Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

In March of 2024, The Atlantic posted their list of “The Great American Novels” of the last century. They then demanded, “You have to read them.” This is my diary of doing just that.

In 2007, I began a correspondence with my former Latin teacher, Paula Lemmon. Every few months, at least a couple of times a year, I would receive a heavy package in the mail: a hardback journal containing a multi-page entry, written in Paula’s famous, impeccable cursive. Sometimes she would create a little pocket on one of the pages if she came across a particularly lovely piece of cardstock, or a poem, or something online that she felt needed to be printed out and included.

I would respond, writing out my own entry, as well as including any extra, pocket-sized things that might require inclusion. Then, I would mail it back to Paula, to her home in East Texas.

We would share aspects about our lives, our travels, our families, our teaching careers (hers has ended just as mine had begun), our gardens, and what we were reading. We mailed our journal back and forth to each other for over fifteen years. This correspondence is important to me in ways that are difficult to describe aside from “immeasurable.”

Before the start of our shared journal, in 2003, Paula gifted each of her students a book from her home library, which was a tradition she upheld at the end of every school year. Mine was hardback copy of The Aeneid, which we’d studied that spring, translated by John Dryden. On the inside cover, there was a Ex Libris sticker, along with her name. But on the opposite page, she’d written, “Cara Samantha, It has been so much fun learning Latin with you. Salve, PLemmon.”

I, of course, still have this book.

I also still have our journal. I was delaying its return for reasons of which I’m not proud. Paula had recently developed Parkinson’s disease, and signs of dementia had cruelly come along with it. She first lost the ability to play the harp, which she would do for us in the classroom on our birthdays (yes, really —I remembered this just as I’m typing), and she struggled with writing, which seemed particularly criminal given her pristine cursive.

Her later entries in our journal were not full letters, not even the length of half a page, but marginal notes on my entries, with some crossouts, missed words inserted with carets, and misspellings. Eventually, it got to where I hesitated sending the journal back because I didn’t want it to be a burden on her, but that’s really just an excuse I told myself because it was so hard to bear witness to someone so wonderful losing their ability to use their hands and their words.

Our journal was our only consistent means of communication, and I learned last week that Paula died months ago. No one ever told me, and as far as I know, the college never sent out an announcement like they typically do when former members of the faculty pass away.

What happened was, in attempting to set up a desk for me in the bedroom, my husband bumped my nightstand. On that nightstand, under a stack of books, was the journal. From that journal, popped a piece of paper. On that piece of paper, Paula had written my newest address, I’m assumed so that she could remember it, as well as, “Dear Samantha, I love our journal!” It seemed like a sign, but I was also hit by a quick rush of dread. I looked Paula up online, and found her obituary.

This is obviously not an entry about Their Eyes Were Watching God —which is so perfect as to not really need my commentary —but it is an entry about books, and loving people who love books.

xo, sam