Grace Mayfield Chronicle
The portrait on the home page of this website was taken by a gifted photographer and friend of many decades, Keith Morrison whose mentor was portrait photographer Edward Carroll (1919-1978). Keith kindly provided the negative of the image from our 1991 session. Two years later my beloved Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Bucky would succumb to a heart attack. His passing was the catalyst for me to begin my long held desire to pursue a writer’s life. I subsequently left my paralegal position, sublet my apartment on Pleasant Street in San Francisco and flew to Washington, D.C. I would spend the next year living with my godmother’s daughter and close friend who had recently relocated back to the United States from San Salvador, El Salvador. Her home was in Reston, Virginia where I composed the poem Concerto; inspired by the Mozart piano concerto I was listening to on a tape deck. That day was December 4, 1993. My Mother would leave this world on the same date in 1997.
Much of the poetry I wrote during my residence in Virginia was inspired by the landscape in Reston. There was a little park that was part wood; with a footpath and brook where I used to take solitary walks nearby the house. It was glorious in all seasons. Most notably the summer humidity and density of the air was akin to a cocoon.
My friend was making plans to return to El Salvador and invited me to join she and her five children in Central America. My Spanish was non-existent (leaving me in a fog during familial dialogue). However, I managed to communicate with the housekeeper in my limited French vocabulary. Perhaps it was the hand language that worked between us. At any rate, I decided to migrate to Manhattan. On a number of occasions I had taken the train up to visit friends who lived up North and to meet friends from California who frequented New York City. Living on East 76th Street was as serendipitous as my prior residence in Virginia. I made an arrangement to rent a room from a friend’s godmother and transferred my employment with Williams-Sonoma from Virginia to New York; continuing to work three days a week for the princely sum of $8 dollars an hour and writing on the four days off. Later I would enjoy a similar arrangement at Estée Lauder (though at a higher rate of pay). I was beginning to make progress in my endeavor.
One day after picking up my mail from the Lenox Hill Post Office on East 70th I happened to encounter Lewis Frumkes (notable at that time for his radio show and magazine column as well as founder of the Writing Center at Marymount College. He is now at Hunter College in NYC). I introduced myself and recounted that I was pursuing my writing endeavors. He invited me back to his office at Marymount to continue our conversation. During our dialogue he suggested that I submit some of my work for his review. This instantly paralyzed my characteristic bravado. While I sat there composing myself (with a lump in my throat and unable to utter a response) he asked me “What are you afraid of?” I merely replied that I was not ready to share my work. While walking back to 76th I wept with every step. I sat down at my writing desk and composed the following words…having confronted the depths of fear.
It was still there, like a veil on a hat that does not impair your vision. You cease to be aware of its existence, until someone tries to kiss you. Startled, you lift the mysterious shield and welcome the tender caress, anxious for acceptance, while your heart aches with a long buried wound. From that grave of despair it groans to be set free. Like the resurrection, it lives though no longer innocent or pure. The agony has grown benign through denial. It would hurt less if you gave it away, like those sweet kisses.
She turned and walked away. Tears of redemption for the unpardonable act, streaming down her cheeks. They were a testament to the turmoil revisited. The child betrayed would not die, safely cloaked in a blanket of forgiveness. The adolescent dreams remained, remnants of intangible hope and trust. Forgiven, yet not forgotten, transparent and elusive fear.
It was exhausting she was numb and tired. She would rest and perhaps when she awoke it would be gone, never to return.
The next several years were productive and stabilized my ambition to actively pursue writing while living in New York City, Los Angeles and Palm Springs. I continued to write short stories and poems and eventually returned to Nob Hill in San Francisco where I spent the next fifteen years. That jewel of a city will always be an anchor on my heart.
My older sibling’s genealogy pursuits have divulged a welcome discovery. His research revealed that on our maternal grandmother’s side the English author, John Milton is possibly a part of our family tree/lineage. The realization and probability of this distant connection has given me the resolve to live a writer’s life. Now, having relocated to Beaufort, South Carolina the dream I imagined is now a reality. On my bucket list after publication is an interview with Charlie Rose (fingers crossed). I have chosen a nom de plume for publishing my work and establishing this website. I wish to continue living a reflective life yet it is time to share with humility my work as Grace Mayfield with the hope it will be embraced
Beaufort, South Carolina
March 1, 2013
The first day of each month is like a new beginning. As I sit here at the kitchen table looking out on moss covered live oak trees there is a lamp post that serves as a sentinel to my back door which is off the parking lot of the USCB campus. The illumination at night is a comfort. The tale of how I came to inhabit this sweet little cottage is a testament to one person in particular and a reflection of the general nature of the residents who live here whether they are native born or transplants. Many others like me were drawn to the landscape, architecture and history of this community.
Upon my arrival the first task was to find a place to live. There were some listings in the local classifieds and on the internet which I made inquiries about before my arrival. There was also my attempt at just driving around in search of for rent signs and telephone calls to obtain more information about the rentals. My initial efforts were beginning to make me think there had been a miscalculation on my part that there would be a charming cottage on The Point that I could inhabit and what would follow would be a steady stream of inspired prose.
I drove into Beaufort from Dataw Island where I was a houseguest to attend an evening reception at The Verdier House sponsored by the Historic Beaufort Foundation which I had joined before my arrival. The reception was entitled “Carew Rice” which I initially thought was about a particular kind of Lowcountry rice! Rather, it was an exhibition of artist, Carew Rice’s silhouette artistry. Perhaps I did not read the announcement thoroughly or one was supposed be familiar with the artist. To be fair the announcement did depict a silhouette. However, I thought it was merely a graphic image used to illustrate the exhibit.
My plan was to walk The Point neighborhood prior to the reception in the hope that I might discover a For Rent sign. Unfortunately, I was not prepared to make a commitment to purchase a home as there were a number of lovely homes for sale all desirable and yet elusive. My walk was an elixir in that it reinforced my wish to renew my writer’s journey. Making my way back to the reception on King Street, as fate would have it, I encountered a woman walking briskly toward Carteret Street who was dressed in a red sweater and jeans who spoke from a distance the greeting, “Hello Isabelle.” As she got closer she remarked, “You’re not Isabelle” to which I replied by introducing myself and told her that I had just moved to Beaufort from San Francisco and had been walking The Point to look for rental signs. Whereupon she immediately suggested a cottage nearby and attempted to find the telephone number of the owner in the papers she was holding without success. She then suggested that I come with her to the print shop on Carteret which had been her destination before our encounter. After greeting the proprietor she asked for the telephone directory and looked up the number and suggested that I contact the owner and remarked that I might see her at the reception. We did not meet at the reception due to my early departure.
The next morning I left a message for the owner who returned my call and suggested that it would be possible to view the cottage after lunch. As we walked down the brick walkway of her side garden I could see the red tin roof of the cottage and then the four round pillars on the front porch. There was a lump in my throat and tears welled in my eyes. I could not believe my good fortune. I was captivated and grateful by the realization of my dream. As we entered the cottage from the kitchen I began taking photographs with my iPhone not realizing it was in video mode. Replaying the video it is interesting to note that I identified the kitchen as my writing space.
The following Tuesday I departed Dataw Island with two suitcases and entered my new home to begin my reflections.
Beaufort, South Carolina
March 8, 2013
So many people have asked me the reason I chose to relocate from San Francisco to Beaufort. My reply is that Beaufort chose me.
My first recollection of being made aware of Beaufort was in a conversation I had with the owner of a Bed & Breakfast in Deerfield, Massachusetts. I had taken the train from New York to visit a student at the Academy. It occurred to me while spending two nights in this comfortable home that perhaps I should consider a similar venture at some time in the future. My thought was that I would enjoy meeting guests and engaging them and that there would be time for me to write. The proprietor and I discussed the importance of location (such as proximity to a school, etc.). I asked if she were going to start over would she choose a different location and her reply was Beaufort, South Carolina. I made a note of the town and when I returned to New York began my research. I discovered that there was an abundance of Greek Revival houses (a style of architecture that I’m drawn to). There were a number of homes on the market advertised in the classified section of the New York Times which I telephoned about for more details. Yet, the thought of going off to South Carolina to operate a B&B that would allow me some time to write seemed unnecessary. I was very comfortable renting a room from a friend’s Godmother. This lady was a gem and I was enjoying my New York writing adventure. Further thoughts of Beaufort evaporated while my desire to visit Charleston, South Carolina was still on the horizon. The South had always intrigued me and I must admit my empathy for the Secession and all that transpired seemed a tragic loss of gallant men and disruption of the culture embodied by the Confederacy. Charleston seemed an ideal venue to explore. Gourmet magazine had published an article about the environs of this city which I had kept in my files. There was a captivating photograph of homes along The Battery that was very alluring. I also had a notion that Charleston might prove to be a source of inspiration for my prose and it had been suggested to me while I was still living in San Francisco that I should just lower the shades and draw the draperies of my Pleasant Street apartment and pretend that I was in Charleston (this advice from a man who played Chopin’s piano concertos who did not seem to comprehend what might inspire me or anyone else to be creative).
My goal to focus my energies on writing prose before departing San Francisco was to be published within five years. While I was living in New York on East 76th it seemed more plausible and affordable to celebrate my upcoming birthday in Charleston. My first thought was to take the train. However, this was to be a four-day weekend and a train journey would take up two days. A friend who lived in Atlanta would meet me in Charleston. We became acquainted at the age of thirteen in the 10th grade and while we had kept in touch had not seen each other for several decades. It seemed fitting to me to spend time with someone I had known for thirty-seven years. We stayed in the John Rutledge House Inn which was superb. I remember sitting out on the veranda one evening after dinner and talking with my adolescent friend about my writing and the fear of fame should my writing be well received. We discussed a nom de plume and various options. I tried to think of a last name that began with the letter “M” so that my books would be right next to Somerset Maugham on a library shelf and finally settled on Grace Mayfield (Grace being my maternal Grandmother’s name). As fearless as I can be there is also a reluctance to open the window to my soul. Writing is a solitary pursuit; a divine ecstasy and an exquisite hell. I have come to realize it is important to be in a gentle environment. One that nurtures the spirit and is visually pleasing.
After visiting Charleston it was apparent to me that my writing would not flourish there. My walks in Central Park were an elixir that infused my prose. I returned to San Francisco five years later and remained there taking up my social life and put my writing on hold. Fifteen years passed and again due to a number of circumstances that brought unexpected change in my life I began to listen to the muse. Once, I yielded to the cosmos the changes contemplated were embraced with enormous confidence.
The evolution of my plan was strategic; which involved looking for a coastal city that was located near an international airport, accessible by train, favorable demographic compatibility and a city with lower housing costs than San Francisco. California was not an option though living in the United States was paramount and the South had long had a particular appeal. While looking at the map of South Carolina and ruminating about my Charleston impressions there was Beaufort. I immediately went to Wikipedia to learn more and was drawn to Beaufort once again.
When I mentioned Beaufort to a few friends they asked if it was in North or South Carolina. There is a town by the same name in North Carolina. However, it is pronounced differently (the emphasis on “bow” in the North and “bew” in the South). I was pleasantly surprised to learn that many of my friends were acquainted with Beaufort, had visited the area and had friends who spent a portion of each year living in South Carolina. Many of my friends encouraged me to visit the area before making my decision to relocate. To me that was an unnecessary step. My life was about to change dramatically and I was looking forward to returning to my writing. I was compelled and optimistic by something inexplicable and began to implement my plans to relocate in South Carolina. My decision would surprise a few. Though my friends accepted my resolve and wished me well. One friend remarked “You are moving toward something.” Life is full of change and it is important to embrace the progression of our passage on this planet.
Beaufort, South Carolina
April 8, 2013
The book written by Ted Morgan, MAUGHAM A BIOGRAPHY had been on my bookshelf in San Francisco for some decades before I packed it up for storage in preparation for my move to Beaufort. Since arriving here I have learned that Mr. Maugham visited his publisher and friend Nelson Doubleday who had built a guest house, writing studio and cottage for the author’s three servants. While Mr. Maugham was not a permanent resident it has been written that he was at the Bonny Hall Plantation from 1941-1946; very likely due to the war. Upon learning this information I decided it was time to read the biography; so off to the Beaufort Public Library where I checked out Mr. Morgan’s book.
I have learned in my reading that Maugham wrote each morning for three hours. This is the same discipline that I have adopted since resuming my prose writing. If you want to write it is a practical routine to establish. Then you have time for leisure pursuits and socializing with friends. The other parallel is that Maugham liked to play bridge as do I. Although for the moment I have not found any bridge partners. Perhaps, I am destined to only play when I visit San Francisco or when I travel.
Maugham wrote so incisively about the places and people he met. These portraits mirrored the individuals with such acuity occasionally resulting in reprisal. Maugham seems to have rationalized his actions when disapproval knocked at his door. On the whole I believe his writing speaks for itself. He was not a saint nor did he aspire to be one. He merely wanted to write and from a very young age as did I. However, you have to make a living in order to write and you need to embrace life before you can record and distill what you have observed. It can be rather solitary though some structure and time for pleasure give balance.
It will continue to engage my thoughts that Maugham did not outwardly share any exploration of the spiritual. It was in the Razors Edge that his character forsakes the fortunes of the world for spiritual enlightenment. Perhaps that was a manifestation of the author’s quest to reconcile that which cannot be ignored. Maugham likely concluded that you cannot have success, pursue hedonistic pleasure and experience spiritual peace. That is where he and I diverge. He became a paean to his secular life.
Through his plays and novels he became financially secure which enabled him to live an orderly and carefree life. He continued to travel and entertained at Villa Mauresque his home in Cap Ferrat on the Riviera. He was rarely overt in his predilection and his emphasis on propriety was a lifelong credo.
He wrote all his manuscripts by hand; a task that I have forsaken. I find that the keyboard is less strenuous on the hands and much more expedient. Perhaps, Maugham never learned to type.
My ability to type I owe to the class I took in high school. We learned on manual typewriters in those days and I sat in the back row. The person on my left was a male. My classmate and I had so much fun during these classes that our typing speed did not improve. We were encouraged to experiment on the electronic machines and quickly returned to the back row. As a result of my poor speed of 8 words a minute I was given the letter grade of C in typing. This and a D in French kept me off the honor roll. I had A’s in all other classes. It is odd that my ability to type (my speed did improve) can be attributed to a skill required for my employment over the years. We did have so many good laughs in that class. It makes me smile just thinking of those days at the keyboard.
I will continue to persevere with my daily discipline and will pursue publication. It will give me great satisfaction to hold a book next to my bosom. In my case birthing a book will have taken several decades. No matter, I do not regret the life that brought me to this nexus. It is a genuine pleasure to begin each day with my thoughts; either journal writing or reviewing prose and poetry written more than two decades ago. It is good writing and I want to organize it into a collection of short stories. I drafted a collection of reflections of women who influenced my life during Lent. The working title is Bread of Angels. It is quite special akin in my mind to A Cordial Water by M.F.K. Fisher. It needs to be a compact little bedside book. It was written as a tribute to women and their attributes who I trust will not be forgotten because they led what some might consider ordinary lives. Women do have an innate gift for nurturing. We recognize that sacrifice can uplift rather than deplete.
I am so happy that I came into this life a woman and not a man. Yet, I find men endlessly fascinating. One of my characters is Billy Barstow and in my early writing his voice came to me easily. I don’t know if I shall be able to resurrect him now in this passage.
I want to wrap up the short stories of long ago and begin on a new project. My next project will be something fresh, uplifting and enlightening about the human condition; not sure if it will take place here in Beaufort. It will certainly be written here.
Last week I received an unexpected email from the Chef at my Club who wrote “Your grace, wisdom and presence are sorely missed.” One of the Front Desk staff who had recently returned to work after open heart surgery telephoned to thank me for the note I wrote to convey my get well wishes. That life tugged at my heart.
The fact is that I have never been capable of writing in San Francisco. It is ironic that in one of the most beautiful cities in the world I cannot pursue prose writing. I had an incredible life in that City. I was content, well loved and admired. It was not a writer’s life. Now I need to write or the gifts I have been given will perish. That is the truth that cannot be ignored. I want to distill in my prose, the love of life and those who have loved me and give it back to them.
Beaufort, South Carolina
April 22, 2015
Arrived back here ten days ago after nearly two months on the West Coast (primarily in San Francisco and five days in Los Angeles before my return). As I sit here in a rocking chair on the front porch of the cottage my thoughts meander aimlessly as the trees sway in the gentle breeze and the wind chime purchased in Charleston evokes mystical tones. The lush green leaves glisten against the pale blue sky and I am reminded of Joyce Kilmer’s iconic poem.
This is why I departed California for South Carolina...to be transported. Truly the environs do just that. I am calm and in awe of nature before me. There are decades of another life in the past and now an unchartered journey before me.
For some reason the lyrics of We're All Alone sung by Boz Scaggs (who lives in San Francisco) come to mind. It was easy to find it on iTunes. A few key strokes later the music is the moment. I weep feeling the cosmic caress.
