Jewelweed, by David Rhodes (Milkweed Editions, May 2013)
“Home.”
For us Midwesterners, this word conjures a very specific set of images. When we hear the word “home,” most of us will think of early morning snowfalls, summer nights at the cabin, dense forests of pine trees, and expansive, flat prairies. We often think of the people we grew up with—the eclectic cast of characters that inhabited our small towns in the North Woods and our safe, tight-knit suburbs. Even Minneapolis—as large as it may seem to us Midwesterners—has its own community with its own familiar characters. For us, growing up in Minnesota means that we have gotten to know everyone; that we are deeply involved in both our communities and in the lives of their inhabitants… for better or for worse.
Perhaps that’s why I felt so instantly connected to David Rhodes’ new novel, Jewelweed. The novel is set in Words, Wisconsin—a small town that has managed (in true Midwestern fashion) to foster a close community of oddball individuals.
One of these oddballs — Blake Bookchester — has just returned home from serving time for a conviction. He returns to Words, Wisconsin with a newfound passion for philosophers like Spinoza, and now finds himself grasping madly for the woman he loves. Connected to Bookchester is Winifred (Winnie) Helm, a revered who is slowly beginning to realize that, perhaps, ministry isn’t her strongest calling. Also tumbling around in Rhodes’ plot are August and Ivan, Winnie’s rambunctious son and his best friend. These two find their own adventure when they befriend a hermit and roam the woods in search of the mysterious “Wild Boy.” Finally, Ivan’s mother ties the ends of the tangled web of characters— she is Danielle Workhouse, Blake Bookchester’s true love. Not only has Rhodes created a mess of people with individual struggles and adventures… but he has also managed to intertwine their lives in a way that makes his audience feel just as these characters do: there is no escape.
Jewelweed is Rhodes’ second novel set in Words, Wisconsin. First came his 2008 novel Driftless, which was incredibly well received, in part because of his setting choice. Rhodes used this small town to draw readers into his world in Driftless, and has managed to keep them hooked through his newest addition in what I and many readers hope will become a series.
The most beautiful part about Rhodes’ setting choice, however, is not simply that he is able to create such an intricate and intimate world. Rather, Rhodes has managed to carry his characters’ quirky, outrageous stories into a much greater story—one that transcends the adventures of the individual and hints at the wider, more universal story of the community itself. Although Rhodes is meticulous in crafting his characters’ plot-lines, he is also deliberate about approaching and unveiling these characters’ common and true desires: connection. To themselves, their past, and ultimately, the community around them.
On the surface, Jewelweed details the stories of Words, Wisconsin’s eccentric characters. Rhodes brings his audience into the lives of a heady, philosophical ex-prisoner; to an uncertain preacher; and to two precocious, misfit boys. These characters, among others, compose a truly unforgettable cast. However, it doesn’t take long for the reader to become sucked into the subtleties of these characters: their unified connection to (and inability to let go of) the past, their uncertain feelings about the future, and their own imperfections as they relate to their community. Rhodes approaches these themes so carefully that I almost didn’t realize what I was being sucked into. In fact, the painful humanity of these characters surprised me. One reader described the characters as follows, and I find her description to be incredibly accurate:
“When you read a novel like this where you dearly wish to move in with the characters, they have already moved in with you” —Sheryl Cotleur, Copperfield’s Books (Sebastopol, CA).
Rhodes’ characters certainly “moved in” with me—they commandeered my love and empathy before I could pull myself away.
Perhaps another contributor to this feeling of utter attachment is Rhodes’ incredible ability to manipulate prose. In fact, the prose itself is reminiscent of the author’s characters. Each sentence seems simple at first—however, it isn’t until the reader has finished the paragraph that s/he recognizes the true beauty of Rhodes’ writing. Take, for example, the following paragraph:
“ He lost track of how long he had been sitting there, but as the sun fell farther west and the air softened, he thought he could hear a new sound. The sound continues, and when he turned toward it he saw the old man walking out of the cornfield at the bottom of the hill and begin climbing. His movements were slow and halting… His shadow followed him step for step. A cloth bag hung from his shoulder, and Nate considered going down to help him, but something convinced him to remain sitting.”
On their own, each of these sentences seems rather easy. There are no big words, no long strings of adjectives, or complicated metaphors. However, I (and you, I’m sure) would be lying if we said that we weren’t intrigued by that paragraph. The same goes for his dialogue—it is easy and natural. The entire work gives this air of truth and humanity; this kind of truth is rare in much of today’s prose, and is quite stunning to find for yourself. In fact, I can’t decide what drew me in more: Rhodes’ characters, or the way he describes them on the page.
Jewelweed hits home for many readers—and that’s not just because many of us live in a place like Words. No, Jewelweed is more than that. Rhodes’ novel hits home because it approaches an idea to which we can all relate: connection. To ourselves, to our past, and to our communities. Jewelweed uses the idea of connection to help its readers acknowledge an aspect of humanity that we have barely considered for ourselves, therefore drawing a steel-strong connection of its own between itself and its community. Indeed, David Rhodes’s Jewelweed has managed to discuss a remarkable truth—one that left questions in my head long after I closed the book.
I wonder if Rhodes’ Jewelweed would resonate as soundly with an audience outside of the Midwest. Do you find yourself connecting more strongly to novels set in an environment like yours? Or rather, do you find yourself wishing to be transported to another world when you read? I wonder how changing the setting would affect the truth of the novel—or at least, how convincing it is. What do you think?
