Cool Cape May 2021-22

excerpt from the cape [45]
that George’s grandfather, Charles Whitecar Miskelly,
had refused when Lippincott asked to make some
(apparently minor) changes. A curious thing since
Mr Miskelly was a humble carpenter-turned-chicken
farmer-turned-carpenter-again-when-the-chickenbusiness-crashed
who presumably didn’t receive
these kinds of offers every day.
I was intrigued enough to take the box off
George’s hands and promised him I would get around
to reading it. Back upstairs, I slid the box into one of 30
shelves in a hutch I had built to resemble an old post
office sorting desk. I pretend that it makes me more
organized but, in reality, things go into those shelves
and can disappear from my thoughts for a long time.
Which is what happened to the manuscript.
Around six months after George visited, he
called to ask if I had read the story. I told him I hadn’t
but that I would get around to it. “No problem, Jack,
I know you will read it. And I think you will really
appreciate it,” said George.
At least another six months went by before
George called again. One of my colleagues picked
up the phone and I thought about asking her to take
a message, since I was embarrassed to admit I still
hadn’t got to the manuscript. But that would have
been unworthy behavior, so I took the call. Again,
George was chirpy. “I know you’re busy, and I know
you will get around to it,” said George.
And I did, about 18 months after George first
visited me. One day, I decided there would never be
a time when I could feel unshackled enough to take
the time to settle back in my office chair with a cup
of tea and leisurely work my way through the story,
so I took it home and decided that no matter what,
I would start the book that night. I’ll admit — I went
into it with very low expectations (the majority of
submissions I receive from wannabe writers are on
the mediocre side). But that night I read eight or nine
of the 23 chapters and only stopped when sleep took
over. As soon as I woke up the next morning, I read
about six more. That night, I read another bunch, and
finished the book the next morning.
I felt like I had discovered buried treasure. I
didn’t just love the story itself; I was also blown away
by the beauty of the writing, by the remarkable detail
in the descriptions of the landscape. One of my favorite
writers is Thomas Hardy, the great 19th-century
British novelist who made the environment a major
character in almost all of his brilliant stories. Well,
Charles Whitecar Miskelly did the same thing with
the counties of Cape May and Cumberland (although
they didn’t exist when this story was set, in the 1600s).
Shortly after finishing the book I called George,
goosebumps appearing on my arms, and told him I
would be delighted to publish the book. He was, naturally,
thrilled — but not, I should say, surprised.
I followed up by sending George an email which
explained the basics of how publishing works — I told
him about the royalties we would offer, the print run
and distribution. I wrote the email as if he knew nothing
about the publishing world, which is an assumption
I had made. A big assumption.
Shortly after I wrote that email, I Googled
George Carlisle for the heck of it. All I knew is that he
lived in Cambridge, Massachussets and loved to visit
Cape May as often as possible. Here’s what I found in
one story about him...
Carlisle, a University of Delaware graduate,
received his Master of Fine Arts from the renowned
Writing Workshop of the University of Iowa. He taught
creative writing for 45 years at St. Paul’s School in Concord,
NH — one of the top preparatory schools in the
country — and was head of the English department for
a period of time.
Turns out that George, who I had taken for a
kindly old gentleman who simply wanted to do his
grandfather a favor by having someone read his manuscript,
had taught some very fine writers, including
the brilliant Nick Paumgarten, a staff writer for The
Charles
Miskelly
(right) with his
wife Ida, their
daughter, son
and daughterin-law.
Miskelly was
a blue-collar
carpenter
who wrote
a novel that
was accepted
by a famous
Philadelphia
publisher
before a
disagreement
put the
manuscript
into cold
storage for 60
years.