Daniels Explores Rustbelt Childhood in An Ignorance of Trees

In his first nonfiction book, An Ignorance of Trees, touted as a “memoir in essays,” author Jim Daniels seeks to upend that old saw — “You can’t go home again” — by returning to his Rust Belt roots in Warren, Michigan. It’s an act borne of the nostalgia and reflection that comes with age and proves irresistible to a writer of Daniels’ stature who has published more than 20 books of poetry and fiction, including the short story, “No Pets,” made into a film by Braddock’s Tony Buba in 1994.

He revisits that theme of pet ownership in the chapter, “Dog / Dog,” that begins with him sharing, “The Voice of Bugle Ann was the first book to make me cry. … I don’t remember anything about the book except being surprised by my own tears.” The nature of memoir necessarily hangs both on its turn of phrase and the vulnerability of the writer. Told through extended montage, Daniels doesn’t hold back on the relatable moments, from cleaning up after his first pet, Prince, to being jumped on by an unleashed German Shepherd in Schenley Park, to a “Mutley” neglected by his South Oakland neighbors. When his wife, writer Kristin Kovacic, tries to cheer up an emotionally struggling Daniels with a puppy, readers will hope for the impossible: a happy ending. Instead, Daniels shares, “It was my fault. I had often spoken of both my idealized love for Prince — the comfort dogs provided, the pure simple love — and of my guilty regrets about Jake, how not being mature enough to take good care of him was one of my big failures.” It’s a chapter that’ll leave dog owners searching for the nearest canine ear to scratch.

The essays throughout An Ignorance … succeed because of how woven places and people become, but also because they linger on the tangible that grow into the “transcendent.” In “Swing Set: The Giant’s Footsteps,” Daniels explores the post-World War II idyll of the suburbs built among the factories of his beloved Warren, “the third-largest city in the state despite having no trees, no swimming pool, no trampoline, no statuary, and very little grass.” From the decay that eventually takes it over to the exhilaration of jumping from a swing at its apex, Daniels’ rickety, cement-footed set comes to embody “the happiest moments of my childhood.” It also allows the reader to consider the hidden costs: a blue-collar world of auto-factory jobs that’ll grow obsolete, much like the “dangerous” playground equipment that left “a smell of rust … still in our blood — not visible to the naked eye, but something coursing through us. An attitude that appreciates the flight as much as the fall.”

The title piece comes with a confession, as Daniels states, “I know the names of more cars than trees.” For a kid from Motor City, he knew the score: “We either surrounded the auto plants or they surrounded us.” With streets named after mile markers, “trees [became] inconsequential. Unless you happened to slide off the road on black ice and wrap your car around one.” The chapter grounds the book, allowing his childhood neighborhood to grow as a silent character, shaping Daniels in ways he doesn’t realize until later. It’s also a chance for him to add to his father’s legacy as a recurring figure, imbued with a quiet patience embodied by the elder Daniels’ willfulness in his attempts at the arborical, among other things. “Our house became legendary in its own way. No one will ever know why the trees in our yard died, but they always did, one at a time, all planted stubbornly in the same place. … Just when we thought he’d given up the fight, he’d show up some miscellaneous Saturday with yet another tree from Frank’s Nursery hanging out of the trunk with a red flag tied to it.”

A few lines from the essay “Drought” might sum up the subject matter Daniels continues to mine, in both An Ignorance … and in a literary career spent appreciating those who’ve left an impression: “The cast of characters from the rest of my life are waiting outside for the doors to open so that they can come in and get the best seats, or stand for the entire thing, depending — though I am no rock star. I’m just saying I had a life between then and now.”