Newsletter of the

Society

Katherine Anne Porter: Writer in Residence

by Robert L. Morris

Reprinted from Towers in Westchester Park, December 1999/January 2000 and February 2000.

That summer the bank found itself short of branch managers, including the one at College Park. The president asked me if I would assume the management of the branch temporarily until a proper replacement could be hired. I of course acquiesced, though my knowledge of "retail" banking was comparatively scant. My military department was almost entirely a mail operation, essentially a hometown bank for people with no hometown. My executive department was also heavily mail oriented.

Let me digress for a moment to emphasize that banking 30 years ago was far different from today's ultra sophisticated impersonal scenario. Main frame computers had arrived and were used sparingly as a useful extension to our brains, but never as a substitute for them. The idea of clerks in bank lobbies with online computers might have appeared in science fiction fantasies buy assured not in a practical banking situation. Every action was highly personalized, even by mail. And, oh yes, credit cards were in their infancy—not yet in general use. My daredevil tactics in "overdraft" banking protection dismayed orthodox bankers. Now our citizens are billions and billions in the red and only alarmists view it as other than routine—a gigantic nationwide Ponzi maneuver.

In any event I was thrilled to learn that Katherine Anne Porter was a depositor in my bank and, morever, if needed, I would be her personal banker. Sure enough, I shortly received a phone call from her. She needed $10,000. To me her voice seemed like that of a young woman—charming, fresh, gracious, even sexy. She was all feminine in an era before feminism into man–bashing militancy. In this first conversation, she more or less capsuled her whole life.

She purred, "Why, Mr. Morris, would you believe, regardless of all the praise showered on me for my stories, I have never made any money—real money, that is. I was always short of the ready, barely making ends meet. Then I submitted a rather lengthy short story/novella to my editor at my publishers, Little, Brown in Boston. My editor telephoned me and urged me to flesh it out and make it into a full fledged novel.

"I did so...called it Ship of Fools. Wowee! The darn thing became an instant best seller and later a hit movie. How the money rolled in! For the first time in my life, I had it to burn—and don't think I didn't do just that—spent a lot of it on items of luxury I could never before have owned—gave it out to people and friends who had been kind to me throughout the years. My editor, who was also a trusted advisor, persuaded me to let Little, Brown handle the royalties and dole it out to me at the rate of $3,000 a month. This amount was usually adequate but sometimes I overspent or was too generous with my donations to others in thrall. That is why I have this current need.

"If you okay the loan, you may take the monthly payments out of my account, or perhaps I can soft talk Little, Brown to pay it in full when I can summon up enough courage to tell them I've been naughty."

I told her the loan was approved on the spot, and, just as soon as she signed the papers, the proceeds would be deposited to her credit. She thanked me warmly and said she'd send her housekeeper/secretary to pick up the documents. Her tone was that of a winsome child to a generous daddy. I felt like a knight in gleaming armor standing ramrod straight around a round (loan) table.

That transaction was the beginning of our relationship—if that is the correct word to use—though perhaps the word "association" would be more accurate—considering the metamorphosis of the word "relationship" into the tawdry thing it is today in today's connotation. My tenure as branch manager was soon terminated, but Katherine Anne would deal with nobody but me.

Shortly thereafter she moved temporarily to New York City to occupy a prestigious chair at one of its local colleges. She continued to write me of her experiences there, and I still keep her letters in my personal file. A few years ago an excellent biography of her was published, and I thought to myself that the biographer certainly did a poor job sleuthing to have overlooked these missives, but then they were actually trivial and without impact. We also spoke on the phone numerous times, but the go–between for paperwork was always the housekeeper/secretary.

Perhaps the reader of this piece may have by this time guessed my little O. Henry surprise ending. I never met Katherine Anne Porter! Yes, despite her willingness to confide in me on matters that verged into the quite personal, we never met face-to-face. She alluded to her five husbands (I think it was five) and her displeasure about the frequent diminution of her name. She pouted, southern belle style—she was, after all, from East Texas and New Orleans: "Why, do you know, I even get mail addressed to Katherine A. Porter. That isn't my name, Mr. Morris. My name is Katherine Anne, and it infuriates me when they make that error." Yes, she was a coquette—bless her. I have no doubt at all that she straightened out St. Peter on her correct name as she duly entered the pearly gates.

Somewhere during that period I was told that she lived in an area known as Westchester Park. When I sold my home in Kensington but continued to work in College Park, I made a reconnaissance to Westchester Park and found the apartments to be first rate. This, of course, was after my association with Katherine Anne. Nevertheless, one of my reasons for renting in 6200 in the fall of 1979 was the feeling that, if Katherine Anne lived there, the place must be a bit of all right. Even there I was apprised of Katherine Anne's "eccentricites"—that she rented two apartments joined side-by-side and that she kept her coffin in one of her closets in 6100. Later, after I had moved to 6100 in January 1985, I learned that both rumors were factual. Beulah Sanders, who knows everything worthwhile there is to know about the building and its residents (and, I daresay, some not so worthwhile) verified these facts and also well remembered Katherine Anne. Beulah described her as being a "frisky old lady."

Katherine Anne died in place in 1980 at theage of 90. Earlier in that year I had the bright idea of visiting her and re–establishing our friendship—wondering if she still remembered her old banking crony. I also had in hand the one–volume Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter, which I thought I'd her autograph. Alas, I was too late. Katherine Anne Porter, acclaimed artist and wonderful human being, was on her deathbed, and I was denied admittance to her quarters. Sic transit...

Katherine Anne knew a good place to live when she spied it. It was a place to call home, and it still is. I have made some good friends here and numerous acquaintances. Above all, the management, maintenance, and custodial staff do an outstanding job and, however, undeserving, they do favors for my wife and myself (as we used to say in the Army) "beyond the call of duty." I think maybe the aura of Katherine Anne Porter, and the warmth of her stories, still lurk in our (un)hallowed corridors.

(Editor's note: A retired University of Maryland professor sent a copy of this article to one of my colleagues. As soon as I read it, I telephoned Mr. Morris, who graciously agreed to allow me to reprint his article in this newsletter. In addition, he agreed to donate his cache of Porter materials to the Libraries. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morris in person when I picked up the items from him in his Westchester Park apartment, which is located on the same floor of the building where Miss Porter lived from 1970 to 1980.)