Dr. Kellie Brown
Mr. H. G. Wells
13 Hanover Terrace
WESTMINSTER
LONDON
UK
Dear Mr. Wells,
It may seem utterly bizarre, at best, to be writing you a letter given that you died nearly 78 years ago. I am using your last known address, an impressive location that bears the historic blue plaque: “H.G. Wells. 1866-1946. Writer. Lived and died here.” I am trusting that the time machine you wrote about is not a fictional creation and that you have used it to travel back and forth on the time continuum in such a way to elude death.
You and your friend George Orwell foresaw an apocalyptic state of the world, and you asked for your epitaph to read, “I told you so. You damned fools.” You were right, of course, about so many things, which leads to the reason for my letter. I want to borrow your time machine. I have a pressing need to escape the grim and hateful 21st century, even for a brief moment. I’m thinking of an exciting time in the 20th century to distract me. I’m not sure if you need to know the destination, but in case it may influence your decision, here are my three top contenders.
29 May 1913, Paris, Théâtre des Champs-Élysées,
the premiere of Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring When we think about attending the ballet, we envision the most refined and genteel experience, but Parisienne audiences in the early 20th century brought a different expectation. The arrival of Serge Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes dance troupe to Paris each May through July was greeted with breathless enthusiasm. For the Russian people, ballet constituted the highest form of art in the same way that Italians revered opera. Patrons in Paris craved this baring of the soul and flocked to all things Russian. A savvy impresario and talent scout, Diaghilev had taken a chance in 1909 on a young Russian composer named Igor Stravinsky. Together they wowed audiences with two acclaimed ballets: The Firebird in 1910 and Petrushka in 1911. So, the anticipation of their latest collaboration drew a large crowd, among them the eminent French composers Maurice Ravel and Camille Saint-Saens. Renouncing complacency, the audience arrived that night passionate about art, but they didn’t know that they were about to see and hear something unprecedented yet thrilling in its rawness and brutality. Their reactions, critical and otherwise, came swiftly in the form of shouts, whistles, catcalls, and then physical altercations. The commotion left the dancers, who were attired in Native American dress, to dance on to music they could no longer hear. Only a small contingent remained in their seats to applaud the curtain calls. Although I have taught about this premiere and its resulting mayhem for over two decades, no amount of reading or retelling could come close to experiencing this event, this bell tolling the death of the common practice period and summoning the dawn of modern music. I would love to be a true witness, to capture the kind of contextual listening that can only come in the moment.
4 October 1955, New York City, Yankee Stadium, World Series Game 7
the Brooklyn Dodgers beat the New York Yankees
People are often surprised when they hear that I’m a baseball fan. I guess they don’t associate a bookish writer and violinist with wanting to watch grown men swing a stick at a ball then run in circles trying to avoid “getting out” like children in a game of tag. I confess that I do avoid most sporting events as they don’t interest me. The exception is in my loyal following of the Dodgers. I attribute this to the love I had for my grandfather and to the tight pull of nostalgia. A diehard Dodgers fan, my mother’s father tuned in on the radio to catch as many games as possible. In the early 1950s, the Dodgers and Yankees were fierce crosstown rivals. Today, they remain one of the greatest rivalries in the sport even though the Dodgers moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in 1958. They have met 11 times in a World Series, more than any other pairing. But from the beginning of this association, Dodgers fans have usually come away disappointed as their team failed to win the pennant, and yet vowing each time that “next year” would be the year. Their declaration came true in the 1955 World Series, and the Dodgers’ victory has become one of the greatest moments in baseball history. I would love to travel to Game 7 where I could sit in the stands and cheer on legendary players I have only heard about— Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese, Roy Campanella, and Jackie Robinson. While I watch, I would know that inside a small farmhouse in Piney Flats, Tennessee, my future grandparents and their three children are gathered around the radio cheering with me. 11 April 1983, Los Angeles, Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, the 55th Academy Awards,
Meryl Streep wins her first Oscar for Best Actress for Sophie’s Choice
Sometimes Hollywood fame is short-lived and fickle. In every generation, a handful of actors arise whose craft speaks to audiences in a way that transcends a particular film. We follow artists such as Marlon Brando and Elizabeth Taylor from role to role and through their long coming-of-age. One aspect of cinema that intrigues us is never knowing when a relatively new actor we see on the screen will evolve into a beloved icon. Many of Hollywood’s “greats” were already established when I discovered them, but I have had the fortune of watching Meryl Streep from the beginning. I have seen every movie she ever made, many of them multiple times. Although Sophie’s Choice wasn’t her first film or even her first Oscar win, for me it is the film that presaged her longevity. She faced tough competition for Best Actress at the 1983 awards ceremony. The other nominees I also love and admire: Julia Andrews (Victor/Victoria), Jessica Lange (Frances), Sissy Spacek (Missing), and Debra Winger (An Officer and a Gentleman). After Sylvester Stallone announced her name and handed her the coveted statuette, Meryl Streep stumbled into an acceptance speech that was breathless throughout with facial expressions that will come to define her. But the content was routine with the requisite expressions of gratitude after an opening statement of shock, “Oh, boy! No matter how much you try to imagine what this is like, it’s just so incredibly thrilling, right down to your toes!” She will become the most Oscar-nominated actor in film history, and she will give some powerhouse acceptance speeches. Still, I would like to witness this moment in person because of what I know is to come and because researching music during the Holocaust has been my life’s work. She embodied an impossibly difficult role that grabbed at the very soul of viewers. I want to be there to celebrate that. Mr. Wells, I said that there were three choices, and yes, all are historically significant moments that I would find great meaning in. I had hoped they would impress and persuade you as well, but I must confess my real reason for writing and that there is only one time and place I want to travel to. It is not written about in any history textbooks. It won’t show up on any timeline of significant events.
25 December 1980, Residence of Hazel Dubel, Highland Drive, Blountville, Tennessee
Please, Mr. Wells, lend me your time machine so that I can go to my grandmother’s house in the mountains of East Tennessee for Christmas Day lunch. I don’t have a Ghost of Christmas Past to take me on a visit like Scrooge to Fezziwig’s Christmas Party. I need the surety and materiality of your technology. My grandmother’s home is quaint. Through the kitchen door, my child’s eyes see into the living room with its Christmas tree adorned in old-fashioned bubble lights. I sit at the Formica table next to her in the impossibly tiny kitchen. The table is spread with fried chicken, gravy, rolls, deviled eggs, and baked apples. On the counter to my left, I know the chocolate meringue pie awaits. I have already stolen two meringue peaks while she cooked. I also know what remains out of sight— a mason jar filled with her homemade boiled custard chilling in the refrigerator. There are so many grand settings I could visit. I could sit in a plush-lined chair for a ballet or an awards ceremony. I could rest on a bench in a historic stadium with a hot dog and soda. But it is this seat next to my grandmother where I long to be. It was the fullest I have ever felt.
Mr. Wells, this letter has gone on much longer than I intended. I appreciate your patience in reading it. I look forward to your response and pledge full discretion regarding the existence of your time machine and your continued presence among us.
Sincerely,
Kellie Brown
losing our grip on purpose 