Category: Creative Non-Fiction

Above Neil Rock

Stories and Poems by James Ross Kelly

Available on Amazon.com

Reviews

Publisher’s Weekly Booklife Reviews.

Kelly’s piercing collection of memoir pieces and poems leaves the reader with a vague ache in the heart. Jim, orphaned after his parents separate, is raised by his uncle and aunt in Southern Oregon, where his grandfather also comes to live with the family. In some ways it is an idyllic childhood, roaming the woods and working the farm, hunting and listening to his grandfather’s tales. But as he tries to live “an honorable life,” Jim also feels an undercurrent of loss as he yearns for his father, mother, and brother. As a veteran who is ultimately discharged with “no medals, no wounds, no horrific nightmare memories, but with a sense of the machine of military mind that operated on fear and redoubled itself with vast sums of money,” Jim contends and tries to come to terms with collective guilt, often doubting if humanity was humane enough.

While the material is often searching, many of the poems and pieces deal with the practicalities of logging. Kelly deftly juxtaposes the often violent lives of the people who make a living cutting down forests with the violence done to the trees, likening the work to nothing short of genocide. Kelly presents an empathetic insider’s account of hardworking, hard-drinking, generally short lives. Characters who linger include Jim’s grandfather who gets his son’s small farm up and running within a year of moving there; Richard Long, a six-foot-seven giant with “dinner-plate-size[d] hands”; and of course the towering conifers—anyone encountering one in the Cascades, he writes, would “approach this presence with awe.”

Lyric and moving, both prose and poems are shot through with an unnamable pain, a longing for something intangible. Kelly compares the evil in this world to a minotaur trapped in a maze, often breaking out and causing untold destruction. Kelly’s honest and unsparing gaze doesn’t absolve his own countrymen too, but he sees hope in the philosophy of universal love. A poignant read.

Takeaway: Profound, genre-crossing memoir of farm life, logging, and war and its costs.

Comparable Titles: Richard Powers, Howard White.

Production grades
Cover: A
Design and typography: A
Illustrations: N/A
Editing: A
Marketing copy: A-

Publisher’s Weekly–BookLife Prize – 2024

Plot/Idea: Above Neil Rock is an expert storyteller’s look back on a life full of ups, downs, and many seemingly-mundane moments that are brought to life through lyrical prose and poetry. The reader may be reminded of Bret Harte’s work, if Harte had lived in “the bloodiest century of human existence” and experimented with LSD.

Prose: The memoir’s writing is exceptionally beautiful, even–or, perhaps, especially–when discussing some of the hardships in the author/narrator’s life. Scenes from his childhood that depict the expansive Kansas prairie and later scenes set in nature shine as well. They depict a bygone time, not necessarily with nostalgia, but with poignant candor.

Originality: Telling a memoir through vignettes and poems that don’t always share direct linear plot threads is a risky narrative move, but it’s one that James Ross Kelly pulls off remarkably well. Above Neal Rock is an engrossing read, both because of the author’s varied life experiences and because of the unique, lyrical voice with which these experiences are recorded. The reader may note some outdated language that may cause readers to bristle. It is also true that the worlds depicted are overwhelmingly masculine spaces. However, there is a level of honesty and self-awareness to the narrator that will endear him to readers.

Character/Execution: Each vignette creates a new stitch of Americana–whether the dusty fields of 1950s Kansas or Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco in 1970–that brings these times and places alive. “La vie en rose” is a timely, heartbreaking piece that brings the memoir into our own precarious time in history. It will resonate with many readers.

Blurb: James Ross Kelly’s masterful storytelling and departure from a traditional memoir model makes the author’s experiences come alive for readers.

Reader’s Favorite

5 Stars–Reviewed by K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

Above Neil Rock: Stories & Poems by James Ross Kelly is a memoir that captures the rugged beauty and harsh realities of life in the Pacific Northwest. Through a blend of stories and poems, Kelly reflects on the environmental devastation caused by corporate silviculture, the extinction of indigenous cultures, and the personal struggles of his upbringing. His writing, deeply rooted in experience, conveys a love for the land and a mournful awareness of its losses. Kelly’s work is both an homage to nature and a critique of the forces that have shaped, and often harmed, the region. Kelly offers a narrative style with an authentic, lived-in quality that brings the Pacific Northwest to life with precise detail, and the striking sense that every moment he chooses to document carries huge emotional weight behind it.

James Ross Kelly’s ability to blend this narrative with broader environmental and cultural issues is immense, and it’s clear that a lot of interconnected thought has gone into the construction of this work to offer a poignant snapshot of the dangers of money-minded silviculture. Kelly’s courage in confronting painful memories and societal injustices lends a raw honesty to this work, and his poetic use of language is powerfully impactful, with memorable phrases that resonate long after reading. I was particularly struck by the imagery of ‘The Forester’ in which the call of the elk and the screaming cables of the logging industry create a horrendous, ill-fitting harmony in the decimated woodland. Overall, Above Neil Rock is a deeply impactful and relatable memoir that I highly recommend to those interested in personal stories, but also those keen to preserve the lands they’ve grown up in and celebrate them.

Reviewed by Doreen Chombu for Readers’ Favorite

5 Stars–Reviewed by Doreen Chombu for Readers’ FavoriteAbove Neil Rock is a collection of stories, poems, and prose by James Ross Kelly. It combines personal and familial stories set against great social commentary. The book covers stories from the author’s childhood, including the warmth of Christmas, learning farming from his grandfather, and fishing and swimming with friends. It also delves into the complexity of family life, such as his father’s PTSD from fighting in WWII, his mother’s struggle with sobriety, and the grief of losing his brother. The author gives an account of his military experiences, detailing the joyful times as a group and the gloomy memories of losing friends. He narrates hilarious stories that shaped his understanding of the world and his experience of planting trees and dealing with loggers. From relationships and fatherhood to guilt and social views, Kelly discloses his most vulnerable moments and deepest thoughts. Above Neil Rock is a captivating book that will take you on a roller coaster of emotions. James Ross Kelly jumps from one event of his life to the next with detailed descriptions that will make you laugh or cry. His reflections are thought-provoking, delving into the beauty of nature, the importance of hard work, morality, responsibility, and the impact of genocides and political unrest. The author is an engaging storyteller and poet, drawing readers into his narrative with a unique blend of humor and drama. The poems complement the narration as they are perfectly placed in the story, enhancing the emotional depth of each chapter. The author tackles issues like environmental protection, the current political climate in the United States, the Holocaust, the foster care system, addiction, and abortion, treating each with the utmost sensitivity and respect. The stories about his family and community perfectly illustrate the interconnectedness of human experiences and highlight the weight of personal and collective history. Overall, I enjoyed reading Above Neil Rock and learned many lessons from the author’s experiences. This book is a great read, and I recommend it to anyone who loves memoirs with poetry and social commentary.

Reviewed by Rabia Tanveer for Readers’ Favorite

5 Stars–Above Neil Rock: Stories & Poems by James Ross Kelly is a memoir in which the author recounts his life and shares the past with poems and short stories. The author takes the reader through his life from 1952 when he worked different jobs. From farming, ranching, and then joining the US Army, the reader experiences everything with him through his prose and poems. Stories like “Why the Fairy Shrimp Left” gave a realistic yet very personal look into the life of the author. “The Red Gate” showed an emotional look at his time on the farm. It was filled with nostalgia and a bittersweet type of pain that I could also feel. Above Neil Rock by James Ross Kelly gives the reader a glimpse into his heart and mind. However, these stories and poems also offer a glimpse into the lives of those who call the Pacific Northwest home and give us a look at working-class families who have struggled to survive during tumultuous times. The author’s writing is infused with a sense of urgency and a deep love for the natural world. While he recounts his past, Kelly isn’t bitter or angry; he is nostalgic and even sad in certain parts. I found comfort in his narrative style; it felt like he was a long-lost friend whom I met again after a long time. I enjoyed the pace that seemed to follow the ups and downs of Kelly’s life. The attention to detail, the way he described his emotions and the way he didn’t shy away from baring his soul had me hooked until the end. I know I will be revisiting Above Neil Rock very soon!

Caught up in the Air–True Chili

A DOZEN OR MORE three-hundred-year-old black oaks spread over the top of the south side hill of our farm with a two-acre pasture on top and our house sat on the edge and overlooked a small twenty-acre valley bottom with Reese Creek and across it at the far side and then there was a similar hill of Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir to complete the farms north edge as a cross section of a small valley running from our house south to north.

Source: “Caught Up in the Air” by James Ross Kelly – True Chili

So, Vincent–published in Rock & Sling Winter 2018

by

James Ross Kelly

I was there and your portrait hung in front of me, the 1886 one I’m sure it was, an exhibition at the Fogg Museum in Cambridge, Mass., late June early July 1973. I came once a day and sat there and looked at your art and I would generally smoke some pot before I did. There were many other paintings of yours—“Irises,” perhaps; I don’t remember the others. Your paintings now are as familiar as my heart.van_gogh_1

I was apartment-sitting for my English professor and contemplating a move back to Oregon, where I thought I could work for a year and then return to school. I remember all of it too clearly, the Fogg and my own fog of swimming in the exciting oatmeal of the 1970s. You, however, are there. They say it is your last self-portrait. Auctioned in 1939 at Gallerie Fisher in Lucerne, Switzerland. It was one of the works branded as degenerate by the Nazis, confiscated and sold. The winning bid was $40,000 by a Dr. Frankfurter. You had given this painting to your brother as a birthday gift. I must tell you, if it is any consolation, my father killed Nazis for one year all through the landscape that you loved. There is a picture of your painting at the auction. Some asshole in a white coat is holding it up. It is better that it went to Switzerland I suppose, but it was bad that the Nazis profited.

So, Vincent, this is of course not about you but about me, perhaps a little bit about 1973, and me telling, among the things I tell, this horrible thing I did. Unlike you and the unfortunate incident with your ear, you could recollect none of it. I remember this all too well. At the same time, your painting of yourself seared me somehow. You clearly painted your aura. Blue shimmering pale blue through your coat and your red, red hair and beard, the air was on blue fire very clearly.

I broke up with Jane there in Cambridge, my lover my good coed girlfriend, my lovely woman companion paramour committing adultery we were, in my car, in motels, and eventually living together after I left my wife. And my wife divorced me a matter of weeks later. I walked around Cambridge, mildly hipped out, two years of college and the Army behind me. Literature, art, film slipped through me—I saw The King of Hearts a dozen times at the Central Square Cinemas with its then-novel two screens. Most every day while your exhibition was at the Fogg, I stopped by and sat on what I remember as a marble bench and looked at you. I knew the thin blue air was on fire all around me. I did not know if I was partially responsible, but there was an inkling inside me that I was.

I paid for Jane’s abortion in late March. She came to me, told me she was pregnant, said she wanted to have the child to carry on a part of me she thought she could not be a part of. Mildly, gently and in a seemingly caring manner I explained I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. Then I did a despicable thing. In my college-boy English-literature assumption I closed the deal by reading her James Joyce’s “A Little Cloud” from his book of short stories, The Dubliners. The protagonist, a news writer in Dublin, meets in a bar with a friend back from his journalist job in England. The story ends with the protagonist coming home to his small child wailing an infant wail signifying the end of his opportunity as his friend was capitalizing upon his own. Domesticity stopping the pursuit of his art. This closed the deal for poor Jane. Scarcely sixty days after Roe v. Wade, an English professor’s husband who was a gynecologist set up an appointment in New York City, as abortion was still verboten in Massachusetts. This is how I, an agnostic college boy-man, sacrificed my first-born child on an altar of convenience and self-absorbed selfishness. My Celtic ancestors were required to crush the skull of their firstborn and bury the infant under a cornerstone of their first home, to achieve prosperity. I believe now, Vincent, that what I did was virtually the same thing, though I knew then of no practice and no such intent, thinking the child just optional protoplasm.

We, the hip, we the revolution against our material culture, all of us disgusted by modernism gone wrong in the 20th century, we thought the burning blue open sky around us then, a static insouciant deterministic notion driving all—what we were, was all we were. There seemed no possibilities of an inherent intellectual mistake about who we really were.

There was, of course, much more to it. I sat there daily in front of you, I suppose, knowing that was the closest thing I could get to greatness right then, and that it was tangible, and that, of course, did not work out so well for the either of us. I saw what you got in the end was a continuum, a colossal imprint.

Much later I knew it would have been more honest if I had cut off my own ear and wrapped it in sterile gauze and taken it to my first wife and apologized, and told her the truth of her IUD and the countless abortions we had together contrary to her own Catholic, go-to-Mass-every-week Catholicism, and I should have been regretful of that even if the IUD was her idea. She, a nurse looking a little like Jackie Kennedy, would never have divorced me had I not strayed. She met me by the Charles River to serve divorce papers because she now was in a love affair with a man who four months later would leave because he had impregnated another woman. Oh, we played loose and fast and listened to wild rock and roll, Vincent, and slept around and tried to out-bohemian any of your colleagues, but this is how we failed.

Ah, Jesus, Vincent, I’ve come to see this as my socially venial act of murder, unconscious of the reality and void of moral consequence. I premeditatedly pulled the switch as an out-of-touch warden in this prison we have outside of jail; pulled the switch without a sentence, without due process, pulled the switch by paying with my GI Bill check. As I watched some asshole in a white coat take lovely Jane away into a white sterile room in New York City, I and others began the phalanx that now totals sixty million for our nation. The necessary modern notion of family planning, unhinged from premodernity and the time of ancestral contiguity—a thinly veiled eugenic notion of choice preempting responsibility.

I stopped something that had a purpose that I was not actually unaware of. Yes, it took Jesus to forgive this in the near-death ether of spiritual expanse—it took thirty-three years for this to happen. It took me raising two sons and loving them above all else and reflecting on how could I have not loved this one as well. I wonder: Would I have thought differently had I read Ken Kesey’s take on this in 1971?

You are you from conception, and that never changes no matter what physical changes your body takes. And the virile sport in the Mustang driving to work with his muscular forearm tanned and ready for a day’s labor has not one microgram more right to his inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness than has the three months foetus riding in a sack of water…How can abortion be anything but fascism again, back as a fad in a new intellectual garb with a new, and more helpless, victim?*

This comes finger-pointing out of the past. Abortion had been challenged by Christendom since the Didache of the first century. Abortion was anathema to life. But we had captains in our revolution to give us a hand with abject morality. World War II made life and death arbitrary and relative; Vietnam continued this nightly in our living rooms. Life has become in America similar to what the Nazis thought, in the sense of an orderly deterministic march to and over the edge of humanity. A clean park was more important than a babe in the arms of its mother. The Liberal Fascism that has held sway was nailed by the father of hipsters. Sadly, then I was lock-step with this march the other way.

published in Rock & Sling  Winter 2018

 

*Excerpt from an interview with Ken Kesey by Paul Krasner. The REALIST Issue Number 90 – May-June, 1971 pages 46-47

Above Lyman’s Riffle–by James Ross Kelly published at Fiction Attic

vaux swiftsby James Ross Kelly

The old man’s house was falling down ten years after his death; twenty-years after, the whole south face of Lyman Mountain and Ernie’s place by the Rogue River, was divided up and there were expensive homes built at various river viewpoints and no notion of Ernest Lyman, who had lived there for almost a century—was in anyone’s  mind.  However, one year after he’d passed, on a hot August, dusk evening that was beginning to cool, I waited for the red glow down river and Vaux’s  swifts darted through warm air and willows along the river. Swifts in the red day glow off in the west and evening light.

 

Go to Fiction Attic for the entire story:

http://fictionattic.com/above-lymans-riffle/