Posted on by rjonakait

It Was Evening All Afternoon

         It was evening all afternoon. 

          It was snowing 

          And it was going to snow. 

          The blackbird sat 

          In the cedar-limbs. 

Wallace Stevens 

When I change my opinion, I applaud my open mindedness and willingness and ability to learn from experience. But I realize that sometimes the changed mind has come because I have fallen out of touch with the circumstances that helped create the original opinion. Take winter, for example. 

I only knew Wisconsin winters growing up. The family could not afford to travel to warmer climes for even a break in the January or February weather. (I had only left Wisconsin once before going off to college and that was to some sort of church retreat just barely into Illinois. Three hours each way crammed into the back of a Rambler to see people I did not know in some obscure small town did not give me a taste for travel.) 

Did I regard the Wisconsin winters as harsh? Not really. It was all I knew, and I also knew from looking at the newspaper page that printed the temperatures from around the country that winter was colder elsewhere. Indeed, Lake Michigan, a few blocks away from the house, gave Sheboygan a bit of a maritime climate moderating winter weather. Madison, a few degrees of latitude south but nowhere near the great lake, had colder temperatures. And if I really wanted to cheer myself up, I would look up the weather in Minneapolis or Fargo. Now those places really had winter. 

It was only when I went off to college in New Jersey that I began to realize that the seasons, even in the Northern climes, had different meanings in different places. Spring was a delight in New Jersey. It came weeks earlier than I had experienced. It was not just a time of mud from the remaining melting snowbanks. The snow had disappeared before winter had ended. I was seeing New Jersey flowers when Wisconsin still had slush. 

When I moved to New York City I would hear weather reports that would say a winter cold front was a coming bringing “frigid” or “Arctic” temperatures. They were forecasting temperatures that might be eighteen or even fifteen degrees. And then I would scoff. The historical highs for the coldest times of the year in New York City are about thirty-nine degrees with a low of twenty-seven. By contrast, the average low at the end of January where I grew up was fifteen degrees. What was “Arctic” in NYC was just an ordinary morning in Sheboygan. Thus the scoffing. Since I was only a decade away from those Wisconsin mornings, those reasonably fresh memories made the cold of New York winters easy to endure.  

When it snowed in New York, I again thought of my boyhood. I was raised in a modest house on a modest lot, but that modest lot was sixty feet across. That meant shoveling sixty feet of snow from the front sidewalk. But wait, there was more. There was the walk from that sidewalk to our front door, perhaps ten feet and then the porch had to be cleared. And the walk to the backdoor had to be shoveled. It was narrower than the front sidewalk, but at least as long. Then there was the path from the backdoor to the freestanding garage, perhaps twenty feet. And, of course, the driveway had to be shoveled, and that was wide and might have been eighty feet long. I don’t pretend I ever did this by myself. It was a family affair, but after a heavy snowfall, it seemed also to be an all-day affair.  

It was much easier in Brooklyn. Of course, with the higher average temperatures in New York City, precipitation that would have been Wisconsin snow was Brooklyn rain. In addition, however, our row house is twenty-five feet wide. A front stoop which abuts the front sidewalk also has to be cleared, as does a space, perhaps ten feet square outside the lower door. A relative piece of cake that I actually enjoyed doing because the end point, even with the first couple of shovelfuls, always seemed near. 

The snow not only seemed easy to clear, I loved the aftermath of a snowstorm in New York. Although we live in what I consider to be a quiet neighborhood, heavy snow stopped almost all traffic, and the neighborhood then seemed to belong just to me and the neighbors. After a winter storm, a different kind of light settled over the city than at other times, one that brought on a sense of peacefulness. That light and the absence of traffic caused us few pedestrians to treat each other reverentially as if we were the deepest friends on a meditative retreat. A nippy wind may have made cheeks rosy, but stomping on and over the banks of still pristine snow warmed the body as well as the heart. These were the kind of days where I was thrilled that there was a winter and that I was in it. I could relate to what Alexander Pushkin (James E. Falen, translator) wrote in Eugene Onegin: “And all the hilltops soft and glowing/ With winter’s brilliant rug of snow—/ The world all fresh and white below.” 

I admit, however, that, while I can still appreciate the crystal-clear sky of a winter blue that January can bring, I now simply tolerate it. Life has changed. Over time the spouse became more dependent on car travel for work and pleasure, and we park our car on the street. The car has to be dug out to go anywhere after a heavy snow, and finding a dug-out parking space upon return has become harder and harder with more cars in the neighborhood.  

And I, of course, have gotten further and further away from my childhood experiences. While thirty degrees was a nice winter day and twenty degrees is what I could expect most mornings as a kid, that was a long, long time ago. Now below freezing always seems cold and ten degrees below freezing is frigid to this aged body. And snow shoveling no longer produces the sense of accomplishment it once did. It’s just a chore. 

Even so, I don’t have fantasies of living in a warm climate all the time. I do want, however, what I can’t have. I want winter, but I want it to start the week before Christmas and end January 31. Six weeks of winter with cold clear air and some pristine snow that I know will soon disappear is what I want. 

          One must have a mind of winter 

          To regard the frost and the boughs 

          Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;  . . . 

          For the listener, who listens in the snow, 

          And, nothing himself, beholds 

          Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. 

Wallace Stevens  

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Seeking a Song’s Meaning (continued)

While the accommodations and the surroundings at the Retreat Center of Manhattan’s Trinity Church were a pleasant bonus, we were assembled there (some 30 of us) for the weekend to examine the Biblical Song of Songs and related poems. We had an introductory session on Friday evening. The leader asked our names and where we were from, but also why we were there and about our spirituality. I was third to speak and a bit nervous since I could hardly claim religious fervor of any kind. I said that I read the Bible some and that I hoped that the weekend might help me understand poetry better. I continued by saying that I identified neither as religious or spiritual, and that a question of my spirituality just seemed irrelevant to me. No outcries of disgust or amazed looks followed. Whether with tolerance, understanding, or politeness, my comments seemed accepted. More than that, the eighth speaker said that she identified with and was adopting my comments.

It turned out that others were not connected to the church and only some were what I would describe as a “seeker.” Six women came as a group and seemed mostly interested in comradeship. Some of the others were regular churchgoers, and several were Trinity clergy. Even so, there was little formal religiosity. Of course, meals and sessions were preceded by prayers, but there was no formal or informal proselytizing. Optional evening and morning prayer services were offered.

The retreaters’ common thread was an interest in the topic; everyone sought a better understanding of a Book of the Bible. And all were sharp, maybe even perspicacious. When I have had occasion to travel on a group tour, there is always someone along who is the group idiot — a buffoon, or an ignoramus who might say something such as, “You mean to tell me there is a North and a South Korea.” This was not true at the retreat. Every comment about what we read — and almost every person spoke at some point — was not only sensible but worth pondering.

Our study sessions started on Saturday morning. We were fortunate, or should I say blessed, to be led by Nate Wall, soon to get his doctorate from a Toronto institution. His dissertation is on John Donne, but his expertise on the Hebrew Bible was what was most valuable for us.

He would start each session with a short prayer, give a brief background about the topic, and ask a question to get the discussion going. Nate did not have a lectern, which would not have contained him. As he talked, he took two steps forward, rocked on his heels, then a step back, paused, a step to the left, another step back. As he talked, his eyes were alive looking for anyone who wanted to say something. When someone did, his gaze did not waver from them, and he stood still and listened. He then seamlessly incorporated those comments into the flow of the discussion.

He made it seem easy, but I know it is not. I have done similar things in court, law school classes, and community forums. It requires the ability to listen, and few people truly have that. The mind must stay focused on what is being said and not wander even for an instant. The leader must have tremendous control of the subject matter to incorporate comments into the discussion. Flexibility is required. The leader cannot have a rigid notion of how the session should proceed because the questions and comments will always take it somewhere else. The leader must be equable and remain enthusiastic. A good sense of humor is often needed. And it is useful if, like Nate, the leader never says an um or its equivalent.

Nate was as good a discussion leader as I have seen. With his knowledge, ability, enthusiasm, infectious smile, and curly hair, I could see future college students developing a crush on him. The crushes, however, would go unrequited. Nate’s lovely wife Julia was also at the retreat. Almost eight months pregnant, she was even more attractive than Nate. An ordained Canadian Baptist minister, she worked for a Baptist nonprofit. The love between the two of them was almost a field force. The admiring looks from one to the other gave me a warm smile. I am often cynical, but Julia and Nate made me think that the future could be good.

In preparation for the retreat, I read Song of Songs a few days before we got there. This much was clear: it was a love poem. I know that I do not have a good appreciation of poetry. I may feel the aptness, power, or beauty of a single line or image, but I almost never enjoy or appreciate an entire poem. Poetry, it too often seems, must be approached as a puzzle but with no one solution or right answer. Any satisfaction I get does not seem to be worth the trouble. I read and stumble and then conclude that I don’t really care what Yeats or Auden is saying.

For years, I was fascinated with Pound and thought I might write about his imprisonment, trial, and hospitalization. I read books and articles about him, but I thought that to write well about him I should have some appreciation or at least understanding of his poetry. I started reading the Cantos and quickly concluded I was not going to be writing about Ezra.

As one fascinated by Brooklyn and Manhattan and beyond, I thought Whitman was a natural for me. I tried. A few lines stood out, but I soon became bored. Of course, I have enjoyed some Dickinson, and to my surprise, I seem to feel something significant when I read Wallace Stevens, but don’t ask me to explain what I have read. Only rarely do I “get” poetry.

(continued January 30)

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Snippets

“The unvaccinated are losers.” Ascribed to Aaron Rodgers.

“The unvaccinated just don’t play.” Ascribed to Novak Djokovic.

“The unvaccinated eat wherever.” Ascribed to Sarah Palin.

Ever since I learned the meaning of nescience about a decade ago, I have wished to use it but have not. If, however, I met Aaron, Novak, or Sarah, I would hope to have the opportunity to say, “I marvel at the extent of your nescience.”

Mitch McConnell recently said, “If you look at the statistics, African-American voters are voting in just as high a percentage as Americans.” The search, so far unsuccessful, began immediately to find a Trump supporter who found this offensive. And curiosity is now rampant as to how McConnell will describe Hispanic voting rates.

I just got on my computer an ad on how to block ads. You can make up a punchline.

The Lunar New Year began yesterday—the Year of the Tiger. I was happy to learn that I should not clean my place during the first few days of the New Year—“lest you want to sweep luck away.” I am pleased to report that I have much luck stored up. The dust bunnies look so fierce that this year I have anointed them dust tigers.

New York City had its first major winter storm of the season. During it, I did what I usually do during such an event. I turned to Wallace Stevens and read:

          It was evening all afternoon.

          It was snowing

          And it was going to snow.

          The blackbird sat

          In the cedar-limbs.

Now I have added “The Snow Man” to my ritual reading of “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”:

          One must have a mind of winter

          To regard the frost and the boughs

          Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;  . . .

          For the listener, who listens in the snow,

          And, nothing himself, beholds

          Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I wish I understood that.

Posted on by rjonakait

Snippets

Talk all you want about Tom Brady, LeBron James, or Mike Trout, but isn’t Mikaela Shiffrin the best American athlete competing today? Or is it Simone Biles?

With all the hospital mergers, institutions end up with strange and seemingly impossible names. Thus, not far from me is the New York-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital.

          On a diet, one is supposed to eat slowly. So, at the farmer’s market seafood stand, I bought my diet food—oysters. It takes me fifteen minutes to open each one.

          How often in the coming years do you think Ivanka and Jared will socialize with people who unironically wear MAGA hats?

Although I don’t like to be out in one, I like to hear the term because it sounds poetic: Wintry mix.

We had a winter storm, which raises the questions for boys of all ages: Can you write your name in the snow? Sometimes it is better to be Bob than Randolph.

“It was evening all afternoon/It was snowing/And it was going to snow./The blackbird sat/In the cedar-limbs.” Wallace Stevens.

I read online an article from The Federalist. At the bottom of the article, it said: “The Federalist, a wholly independent division of FDRLST Media.” Can it be “wholly independent” and a division of a larger company? Perhaps someone can explain to me what “wholly independent” means.

Sometimes I am surprised at a lacuna in the spouse’s knowledge. She does not know who Aaron Rodgers is. That prevented me from discussing with her the burning topic of whether he is overrated.

At my age, an aphorism that no longer applies: “A pessimist is a man who thinks all women are bad; an optimist hopes they are.”

Overheard on an elevator at the Whitney Museum, this truism and puzzler: one young man social distancing from another, said, “Taking care of your mother while she dies is an opportunity of a lifetime.”

I did not sleep well on the night before a stress test necessary for an important medical procedure. I had discomfort in my lower abdomen with an occasional sharp pain. As I lay in bed, I convinced myself that I had a kidney stone. My mind raced. Should I go to the emergency room? Maybe the stone would pass naturally with a bit of pain and blood. Did I know of a doctor to go to? Did the spouse? Could I postpone my scheduled stress test? Would this postpone my valve replacement? Surely, I had to deal with the kidney stone first. Finally, I fell asleep but fifty minutes later I was awake again with a racing mind. What should I do about the kidney stone? How do I cancel my heart procedure appointment? Finally, back to sleep again but awake an hour later. So it went all night long until I finally got up to go up to the hospital for the test, and the worries about the kidney stone dissipated. I came to the convincing, and loud, conclusion that it was only gas.