Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (573 page)

The upshot was that the Long machine in Louisiana knew a rabble-rouser when it saw one, and invited Gudger to move to the Sportsman’s Paradise, with his family, all expenses paid, and start working for the Kingfish at the unbelievable salary of $62.50 a week. Which prospect was like turning a hog loose under a persimmon tree, and before you could say Backwoods Messiah, the Gudger clan was on its way to the land of pelicans, graft, and Mardi Gras.

Almost. But I’ll get to that.

Daddy Gudger prospered all out of proportion with his abilities, but many men did that during the Depression. First a little, thence to more, he rose in bureaucratic (and political) circles of the state, dying rich and well-hated with his fingers in
all
the pies.

Alma Chandler Gudger became a debutante (she says Robert Penn Warren put her in his book) and met and married Jean Carl Molière, only heir to rice, indigo, and sugar cane growers. They had a happy wedded life, moving first to the West Indies, later to Mauritius, where the family sugar cane holdings were one of the largest on the island. Jean Carl died in 1959. Alma was his only survivor.

So local family makes good. Poor sharecropping Mississippi people turn out to have a father dying with a smile on his face, and two daughters who between them own a large portion of the planet.

I open the envelope before me. Ms. Alma Molière had listened politely to my story (the university had called ahead and arranged an introduction through the director of the Port Louis Museum, who knew Ms. Molière socially) and told me what she could remember. Then she sent a servant out to one of the storehouses (large as a duplex) and he and two others came back with boxes of clippings, scrapbooks and family photos.

“I haven’t looked at any of this since we left St. Thomas,” she said. “Let’s go through it together.”

Most of it was about the rise of Citizen Gudger.

“There’s not many pictures of us before we came to Louisiana. We were so frightfully poor then, hardly anyone we knew had a camera. Oh, look. Here’s one of Annie Mae. I thought I threw all those out after Mamma died.”

This is the photograph. It must have been taken about 1927. Annie Mae is wearing some unrecognizable piece of clothing that approximates a dress. She leans on a hoe, smiling a snaggle-toothed smile. She looks to be ten or eleven. Her eyes are half hidden by the shadow of the brim of a gapped straw hat she wears. The earth she is standing in barefoot has been newly turned. Behind her is one corner of the house, and the barn beyond has its upper hay-windows open. Out-of-focus people are at work there.

A few feet behind her, a huge male dodo is pecking at something on the ground. The front two-thirds of it shows, back to the stupid wings and the edge of the upcurved tail feathers. One foot is in the photo, having just scratched at something, possibly an earthworm, in the new-plowed clods. Judging by its darkness, it is the grey, or Mauritius, dodo.

The photograph is not very good, one of those 3 1/2 x 5 jobs box cameras used to take. Already I can see this one, and the blowup of the dodo, taking up a double-page spread in
S.A.
Alma told me around then they were down to six or seven of the ugly chickens, two whites, the rest grey-brown.

Besides this photo, two clippings are in the package, one from the Bruce
Banner-Times,
the other from the Oxford newspaper; both are columns by the same woman dealing with “Doings in Water Valley.” Both mention the Gudger family moving from the area to seek its fortune in the swampy state to the west, and telling how they will be missed. Then there’s a yellowed clipping from the front page of the Oxford newspaper with a small story about the Gudger Farewell Party in Water Valley the Sunday before (dated October 19, 1929).

There’s a handbill in the package, advertising the Gudger Family Farewell Party, Sunday Oct. 15, 1929 Come One Come All. (The people in Louisiana who sent expense money to move Daddy Gudger must have overestimated the costs by an exponential factor. I said as much.)

“No,” Alma Molière said. “There was a lot, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. Daddy Gudger was like Thomas Wolfe and knew a shining golden opportunity when he saw one. Win, lose, or draw, he was never coming back
there
again. He would have thrown some kind of soirée whether there had been money for it or not. Besides, people were much more sociable then, you mustn’t forget.”

I asked her how many people came.

“Four or five hundred,” she said. “There’s some pictures here somewhere.” We searched awhile, then we found them.

* * * *

Another thirty minutes to my flight. I’m not worried sitting here. I’m the only passenger, and the pilot is sitting at the table next to mine talking to an RAF man. Life is much slower and nicer on these colonial islands. You mustn’t forget.

* * * *

I look at the other two photos in the package. One is of some men playing horseshoes and washer-toss, while kids, dogs, and women look on. It was evidently taken from the east end of the house looking west. Everyone must have had to walk the last mile to the old Gudger place. Other groups of people stand talking. Some men in shirtsleeves and suspenders stand with their heads thrown back, a snappy story, no doubt, just told. One girl looks directly at the camera from close up, shyly, her finger in her mouth. She’s about five. It looks like any snapshot of a family reunion which could have been taken anywhere, anytime. Only the clothing marks it as backwoods 1920s.

* * * *

Courtney will get his money’s worth. I’ll write the article, make phone calls, plan the talk show tour to coincide with publication. Then I’ll get some rest. I’ll be a normal person again; get a degree, spend my time wading through jungles after animals which will be dead in another twenty years, anyway.

Who cares? The whole thing will be just another media event, just this year’s Big Deal. It’ll be nice getting normal again. I can read books, see movies, wash my clothes at the laundromat, listen to Jonathan Richman on the stereo. I can study and become an authority on some minor matter or other.

I can go to museums and see all the wonderful dead things there.

* * * *

“That’s the memory picture,” said Alma. “They always took them at big things like this, back in those days. Everybody who was there would line up and pose for the camera. Only we couldn’t fit everybody in. So we had two made. This is the one with us in it.”

The house is dwarfed by people. All sizes, shapes, dresses, and ages. Kids and dogs in front, women next, then men at the back. The only exceptions are the bearded patriarchs seated towards the front with the children—men whose eyes face the camera but whose heads are still ringing with something Nathan Bedford Forrest said to them one time on a smoke-filled field. This photograph is from another age. You can recognize Daddy and Mrs. Gudger if you’ve seen their photograph before. Alma pointed herself out to me.

But the reason I took the photograph is in the foreground. Tables have been built out of sawhorses, with doors and boards nailed across them. They extend the entire width of the photograph. They are covered with food, more food than you can imagine.

“We started cooking three days before. So did the neighbors. Everybody brought something,” said Alma.

It’s like an entire Safeway had been cooked and set out to cool. Hams, quarters of beef, chickens by the tubful, quail in mounds, rabbit, butterbeans by the bushel, yams, Irish potatoes, an acre of corn, eggplant, peas, turnip greens, butter in five-pound molds, cornbread and biscuits, gallon cans of molasses, redeye gravy by the pot.

And five huge birds—twice as big as turkeys, legs capped like for Thanksgiving, drumsticks the size of Schwarzenegger’s biceps, whole-roasted, lying on their backs on platters large as cocktail tables.

The people in the crowd sure look hungry.

“We ate for days,” said Alma.

* * * *

I already have the title for the
Scientific American
article. It’s going to be called “The Dodo Is Still Dead.”

* * * *

© 1980 by Howard Waldrop. Originally published in
Universe 10
, edited by Terry Carr, Doubleday 1980.

Perhaps the most well known of all science fiction awards is the Hugo Award, named for Hugo Gernsback, the founder of the first major science fiction magazine in the United States. Winners include such notable names as Neil Gaiman, Lois McMaster Bujold, Robert A. Heinlein, Roger Zelazny, Ursula K. Le Guin, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Orson Scott Card, and William Gibson, among others. Every year at the World Science Fiction Convention (more colloquially known as “WorldCon”), votes by science fiction fans determine who takes home the iconic silver rocket ship trophy in each of the fifteen categories. Hugo awards are given for a wide variety of science fiction and fantasy works, including Best Novel, Best Professional Artist, Best Dramatic Presentation (long and short form), Best Graphic Story, and even Best Fan Writer. Anyone who attends WorldCon is a member of the World SF Society for that year, and can nominate and vote for works in every category; channels are also available for those unable to attend the convention to vote. The idea behind the voting system is to maximize the number of science fictions fans with a voice in the decision, while simultaneously including a minimal barrier (convention membership fees) in order to minimize unfair spam votes. The ballots are even constructed with a “No Award” option, if voters do not believe that any nominees in a particular category deserves special recognition that year.

By contrast, the Nebula awards are chosen by a much more selective community. The Nebulas are given in five categories—best novel, novella, novelette, short story, and script—by members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA). At the beginning of the nomination period, an online form provides a list of “recommended reading” to which all SFWA members can add. During this period, all active members can also nominate up to five works in each category; at the end of the nomination period, the top six works in each category are placed on the final ballot. (Previously, special Nebula juries were allowed to add one additional work per category to the final ballot, but the juries were abolished as of 2009.) All the Hugo winners previously mentioned have also won the Nebula—sometimes on multiple occasions.

The Philip K. Dick Award acknowledges the best original science fiction paperback (not previously published as a hardcover) published in the United States that year. The Philadelphia Science Fiction Society, in conjunction with the Philip K. Dick Trust, began giving the award in 1983 (one year after death of the author it’s named for), at a time when most science fiction novels were
only
available in paperback. A panel of five authors with distinction in the genre present the award each year at Norwescon in Washington.

Created in 1973 in memory of the longtime editor of
Astounding Science Fiction
, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award is presented by a similarly small group of judges, but unlike the rotating panel for the Philip K. Dick award, the Campbell Award jury remains relatively constant from year to year. The award goes to the best science-fiction novel published in English in the previous calendar year. First-, second-, and third-place levels of the award are distributed; a novel that wins a first-place Campbell award as well as a Hugo and a Nebula is said to have won science fiction’s “triple crown.” Also bearing Campbell’s name is the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, given to an outstanding writer whose first work of science fiction or fantasy was published in the past two calendar years. Presented alongside these Campbell awards is the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award for the best science fiction short story of the year. Named after a notable science fiction short story writer whose first story was published by Campbell, the award has been given by a jury since 1987.

The Locus Award is chosen not by jury, but by the subscribers of
Locus
magazine, a news magazine of the science fiction and fantasy field (and 21-time Hugo winner in the Semiprozine category). A “recommended reading” list is published alongside the ballot in the February issue of the magazine. Readers nominate up to five ranked works in each category, which are then assigned points based on rankings. After the final tally, the work with the most points wins the award, which is given to the author as a certificate. The top four finalists are also announced as “finalists.” Awards are given in fifteen categories, including Best Science Fiction Novel, Best Fantasy Novel, Best Young Adult Novel, Best First Novel, Best Short Story, and Best Non-Fiction/Art Book.

Other awards have eligibility criteria based not just on excellence, but on specific subject matter as well. The James Tiptree Jr. Award is given to a work of science fiction or fantasy that explores or expands the reader’s understanding of gender. The award, given since 1991, is named for writer Alice B. Sheldon, who wrote under the masculine pseudonym in the award’s title for years. Her work involved similarly thought-provoking gender-bending, so the award established in her honor celebrates ongoing innovation in the topic of gender in literary works. The Tiptree Award is given each year at the Wisconsin Science Fiction Convention (Wiscon).

Similarly, the Lambda Literary Awards recognize works published each year in the United States that explore LGBT themes in many genres. The Lambdas are not an exclusively science fiction award—categories range from mystery to poetry to erotica—but one story is selected to receive the Lambda in Science fiction/Fantasy/Horror at the “Lammy” Awards Gala.

The Rhysling Award, named for a spacegoing poet in Robert A. Heinlein’s story “The Green Hills of Earth,” is bestowed upon the author of the best poem of the year in either science fiction, fantasy, or horror. Members of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA) nominate works that are then compiled into an anthology; the members then vote on the winners. Two Rhysling awards are given each year, one for short poems (under 50 lines) and one for longer works (50 lines and over). While poems of between 1 and 10 lines are eligible for the short form award, they are infrequently nominated and none has ever won, so the SFPA also awards a separate Dwarf Star Award for these very short works.

Some awards only consider works written or published within a particular geographical area, or in a particular language. Perhaps most notable of these is the Arthur C. Clark Award, given to the best science fiction novel published in the United Kingdom that year. Unlike many of these awards, novels must actually be submitted to the jury to be considered for the award, but the award comes with the largest cash prize for any science fiction award. Only Australian authors are eligible for the Aurealis Award, which gives honors to works in each genre (science fiction, horror, and fantasy) individually; similarly, only works by New Zealanders can win the Sir Julius Vogel Award. The Prix Aurora Award is given to exemplary Canadian works in both English and French. The Janusz A. Zajdel Award is a Polish fandom prize, with the best novels and short stories chosen by the members of Polcon. The Seiun Award in Japan (Japanese for “nebula,” though it is unrelated to the Nebula Awards), has some categories dedicated to foreign language works, but primarily recognizes authors writing in Japanese. The Kurd-Laßwitz-Preis, Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire, and Italia Awards are also language-based; they acknowledge the best works in German, French, and Italian SF, respectively.