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TH E STATE OF LETTE RS 4 6 7ponnesus, we moved to Boston, where he directed the writing program atBoston University until the slow progression of Parkinson's disease, whichhit him in bis forties, forced him to give up tbe director's post after five orsix years. He was able to teach at B.U. until 1988.George had met Robert and Sally Fitzgerald in Italy after his first Bostonstint. We continued to see the Fitzgeralds when we moved back to Bostonin 1970. Some years later tbe Fitzgeralds were divorced, and Robert mar-ried Penelope Laurans. Robert was Flannery's literary executor. In the mid-1970s, when Sally Fitzgerald decided to edit Flannery's selected letters, shemade one of ber visits to tbe Beiswangers in Georgia. George and I werealso visiting tbem at tbe time. We bad a separate luncli with Sally, and sheeventually got around to asking us, as many people had over the years, whyGeorge Starbuck had a name different from his father's.George Beiswanger, a lovely learned man, left his wife, Margaret Star-buck, for Barbara Page wh en Geo rge was six mo nths old. Marga ret Starbuckbrought up her son under the name Starbuck and she successfully blockedthe father from seeing the son. But she also gave up her son. She turnedhim over to a series of largely unloving foster homes because she did notwant to raise him.One of the foster families was actually named Aioful.Sally Fitzgerald lis-ten ed as Ge orge told h er his Awful family story. They lived on a farm outsideLaGrange, Illinois, which they ran with Draconian precision. For exampletheyhad indoor plumbing, but no one could use it except on Sunday whenthe pastor came to call. The Awfuls raised turkeys, and George's job was totake care of a flock of turkeys. He was a tall, sturdy ten-year-old boy. Hehauled heavy sacks of feed, fed and watered the birds, kept them out of hotsun, and was charged with doing whatev er it took to keep them alive. Georgewas a bookish kid. He said turkeys are incredibly stupid birdsmade Flan-nery's peacocks look like world-class geniuses. One Saturday, when he wastucked away in the hayloft absorbed in his reading, it started to rain. Hefailed to notice. The turkeys looked skyward toward the rain, mouths wideopen, and drowned. George was in big trouble witb tbe Awfuls.

Tbe pastor came to call the next day. Indoor plumbing was open to oneand all, including George, wbo that Sunday had great need of it. Mr. Awfulwas having trouble deciding what awful punishment to exact upon youngGeorge."This ho rrible boyw sreading. Pastor H e was reading. Can you imagine?He just let my turkeys drown. How's we gonna replace our birds?" Tbeeffects ofthe Great Depression were still being felt in 1941."Now tell me, George, what were you reading?" Pastor asked.

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4 6 8 TH E STATE OF LETTER SGeo rge was hom e-free, and th e Awfnl family had to pnt np with him nntilthey conld get him sent off to another Dickensian foster home.I got side-tracked by this Awfnl m em ory sI won nd throngh my O'Gonnorreverie.Not long after G eorge and I married we re nte d a small farmhouse in W estBranch, Iowa, the birthplace of Herbert Hoover, jnst ontside Iowa Gity. Iwrote George's father and asked if he'd hke to get to know his son. Georgeand Barbara Beiswanger arrived at our home within two weeks. Father andson beca m e close immed iately and had twenty-five y ears of loving tog ether-ness,dying within thr ee years of each other.On onr first visit to the Beiswangers' Georgia home in 1968 or 1969,

they drove ns into the conntryside outside Milledgeville. We dropped inon Regina. It was my first visit to the South. The peacocks came mnningfrom behind the Andalnsia homestead, screaming in all their pretematnralglory, displaying magnificent p lnm es. Warm an d welcoming, M rs. O'G onn orseem ed old to me , bn t I was not yet thirty.Having been bom and raised in Iowa, I fonnd the entire scene exotic.It was my first time to taste sweet iced tea. I loved it. Bnt what w r thosegreen leaves in the tall glass, I wondered? The talk was largely of Flannery,of azalea varieties, and of the old organ at the local chnrch where George

Beiswanger had long served as organist.Then the talk turned to Panl Engle and me. How had I met him? Well,I told them, when I returned to Iowa Gity from Washington, D.G., afterdivorcing my first hnsband, I was twenty-three and jobless. I knew thingswe re in a mess at the w riters' worksho p, which En gle ran alone and idiosyn-cratically. I was broke bnt loaded witb confidence. I knew I conld straigbtenont any mess so long as it was not my own.So one day on a whim I hopped on my bicycle and rode down to theworkshop. I walked into the old Quonset hutthose relics of World WarII that housed the workshop offices and classrooms that skirted the IowaRiverand saw the famonsly disorganized Panl Engle cheerfully bnriedelbow-deep in manuscript applications, books, and file folders, all a gloriousmess on tables and on the floor in coflapsing stacks some two feet high. Iknew at once it was all just waiting for me. He peeked np at me, raised histhick eyebrows, and smiled. H ello, I said, I'm Kathy and I'm h er e to pn t you r Ufe in order. I'mfrom Algona. I think yon spend time in Stone City. I know we'll get alongjnst swell.

H e howled with langh ter and said, Oh, thank heaven s. W hat took yonso long?

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