By Dan Mackie
For the Valley News
I suppose members of the national media have all left the valley, now that the Salinger Quest is behind them.

If any happen to be reading this, I offer my condolences. Too bad you never bagged a tell-all interview, which would have meant hitting the journalism lottery.

What you didn’t realize is that Salinger lived a secret public life. Although you called him reclusive, he wasn’t, really. He went to town meetings and church suppers, and had an actual social life.

In fact, if you’d been around more, you could have had your fill of J.D. Salinger. You might have trouble believing this due to your cynical nature, but he was sort of the life of the party.

I can attest to this personally. Salinger (friends called him Jerry) wrote so many emails responding to my columns that I had to put him in my spam filter. They were erudite and charming, of course, but I couldn’t keep up with them. It was like getting the New Yorker delivered daily.

Salinger amused Upper Valley residents by calling local talk radio shows and disguising his voice as he commented on the day’s events, large and small. We all recognized him as he identified himself as “Ed from Enfield,” or “Hank from Hanover.’’ Radio hosts playfully went along; you could sense them winking on the air. Salinger liked to talk about taxes, frost heaves, the Red Sox, and, of course, the state of contemporary American literature. Too bad that the AM signals around here don’t carry very far.

Valley News editors won’t confirm this publicly, but they were sorely tempted to relax their standards for letters when Salinger submitted his regular missives. He signed them with pen names, A. Reader and many others, but the editors bravely stuck to their policy of insisting on confirmed real names for publication. You might be surprised to learn that Salinger wrote about small things: culvert designs, the work of road crews, people who drive too fast in snow, post-modern literary criticism — the types of things that folks in small towns think about.

Salinger opened most Cornish town meetings with a reading from his new works. Oh, you should have been there. We all felt that his characters were part of the family. He wrote a musical version of Catcher in the Rye for one of our elementary schools, adapted with an upbeat message. He asked everyone to keep it mum, and they did.

I have it on authority — perhaps not all that good of an authority but an authority nonetheless — that Salinger peppered columnist Willem Lange with requests to join him on his hunting and fishing trips, but Lange never got around to including him. My sources tell me that Lange thought he might be too much of a “city guy,’’ despite his long time in Cornish.

Salinger often visited local English classes, so much so that teens grew inured to meeting the literary giant. “He’s awesome,’’ said one girl, “but we want to meet someone who writes about vampires, or wizards and stuff.’’

You should have come to the Cornish Fair, where Salinger wore suspenders and blue jeans and fit in like an old Vermonter, or the New Hampshire equivalent. He never won the pie-eating contest, which I’m sure was a real regret.

I don’t know if karaoke is still popular in major cities, but Salinger was a huge fan, traveling all over the Upper Valley to impersonate Elvis, or croon doo-wop songs. The Lion Sleeps Tonight was a favorite, though the high notes were a reach, and he sang some moody French numbers that left us all a bit puzzled. Did you read in the Times that many were surprised to learn that he briefly worked on a cruise ship when he was young? Not us.
Salinger really took to social networking. Too bad he never “friended’’ you. I recall him writing on Facebook, “Just refused another interview with the Post. LOL!!!!!” His Twitter account was lively and colorful, but he sure did have trouble with the 150-character limit.
Of course, we are a little apologetic about the whimsical directions Salinger’s neighbors gave when visitors tried to find his home. In addition to protecting his privacy, they did it as sort of a tribute to his prankster nature. Sorry you missed out on that.

There was a time when we thought Salinger was foolish to duck fame, but in recent years we’ve come to understand. No matter what you think of Tiger Woods, his rise and fall would make any country person blush. Princes, presidents, late-night show hosts — they all pay a price.

Still don’t understand why someone would live in an obscure place instead of chasing celebrity? Why anyone would be a private public figure?

Maybe you should come to one of our church suppers, where everyone eats family style, the old and young, the rich and poor, the known and unknown. Writers are welcome, and literary critics and cultists. At the end everyone gets homemade pie, and a “thanks for coming’’ from the church ladies.

“Good night,” they say to one and all. It’s a simple transaction, comfort food in a comfortable setting. People don’t have to explain themselves — all their secrets are their own.

The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.

By Dan Mackie
For the Valley News
When I was in college my hair was darker than dark chocolate, but even then, in the full blush of youth, occasional white hairs popped up, like a rare dandelion on a prized lawn.
“Is that a white hair?” a friend would ask. “It is! You’re going gray!” They were amazed that my 20-year-old dome was skipping ahead to middle age and beyond.
It didn’t bother me. Up to a certain point — you can imagine what that point is — age isn’t a worry for me. Fleeting youth wasn’t a big deal either. Never a star athlete, never a Big Man on Campus, I was not giving up all that much.
Though I might turn gray I would likely have “a good head of hair,” a phrase my mother spoke in an admiring tone. A good head of hair seemed prestigious, like a Cadillac or a fine suit. It was a sign of virility, perhaps, although virility wouldn’t have been spoken of in our household.
The evidence for my follicular optimism was my father, who similarly sprouted touches of gray in his 20s, and whose mane remained full almost throughout his life. One of his brothers had a receding hairline in a full state of retreat, but most Mackies held on to their hair. Only in his last years did my father’s hair thin and turn slightly yellow, as if he’d consumed too much butter.
Among the Irish with piercing blue eyes the blue and gray and youthful skin can be dazzling. Alas, my salt-and-pepper years haven’t produced the same effect. If Hollywood called, it wouldn’t be looking for a leading man. I’d be an extra, someone concrete would fall on in an earthquake movie.
In writing this piece, I right-clicked on the word gray to seek a synonym. Microsoft Word exhibited awful ageism, suggesting “old, older, hoary, ancient, dreary, depressing.” Why not just go for “old, older, dead?”
As a baby boomer, I imagine that anything we are involved in will transform all trends, even aging. Gray is the new black! Dentures are sexy! Someday, electric scooter races!
But we have role models for our gray expectations. George Clooney and Richard Gere are far from hoary, even with their galloping gray. Singer Emmy Lou Harris has looked neither ancient nor dreary, despite hair as light as angel’s wings. Arlo Guthrie from the ’60s (Alice’s Restaurant) gives a whole new look to the 60s. Increasingly, gray-haired beauties are showing up on TV commercials, although the fact that they serve as Viagra eye candy gives pause.
The Upper Valley trends to mature colors, I have noticed. Ample waves of gray flow across the audience at the Nugget Theater and Hopkins Center in Hanover. “Hah, look at all these grayhairs,’’ I have sometimes scoffed to myself, before I remember that I am not far behind. I’m not sure what to make of gray hippie hair (forever young?), but what the heck: never trust anyone under 50.
I’m very much a hair libertarian: color yours if you wish, or embrace the silver. There was a time when I was critical of men who touched up their hair, but that was before white started showing up in my eyebrows, something that has tested my resolve. My only advice is that if you are going to do it, do it well. I recall one fellow who looked like he dyed his hair in junkyard waste oil, producing a color that had elements of rust, old seat stuffing, and ash tray leavings.
As for women, I have little hair advice. Gray can look elegant or devil-may-care, but groovy is a stretch. Concerning colors, I don’t much like Popsicle Orange or Crazy Lady Purple. Other than that, do whatever feels natural, or unnatural, whichever you prefer.
Although this column rarely offers anything resembling research, there are some actual facts to learn (and likely forget) about graying. A New York Times article provided some perspective on the topic.
According to the Times, sometimes called “The Old Gray Lady,” The Journal of Investigative Dermatology reported a few years ago that “Whites tend to gray first, often as early as their mid-30s, followed by Asians and then Africans. About half of 50-year-olds are at least 50 percent gray.” Apparently, I just had a head start.
Also in the Times: “A major study of 20,000 men and women in Copenhagen looked for any links between heart-disease mortality and physical signs of aging like gray hair, baldness and facial wrinkles. They found none. ‘People with premature graying of the hair don’t die any sooner than anybody else,’ said Dr. Leo M. Cooney, professor and chief of geriatrics at Yale University School of Medicine. ‘I think the study shows that gray hair has something to with your genetics and very little to do with premature aging.’ ”
I could blame my father for my graying hair, but that seems unfair since he got the grays from his parents, who got them from their parents, going back to the gray dawn of time. As for my mother, she went blonde in her later years, so who knows?
I do wish that gray meant wisdom. I have a little of that, but less than my hair might suggest.
The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.