Flesh and Grass

By Libby Cone

When Britain and the Netherlands clash over sugar, spices, and slaves, violence is unleashed over several continents. A small utopian settlement in Delaware is not spared. We experience the tumultuous events through the olfactory memoir of the founder's blind son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Libby Cone
• Release date: Jul 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452498041

Libby Cone

I am a radiologist who was bored with work, and embarked on a ten-year odyssey to get an MA in Jewish Studies. This led to my reinvention of myself as a writer.My first novel, War on the Margins, is about the Holocaust playing out in microcosm on the tiny Channel Island of Jersey, which was occupied by German soldiers and Nazi functionaries for the duration of World War II.My second book, Flesh and Grass, is about a blind kid growing up in colonial Delaware. He is the son of the founder of a short-lived Dutch utopian settlement that was adversely affected by the conflicts between Holland and Britain. It is loosely based on the ill-fated Swanendael settlement of Pieter Plockhoy. The son's memories are primarily olfactory due to his extraordinary sense of smell. Like my first book, Flesh and Grass examines the ephemerality of official identity.I live in Philadelphia with my husband and many pets. When I am not writing or reading CT scans, I review books for The New Podler Review of Books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Germantown, Pennsylvania Colony, 1699

Perhaps because I have no sight to distract me, perhaps because my memory seems not to weigh the import of one thing over another thing, but keeps it all, I can remember much of what has happened in my life; I remember most of it by smell. This is not as remarkable as it might seem. The Netherlands at that time were quite preoccupied with the spice trade, it being very lucrative, and much of the Dutch military forces were devoted to keeping the trade in Dutch hands. Everyone with a few stuivers could afford some of the aromatics to be had from abroad. My mother always smelled of cinnamon. Like many, she felt it was a healthful spice and used it often in our meals. It used to lace our meat and our bread, keeping away all evil humors. That aroma still brings her into the room, even here in Germantown, my place of chosen exile, when my wife Judith hands me an apple tart. The cinnamon gives rise to my memories of my mother’s constant kindness to me in peaceful times as well as in the times of affliction so often visited upon us after we departed Amsterdam. Then I am given to reflection upon how this same aroma that awakens filial love in me, and, no doubt, in many others, has an entirely different effect upon the Nations. They feel the awakening of a far different inclination, that of avarice, and each becomes determined to own the trade of spices and of sugar and of the poor slaves who toil in the Barbadoes and Guadeloupe. They fight repeated wars over this ownership. So this sweet aroma has, through its different effect upon those who rule, also caused much ruin. Of course, I put it too simply. All of us are sinners. many of us have felt avarice, and it is wrong to hold ourselves above the behavior of Nations in every instance, as you shall see.

My father, Pieter Boom, was not affected by aromas or avarice, but by the love of a benevolent God. His eagerness for each to worship according to his soul’s direction also laced our lives and brought me my wife and my first home here. His dedication was longer lasting than the aroma of any spice; it was strong and purposeful and lasting as the choking odor of the Sumatra benzoin that oft reeked in the Bourse, awaiting incorporation into perfume. Father was an enthusiastic member of the Collegiants, a group of religious men and women devoted to the elimination of superstition from faith and to the search for Truth through logical thought. Had our Commonwealth flourished, I could relate to you the grounding in rational Cartesian thought the Collegiants possessed, the value of skepticism, the debt owed to Spinoza, and so on, but my education having been cut short, I can only advise you on the knitting of stockings and other humble tasks.

My father occupied himself with plans to relieve the suffering of the poor and the unhappiness of those at odds with the State-imposed church. He wrote his pamphlets, A Way to Peace and his Way to Comity of Nations in our home before leaving for England to seek support for the establishment of a Godly community, one with a love of reason and averse to hierarchy. He defended his ideas often at our table, and taught me the English tongue, that I might prosper there. He directed my mother to sew the back-buttoning garments that would demonstrate Godly love by the necessity of helping one another to don them. My mother took me to see him in England, when he was asking for help from Lord Protector Cromwell. I still had some sight then, and remember all the various earnest men pleading one cause or another. There were Jews and Republicans and Diggers. All were puffing on their pipes, clutching their documents, waiting for their audiences. The Lord Protector, who had deposed and executed King Charles, was seen by many as the embodiment of their hope for change. Everyone with an idea for reforming this life sought his ear. Alas, Cromwell was ill by the time my father came to England, and then he died. His son showed no interest in such ideas, and my father’s efforts in England came to nothing…I still remember it.

Father never tired of talking to people about his destiny, and when the English did not pay him mind, he turned to the Burgomasters of Amsterdam.

****

That was a long time past. Although I am given much sustenance here in Germantown by my friend Willem Rittenhuysen, I continue the handicraft taught me, the knitting of stockings. My wife Judith no longer weaves the wide woolen Saye-cloth she produced in Delaware; the house does not accommodate the large loom, but she is content with the tasks of housewifery, and spins wool for my occupation.

Bishop Willem frequently calls, always smelling of wet paper, often bearing some of the tea which we have come to savor. Please enjoy this, Cornelis and Judith! he will cry. Such a different aroma! It is nothing like any of the spices we had in Holland, or brought with us to Delaware Bay and my father’s little Commonwealth at Swanendael, the Valley of the Swans. Drunk hot, it is quite invigorating. I jest with him about his being a Bishop, a title my father held in no regard, but his Mennonist house of worship is very similar to the meeting we enjoyed in the Valley.

My mother was briefly joyful upon my father’s return from England to our Amsterdam home. Undaunted by his plans’ poor reception in England, he at once commenced to occupy himself with new plans to present to the Burgomasters, to help us settle on city-owned land in Swanendael, on the South River (called the Delaware River by the English) in the southern portion of the Nieuw Netherland colonies. Mother turned to her loom. She would weave until nine of the clock. I could smell the rancid butter she employed to grease the threads and could hear the loom's rhythmic clatter. My father would be meeting with the men who might become his stockholders, for his idea for the new enterprise would require a great deal of money for ship fare and other necessities. He and his friend, the educator Franciscus van den Enden, also began work on the rules to be employed by the settlement. Heer van den Enden was a very lively man. Spinoza, who had studied Latin with van den Enden and then taught at his school, was a close friend. Heer van den Enden was always speaking of the philosopher Descartes and of freedom of the will, a concept I had little understanding of as a child. One Hundred and Seventeen Principles, which might bestow this freedom, took form at our hearth. The men read aloud from pamphlets by Spinoza and books by Descartes, then commenced writing, their quills scraping as Mother’s loom clattered.

I would often accompany Father on his rounds in the daytime, holding his elbow, as, despite the poultices of black balsam and, later, of foetid Venetian theriac (that foul concoction of rhubarb, mummies, serpent skin, and other loathsome materials), I could no longer see by that time. We would visit various influential merchants, including those, called regenten, who held office, and other wealthy men, mostly Mennonists, in their houses. It was these merchants who wielded the power in Amsterdam now that the office of stadtholder, close to a monarch, had been abolished. In their homes I would smell tobacco and beer and nutmeg and smoked fish. Some would ask of him why the raising of stock was needed, whereupon my father would hold forth about the extra expenses necessary for travel to Nieuw Netherland. Their money would be quickly enriched by the diligent labor of the inhabitants and their trading with other colonists in the area, as well as supplying goods to the Dutch West India Company, which had of late shown much enthusiasm for bringing in new inhabitants. My father had an air of such confidence, mixed with true piety, that most of the regenten did not refuse him. "Heer M-, he would say, with three God-fearing men in charge of the accompts, many people working without care for their food or children (these being taken care of by others), and thus lower costs of manufacture, I am sure you can see the benefit of investing in our Commonwealth. He would then puff on his pipe and await a question. Perhaps they were averse to being accused of not trusting such a benevolent man; questions seldom escaped their lips. We would eat cakes and drink beer, and soon the quills and parchments would be brought out and their scratching could be heard over the hissing of logs in the fire. Come, Cornelis," my father would then say to me, and we would set off for another meeting.

For those interested in such matters, it was the time of the States-Party in the Netherlands. They had dominated the Great Assembly convened after the death of Willem II, hereditary stadtholder of many provinces, as I have mentioned, much like a king. Though Willem claimed his House of Orange held the interests of the common people foremost, he wanted the Reformed Church to be the church of all, and its law (which it considered Divine Law) the law of all. When he died without an adult heir, things changed quickly, and the Province of Holland forced through the Act of Seclusion. This Act abolished the office of stadtholder. Johan de Witt, the Grand Pensionary of Holland Province, and his States-Party took control. The nation looked away from war and toward peace, trade, and, inspired by the Frenchman Descartes, some form of religious tolerance. The merchants flourished; all wanted the West India Company to finally rival the East India Company, and many investors thought that a stronger Western settlement would reap gold. But for the wars that erupted due to avarice and greed, the investors may have been of the correct assumption.

Chapter 2

Amsterdam, 1662

We frequented the Amsterdam Bourse, looking for good men to accompany us on this adventure. Father sought Husbandmen, Handi-crafts people, Marriners, and Masters of Arts and Sciences, as he had said in his writings. We found them with difficulty, as they were doing good business at the Bourse. They would inquire about going for one year or two. They liked not the answer they were given, that if they left after less than five years they could not share in any of the profits. Difficulty arose also, in the guise of the predikanten, the official Reformed Church ministers who held us in great contempt. Our loose Collegiant association was by no means the official religion of Amsterdam. Indeed, it was by Divine Providence that the business folk of Amsterdam closed their eyes (it was called conniventie) to the frequent remonstrances of the predikanten, in favor of free (if quiet) exercise of diverse religions in order to enable their commerce with many nations. My father oft complained of the doings of the predikanten, but he never used the word geldwolven (money hounds) to describe the merchants, who looked upon us with favor.

One day, as we enjoyed discourse with Broeder Jan Warwijk,a merchant of our own Collegiant faith, this man fell to talking about his youngest son Jochem. Broeder Jan was preoccupied with providing him with a living. Jochem Warwijk was of similar age to mine, about ten at that time. He and I engaged in discourse as our fathers did their own; I took hold of his arm and he walked with me around the Bourse. The power of the merchants of Amsterdam was manifested there by the bountiful products of the Dutch East India Company I could smell as we walked by the stalls of commerce: cloves, India rubber, then pepper.You are a maker of hose? Jochem asked.

Yes, I replied. I always had needles upon my person, and, given the impairment of my sight, probably bore short lengths of yarn upon my clothes.

It is not for me, said he. I detected sadness in his voice.

What wouldst you do? Shall you become a weaver? His father was a dealer in cloth.

Nay, I prefer the telescope and the instruments of navigation, was his reply.

"Oh, would you help us navigate to Nieuw Netherland?"

I know not. I have not navigated a ship before. I have read a great deal thereof.

That is wise. My father often speaks about the need for mariners and navigators.

My father often speaks of the need to find me a trade and expel me from his home.

Why?

I am the youngest; there is no money for me. I have refused his offers to learn the trades of weaving or cloth-selling. I think my brothers are jealous of his support, and would have me gone to the New World.

We stopped and I breathed camphor and nutmeg and mace. That is a sad fact, I said, even Joseph, who was beloved by his father, was the object of similar punishment for his father’s favor.

Yes, but it also means that no occupation is strongly predetermined for me, unlike my elder brethren. We commenced to walk again. How came you to the stocking trade?

We stopped again. I took a breath

Reviews for Flesh and Grass

[lucybird_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I quite enjoyed Libby Cone’s first book War on the Margins, and when she e-mailed me about reviewing her new book Flesh and Grass I was immediately interested. Generally when I read historical fiction I read fiction based around the two world wars but I thought why not get out of my comfort zone a little.Unfortunately I didn’t find Flesh and Grass as good as War on the Margins. I found it a little slower, and I didn’t really feel like I ever got into it. There were elements I liked, I thought the emotions were done really well, and you could really understand how smells were attached to emotions for Cornelis. Historically it was interesting too, but I didn’t really get much from it about what it was like to be in completely new place. While events which would bring strong emotions were well described the general day-to-day feelings brought on by moving to a new place were barely touched upon.I must admit that Libby Cone does have the tendency to write like a historian rather than an author. The topics are interesting but turning them into a story adds little, and it seemed to add less here than in War on the Margins.

[danaburgess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wow .... just wow. You know that feeling when your partner hands you a gift and it's in a really little package and you know it is going to be an expensive and amazing gift? Well this book is like that. An amazing gift in a small package. A fictional group of immigrants from The Netherlands land in America in the hopes of building a community that allows them to live and worship as they wish. Despite this description, the book is not what I would categorize 'Christian Fiction'. It is, more realistically, historical fiction that Libby Cone states is "a work of fiction loosely based on the story of the Plockhoy settlement." (if you are interested in more info on the Plockhoy settlement, Google it. If you want a more concise synopsis of this book, click here)Pieter Boom takes his wife and son, Cornelis, to begin a new and better life in the New World in 1662. First twist: Cornelis is blind. He is also the narrator of the story. Consequently his descriptions are based mostly on smell. (The odorous descriptions of all the good food is why I blame Ms. Cone for the total destruction of my diet) The descriptive passages in the book are so vivid that I could smell the baking bread, the beer, the spices, the sun on the grass. Being blind also means that people tend to speak freely around Cornelis so he is privy to the goings on in the community and able to keep his family updated on the news of the day.Second twist: life in America is not all it's cracked up to be. It starts off great but soon war intrudes on the idyllic life of the new community. It becomes apparent that tribulations are not endemic to where people live, instead they are endemic to living. And if the smells of food did damage to my diet, so did the smells of destruction - no meat for me for awhile.I picked this 167 page gem off of my TBR pile this morning and before I knew it, I was closing the book on the last page. The narrative is easy to read although the language is true to the 1600's. There are lots of big words and the syntax is often unfamiliar but, somehow, the story doesn't get bogged down or lost in the vocabulary. This one is going to stick with me - in a good way.

[tizzzielish · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A fictional version of a diary by the son of the founder of the ill-fated Delaware settlement, 1699. It is written in the writing style of that day, including those spelling and punctuation conventions. At first the spelling caught my attention, but soon that faded into the background of the story. The protagonist is blind, but learns to read and write on a wax tablet. Much of his recollection is tied to the smells he noticed. I enjoyed the description of the smells and that made the story come alive. I have not read much regarding the history of that period, and found it quite informative. However, I felt the book ended abruptly and felt unfinished.

[tldittmer04 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It is an interesting story of Dutch colonization. I liked that it was told from the perspective of a blind young man.

[aobenhaus_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

At first, I had a hard time getting into this book; however, once I got past the first few pages, I was really interested in the characters. The writing style perplexed me, but just like my initial thoughts, I got over it! This book is not for everyone, but anyone interested in history will love it.