the road, car drivers from elsewhere have never seen much reason to slow down when they go through Port William. I still am the Port William barber, the only one it has got—though since 1969 I have not been in town.

    When I came there and set up shop in January of 1937, the place was maybe better off than I have seen it since. Thirty-seven was a Depression year, and I don't ask you to believe that the place was flourishing. But it was at least thrifty. People didn't waste anything they knew how to save; they couldn't afford much new stuff, and so they hung on to what they had. There were a lot of patched clothes in those days. But all the commercial places in town were still occupied and doing business. The people of the town still belonged to it economically as well as in other ways. And we still had a doctor, "old" Dr. Markman, who was not then as old as he was going to be.

    Except for Saturdays, when I would sometimes be at it from breakfast until midnight or after, the haircutting trade in Port William was, as you might say, intermittent. When I had no customer, I would climb into the chair myself and talk to whoever was loafing, or if the place was empty I would read or take a nap. A barber chair is an excellent place to read or sleep. It tilts back and has a footrest and a headrest. Or (since you can't loaf or read or nap all the time) I would keep an eye on the town. If the weather was bad, I would stand at the window and look; if it was good, I would carry a chair out and sit under the sugar tree at the edge of the road.

    I always tried to keep faith with my customers—to keep faith, that is, with the random possibility that at almost any moment one or another of them might take a notion to come in for a haircut or a shave, or would need a place to sit. And to tell the truth, I generally had need of the coins that wandered about in Port William pants pockets, and yearned to add them to my collection in the cigar box on the backbar.

    I kept faith, but I confess that I kept it somewhat irregularly. Sometimes, when my clients were absent, I would be moved to stray about. My predecessor had left me a little cardboard sign with a clock face and drooping metal hands that declared invariably: BACK AT 6:30. When I left, it would always be a good while before six-thirty, and so I had plenty of time. If I got back before the promised minute, I counted it much to my credit. I might walk up to see who would be loafing along the street or in the stores. From there I might stroll out the road and into the woods on the bluffs above the river. Or I might just cross the road to Mr. Milo Settle's garage, a place of often interesting work and sometimes ferocious political debates instigated by Mr. Settle's chief assistant, Portly Jones, who had opinions he was willing to die for. If I wanted no company, I walked in the other direction, up the rise, past the schoolhouse, and out into the country that way. Sometimes I might take off a whole day to go fishing with Burley Coulter or one of the Rowanberrys—always taking care to get back before six-third. Of course, if I didn't leave until after six-thirty in the evening, I had all night to get back. And since nobody was apt to want a haircut at six-thirty in the morning, I could stay away until the next evening. My clock said I would be back at six-thirty, but it didn't say what day. And sooner or later, until the last time, I always got back.

    Port William repaid watching. I was always on the lookout for what would be revealed. Sometimes nothing would be, but sometimes I beheld astonishing sights.

    One hot summer afternoon, for instance, I saw Grover Gibbs passing along in front of Mr. Settle's garage with a plumber's helper over his shoulder. He saw, sticking out from beneath an automobile, Portly Jones's sweat-shiny big bald head, to the top of which, with a smooth and forceful underhanded thrust, he affixed the suction cup. Portly then enacted a sort of seizure in which, with his feet and left hand, he tried to hurry out from under the car, while with his right hand he tried unsuccessfully to detach the plumber's helper. It appeared that he was trying to drag himself out by the head. He didn't get out very fast. Meanwhile his assailant walked on up the street a ways and then turned and walked casually back to see the results of his inspiration. He walked with his hands innocently folded behind the bib of his overalls, a disinterested look in his eyes, his face rather tensely drawn around a small hole between his lips, through which he was whistling a tune. He allowed himself to be confronted by Portly, looking perhaps like a unicorn with a red face.

    "Grover," he said, "who done this? If it was you, I'll kill you."

    Grover said nothing, but solemnly, still whistling, tried to help Portly remove his horn, which they were able to do only by boring a hole in the cup to relieve the suction.

    "It completely ruined my plunger," Grover told me later, "but of course I couldn't've claimed it anyhow."

    And on an early morning, when I was almost the only one awake, I saw Fielding Berlew in the middle of the road, dancing to "The Ballad of Rose McInnis," which he sang with deep feeling and tears in his eyes. He had spent the night in a lonely vigil in town—"three-thirds drunk," as he would say—owing to his failure to see eye to eye with his wife. He danced with his arms held out like wings, in slow steps round and round, as gracefully as it could be done by a drunk man in a pair of gum boots. All of a sudden a trailer truck popped over the rise. It began to shudder and buck and weave; there was a great howling and hissing of brakes and the tires shrieked on the blacktop. Only when the front bumper was virtually touching Fee's thigh did the driver manage to bring the truck to a standstill and then collapse with relief and thanksgiving. Fee, who had taken no notice of the late commotion, continued to dance and sing. The driver then reconcentrated his forces and blew the horn, a long exasperated bleat that disparaged Port William and all it stood for. Fee thereupon took notice. He stopped dancing, and then as an afterthought he stopped singing. He regarded the driver. He regarded the truck. He looked down upon it, insofar as a small man can look down upon a thing towering many feet above his head. He looked back at the driver. He said, "Get that sonvabitch out of the road—before I kick it out of the road."

    Another morning, a fine Saturday in the late fall, I got a little break between customers and went up to Lathrop's for the makings of a quick lunch. Some of the boys had started a baseball game in the empty lot next to the church. Shorty Sowers, the banker's son, was on his way to the church to take his violin lesson from Mrs. Alexander, the preacher's wife. As he was going by, a batter struck out. Shorty seized his fiddle by the neck and stepped up to the rock they were using as home plate. He told the pitcher, "Show me what you got!"

    I came out of Lathrop's just in time to hear that, to see the pitch, and then Shorty's little pop fly to third base.

    "After that," he said, "I knew her by the crack."

    Yet another sight I used to see—one that was more or less regular during the year or two that he lived after I came to Port William—was Uncle Ab Rowanberry shuffling by, carrying a rifle, a lantern, and a sack containing a chamber pot, a cowbell, a corn knife, and a long leather purse tied with a rag string. He would be on his way between daughters. He had five daughters all living in the neighborhood, and he stayed a while with each in turn, leaving each before he wore out his welcome. "Company is like snow," he said. "The longer it stays, the worse it looks." Since one of the daughters and her family now occupied the home place, Uncle Ab carried with him all his worldly possessions, the terms of his independence and self-respect: the rifle with which he provided a little meat for the table and with which he could defend himself if attacked, the corn knife in case he needed it, the lantern and chamber pot to preserve his dignity when he had to get up at night, the cowbell to ring if he fell down and couldn't get up, and his own hands with which he worked at whatever small tasks he was still able to do. He was something of the old life of the place. I observed him carefully and have remembered him always.

    Other things too were revealed to me that were not so quickly ended. Poor old ramshackledy Fee Berlew, of all people and in his later years, was the only man I ever had to (so to speak) throw out of my shop. His nephew, visiting at Christmas, had slipped him a pint of whiskey, a dangerous item to have lying about in Mrs. Berlew's house. Fee undertook to preserve it from all harm in the shortest possible time, with the result that shortly after supper he found himself unable to see eye to eye with Mrs. Berlew. He came, of course, to my shop for such shelter and comfort as I could give. But his condition by then was just awful. He was completely sodden, bewildered, half-crazy, and full of the foulest kind of indignation. I could neither quiet him down nor, finally, put up with him. And so I helped him out the door, not being all that happy to do so on a cold night.

    But he didn't go away. He pecked on the front window, put his face close to the glass, and reviled me. He called me a "clabber-headed stray," an "orphan three days shy of a bastard," a "damned low-down hair barber"—and meaner names. This delighted the several big boys who were passing the time with me that evening, but it did not put more joy into my life.

    And then the next morning here came Fee the first thing, easing his head in through the door as though expecting me to cut it off with my razor. He had overnight achieved that state of sobriety in which, racked by pain and sorrow, he wished to be unconscious or perhaps dead. When he finally looked up at me his little red eyes filled with tears.

    "Jayber," he said, "Could you forgive an old son of a bitch?"

    "I could," I said. "Yes, I can. I do."

Maybe because I had been a good while in school myself, and had liked it and not liked it, and had finally failed out of it, the Port William School was a place I observed with a kind of fascination. The school had eight grades. If it had taught the grades all the way through high school, maybe it wouldn't have interested me so much. The future presses hard upon a high school, and somehow qualifies and diminishes it. The students in a high school begin courtships; the next generation begins to assert its claims; people begin to think of what they will do when they get out. But the Port William School, grades one through eight, seemed to house the community's almost pure potential, little reduced by any intention on the part of the students themselves. They were there in varying degrees by interest or endurance, but not by purpose. And always, interested or not, they were there somewhat under protest. The children in the lower grades, I believe, thought that school would go on more or less forever, interrupted at dependable intervals by recess and lunch, Christmas and summer. By the time they got to grades seven and eight, they knew that it would end and they would leave, but they thought they would leave only to go to the high school down at Hargrave, and their heads were full of innocent illusions about what they would do there.

    I liked best the school as it was when I first knew it, when it served only the town and the immediate neighborhood, when the students got there on foot. Then the neighborhood seemed more freestanding and self-enclosed than it ever did again after consolidation. The town contained the school, and the school, for a while at least, contained the children.

    To walk up past the school while it was in session was like coming near a sleeping large animal. You could hear the enclosed murmurs and rustlings of an intense inward life, belonging, it seemed, to another world, whose absence from the town made it seem otherworldly While the children were in school, the town seemed abnormally quiet. The quiet, by midafternoon, would sometimes seem almost entranced.

    And so I loved especially the time of day when school let out. What the will of the neighborhood had managed to pen up all day in something like order would all of a sudden burst loose and stream out both ways along the road. A rout of children would pour from the schoolhouse down into the quiet town—a cataract of motions and sounds: voices calling, shouting, singing, laughing, teasing, arguing; boys running, dancing about, hitting each other, sometimes fighting in earnest; girls switching their dresstails and hair in mock disdain and condemnation of the behavior of the boys. And often you would hear a boy's voice chanting above the rest: "School's out! School's out! Teacher wore my britchies out!" Or something on the order of "Hey, booger-nose!"

    At such a moment, to the best of my memory, I first took actual notice of Mattie Chatham—or Mattie Keith, as she was then.

    It was a spring afternoon, warm. I was standing in the open door of the shop, leaning against the jamb, watching. Mattie was walking arm-in-arm with two other girls, Thelma Settle and Althie Gibbs. I suppose Mattie was to spend that night at Thelma's or Althie's house, for ordinarily she would have gone in the other direction; her home was down in the river bottom, a mile and a half from town by the children's shortcut over the bluff.

    They had crossed the road to be out of the crowd, and they were telling each other things and giggling. They were "older girls" by then, feeling themselves so, and yet unable to maintain the dignity that they felt their status required. This failure made whatever they were giggling about even funnier. They were being silly, each one tugging in a different direction, so that they had trouble even staying on the walk. They were not aware of me until they were almost even with my door, and then they looked up and saw me—a tall, lean, baldish man, almost twice their age, smiling down upon them from the threshold. This sight, so incongruent with all they had on their minds, increased their merriment. They looked up at me, raised the pitch and volume of their laughter, and ran past. But I saw Mattie Keith then, and after that I would be aware of her. Seeing her as she was then, I might have seen (had I thought to look) the woman she was to be. Or is it because I knew the woman that I see her now so clearly as a child?

    She was a pretty girl, and I was moved by her prettiness. Her hair was brown at the verge of red, and curly. Her face was still a little freckled. But it was her eyes that most impressed me. They were nearly black and had a liquid luster. The brief, laughing look that she had given me made me feel extraordinarily seen, as if after that I might be visible in the dark.

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Excerpted from JAYBER CROW by Wendell Berry. Copyright © 2000 by Wendell Berry. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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