As T.W.O. would put it, that’s overegging the pudding a tadge. I’ll never publish the most notorious and universal short story in American history. More intimately, my husband is not a Kavorka Man.
But she and I both are housewives with strong intellectual drives living in whitopias where household help is only for weird inferior women who can’t manage entirely on their own or micromanage the bleep out of that poor cousin they did have come by a few days a week. She couldn’t get nice college girls because mother’s helping was beneath them in 1950 and non-college girls were from families that hadn’t moved in 50-100 years and so they didn’t have anyone “strange” come help. People tend to think college towns are all the same, but they operate along a continuum. And Jackson was not in a college town where the degree was a MRS.
She also put her kids in preschool, which was called “community nursery school” and which 10-20% of women used back then. Exact data is had to come by because of terminology and lack of collecting data issues. And even back then it was the middle and up stay at home mothers who used it part-time and the smaller pool of working mothers using it full time.
I have her sense of anxiety and frustration, but not her pretty solid domestic skills. Our children find us odd but loving. There is a sort of weirdly beautiful e-drama online somewhere where one of Stanley Jackson’s coed affairs is bragging about it on salon or something similar and Shirley’s kids post comments defending their mother and whaling on the smarmy coed selling the only interesting thing about herself. I was touched by the love her kids (one of which I think was a grandparent by now) had for her and their respect for her hard work keeping their home so it could be an entertainment vehicle for dad.
Stanley Jackson was a literary critic and professor who tomcatted around and expected his wife to produce both domestically and intellectually, but was jealous of her ability to get thousands of dollars for a handful of stories about women and children and often the domestic sphere.
I 100% do not think I can compete with the mad literary skills of Mrs. Jackson, but it’s reassuring in a strange way to know that this literary ninja had some of the same struggles I, a much more ordinary housewife, have sixty or so years later.
It also brings me back to wanting to smash conservatives in the face for chronically declaring that there was no widespread frustration among average women in the 1950s and during the WWII era and that anyone talking about it was just a loser who was unhaaaaappppy or a communist. Shirley Jackson wrote for Good Housekeeping, for pity’s sake. She was not writing some edgy scandal stuff like Peyton Place. And yet there remain in both sets of writing much the same sort of struggles of women trying to adapt to the rapid shifts in technology, social roles and relationships with men.
One of the anecdotes in her domestic memoirs is about a pregnant woman she meets at the hospital when she has her third baby who is running late on delivering and is relieved and happy to be free of household tasks for what in the anecdote is about two weeks and heading into a third. General audiences of women wouldn’t have wanted to read about stuff like that if it didn’t seem real. They were very quick to write letters where they believed something to be unrealistic in its slicing of life.
Anyway I’ve only just begun reading her domestic memoirs and that sensation of being drawn close in time to a writer across so many seismic changes in daily life is dizzying.