Thursday, December 08, 2016

`Celery is Good for Rheumatism'

Andrew Rickard at Graveyard Masonry has posted some choice offerings from Putnam's Handbook of Expressions, published in 1915. My library doesn’t own a copy but does have Putnam’s Household Handbook (1916), compiled by Mae Savell Croy, who, I note, also authored 1000 Hints on Vegetable Gardening and 1000 Things a Mother Should Know With Reference to Tiny Babies and Growing Children (both 1917). One can think of many reasons for wanting to read a book – amusement, forgetting, remembering – but one reason we literary types frequently disregard is usefulness. I like books that tell me how to do things (field guides, cookbooks, dictionaries), and Croy (b. 1886) is a practical-minded utilitarian. No theorizing here:

“When work is waiting to be done, the busy housewife has not the time to read page after page for a suggestion, and it is with the thought of relieving her strain and not prolonging it, that the idea of this book was first conceived.”

Spare me your objections to “busy housewife.” Croy was writing four years before ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment. That was a different world, and not always a less enlightened world. Croy was no creampuff. Fifty years ago, long after her day, boys in my school took wood shop in seventh grade and girls took home economics. To my knowledge, no one questioned the arrangement. By seventh grade I was already preparing meals for my family, helping with the laundry and completely lost in wood shop. Prose has no sex but Croy’s writing is notably straightforward, uncluttered, precise and confident – putatively masculine qualities. Here are some suggestions from her chapter titled “In the Sick-room”:

“Stew spring onions in coarse brown sugar and take a teaspoonful at night. This will not only produce sleep but is very healthful.”

[I’ve reproduced Croy’s italics, which on occasion are puzzling.]

“Lettuce is good for the nerves.”

“Celery is good for rheumatism.”

“A teaspoonful of salt to a pint of warm water rubbed into weak ankles strengthens them.”

“In cases of illness where hot compresses are needed there is always the danger of burning one’s hands when attempting to wring hot cloths out of boiling water. To avoid this use a potato ricer.”

But for the occasional appearance of such things as potato ricers, Croy’s book has a timeless quality. Seldom does history intrude. Here is a rare exception, also from “In the Sick-room”: “No disturbing news should ever be told to a patient and newspapers with their columns of distressing casualties should be kept out of reach.” World War I had started in 1914. In 1917, the year after Croy’s book was published, the U.S. entered the war in Europe on April 6. 

One can reasonably question some of Croy’s advice, though she writes with the utter confidence of a mathematician or con man: “Gasoline and plaster of Paris mixed together to the consistency of whipped cream will clean feathers beautifully. Dip the feathers in this mixture and press them together. Then hang in the open air until all of the gasoline is evaporated. Do not handle until perfectly dry. Next shake well and the result will be clean and fluffy feathers. White wings can also be treated in this manner.”

Of course, I can remember when most of my grandmother’s hats had feathers on them. Here is a timely Yuletide suggestion: 

“When children are to be around fireworks or candles on a Christmas tree, render their clothing non-inflammable by dipping it into a solution of ammonia phosphate. This is made by dissolving one pound of phosphate in one gallon of cold water. The garment should be soaked in this solution for five minutes, then taken out and allowed to dry, after which it may be worn with perfect safety.”

Wednesday, December 07, 2016

`A Morbid Obsession with the Future'

“Except for a contemporary placard or two, the place conspired to set me dreaming of the good old days I had never known.”

The place is a tavern, almost certainly somewhere in the upper Midwest. It’s a comfortable, unpretentious joint with a masculine patina. Conversation mingles English and German. Men play cards and talk. Strangers are rare. No women are present. Nothing fancy, no ferns or flat-screen televisions. The drink is beer. On the menu is “bread, butter, and a dish of beets.” Present are six characters and the narrator. For the latter, the “good old days” are suggested by “the cloudy mirrors, the grandiose mahogany bar, the tables and chairs ornate with spools and scrollwork . . . and swillish brown paintings, inevitable subjects, fat tippling friars in cellars,” and so forth. It’s the sort of place where H.L. Mencken and our grandfathers might have felt at home.

The author is J.F. Powers. The sentence at the top opens “Renner” in his first collection, Prince of Darkness and Other Stories (1947). I’ve read Powers’ stories many times over the years. His prose and surgical sense of irony bring him as close as an American writer has ever gotten to Evelyn Waugh, while remaining his own man. What surprised me is how inviting I found the setting of “Renner,” even though I no longer drink and rarely step into a tavern. I felt as though I might have written those opening words, including the final twist. Of late, I find myself peculiarly susceptible to fits of nostalgia, even for times and places I have never known. Normally, succumbing to nostalgia for me is repellent. Age-related soft-headedness is probably responsible, as it is for other lapses. But much in the past is valuable and some of it we have lost, whether through forgetting or willful, arrogant demolition. This juggling of respect for the past and distrust of nostalgia is tartly described by Sir Roger Scruton in On Hunting (St. Augustine’s Press, 1998):

“Nostalgia is an unhealthy state of mind. But the study, love and emulation of the past are necessary to our self-understanding. All that has gone most wrong in our century has proceeded from a morbid obsession with the future—a belief in `new dawns’, `revolutionary transformations’, and resurrected nations on the march. The past, unlike the future, can be known, understood and adapted to our current uses. When we cast ourselves free from it, we are swept away by outside forces, adrift on the oceanic tide of happening. The future, which we cannot describe, begins to seem inevitable. This surrender to the unknown persists, despite all the crime and destruction that have been wrought in its name.”

[See also “The Lost Structures of Civility” by Hadley Arkes.] 

Tuesday, December 06, 2016

`I Shall Sit Alone By the Fire'

Aline Murray, another forgotten poet, was born in 1888 in Norfolk, Va. Her father, Kenton C. Murray, was editor of the Norfolk Landmark newspaper and died when she was seven. Murray married Joyce Kilmer, a poet remembered for one poem, in 1908. The couple had five children. The second, Rose Kilburn Kilmer, was born in 1912, contracted polio shortly after birth, and died in 1917.  On July 30, 1918, at age thirty-one, Sgt. Joyce Kilmer was killed by a sniper’s bullet during the Second Battle of Marne.  He was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre and was buried in the Oise-Aisne American Cemetery and Memorial, near Fere-en-Tardenois in Picardy. The Kilmers’ second son, Michael, died at age ten in 1927.

I knew nothing about Aline Kilmer until I began reading about her husband, whose poem I have known for most of my life. In 1919, Aline published her first book of poetry, Candles That Burn, followed three years later by Vigils. Human sympathy demands that we read her poems, and literary rigor demands that we dismiss them. I make no claims for their poetic worth, only that after a century they document losses and grief most of us will never experience. With the biographical information supplied above, her poem “Christmas” (Candles That Burn) becomes almost unspeakably sad:

“`And shall you have a Tree,’ they say,
`Now one is dead and one away?’

“Oh, I shall have a Christmas Tree!
Brighter than ever it shall be;
Dressed out with coloured lights to make
The room all glorious for your sake.
And under the Tree a Child shall sleep
Near shepherds watching their wooden sheep.
Threads of silver and nets of gold,
Scarlet bubbles the Tree shall hold,
And little glass bells that tinkle clear.
I shall trim it alone but feel you near.

“And when Christmas Day is almost done,
When they all grow sleepy one by one,
When Kenton’s books have all been read,
When Deborah’s climbing the stairs to bed,

“I shall sit alone by the fire and see
Ghosts of you both come close to me.
For the dead and the absent always stay
With the one they love on Christmas Day.”

Joyce Kilmer was born on this date, Dec. 6, in 1886. Guy Davenport wrote of Kilmer’s “Trees,” written in 1913: “Almost immediately it became one of the most famous poems in English, the staple of school teachers and the one poem known by practically everybody.” Aline died in 1941 at age fifty-three. I learned “Trees” from Alfalfa.  Go to 13:20 to hear his version.

Monday, December 05, 2016

`Why One Has Been Happy'

Relationships are attenuated in the digital world, with electrons substituting for laughter and derisive snorts, but sensibility, if vibrant and strong, comes through the ether loud and clear. I never met Roger Forseth, a retired English professor of the old school, but sensed that we shared essential values and would have enjoyed each other’s company had we ever met. Most of my dealings with him arrived via his old friend Dave Lull.

From Dave I learned that Roger prepared for sleep each night by alternately reading a letter by Keats or one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He and his late wife annually reread A.J. Liebling’s Between Meals. Roger admired Cowper as man and poet, and had little use for Shelley (a sure sign of robust intellect). His tastes were attractively unpredictable. He favored Beckett, Coleridge (“in my permanent personal anthology”) and Raymond Chandler. Among his favorite novels was Daniel Deronda. When Roger’s wife died in 2013, lines by Keats appeared in the program for her memorial service and on the stone marking the Forseth family plot. Literature counts for nothing if it is not a vital part of life and death.

I remember that Roger, in his church’s newsletter, reviewed Arthur Kirsch’s Auden and Christianity (Yale University Press, 2005). It appears no longer available online, but I recall that Roger especially prized middle-period Auden, such poems as “Horae Canonicae” and “Good-Bye to the Mezzogiorno.” I know nothing of Roger’s spiritual life, and that clearly is none of my business, but I would guess that these lines from the latter poem would please him as a sort of epitaph:

“To bless this region, its vendages, and those
Who call it home: though one cannot always
Remember exactly why one has been happy,
There is no forgetting that one was.”

Roger died on Saturday at age eighty-nine.

Sunday, December 04, 2016

`It Is a Debauch'

Christmas, of course, was invented about 180 years ago by Charles Dickens, and not in A Christmas Carol (1843). No, the honor goes to Chap. XXVIII, “A Good-Humoured Christmas Chapter,” of The Pickwick Papers (1837), a work superior to Scrooge’s morality tale:

“. . . numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight; and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed and happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!”

Dickens here represents the Platonic ideal of Christmas, the impossible template against which all subsequent Yuletide celebrations have been measured and found wanting. Just as Mark Twain blamed the Civil War on Walter Scott, we can blame Christmas on Dickens. Indeed, Christmas might be usefully likened to a species of medieval combat – with fellow shoppers and drivers and, with particular mercilessness, family.  One doesn’t customarily think of George Orwell as a pudding-and-mistletoe sort of guy, but he possessed at least a cultural appreciation of Christmas. Though he goes overboard in the postwar guilt department, on the whole, little more than three years before his death, he offers a realistic appraisal of the midwinter holiday:

“The only reasonable motive for not overeating at Christmas would be that somebody else needs the food more than you do. A deliberately austere Christmas would be an absurdity. The whole point of Christmas is that it is a debauch—as it was probably long before the birth of Christ was arbitrarily fixed at that date.”

This is a healthy-minded and generous secular understanding of the holiday. Christmas ought to be a sort of blowout, but humans being humans, blowouts have a way of turning into trips to the emergency room or police station:

“Children know this very well. From their point of view Christmas is not a day of temperate enjoyment, but of fierce pleasures which they are quite willing to pay for with a certain amount of pain. The awakening at about 4 a.m. to inspect your stockings; the quarrels over toys all through the morning, and the exciting whiffs of mincemeat and sage-and-onions escaping from the kitchen door; the battle with enormous platefuls of turkey, and the pulling of the wishbone; the darkening of the windows and the entry of the flaming plum pudding; the hurry to make sure that everyone has a piece on his plate while the brandy is still alight; the momentary panic when it is rumoured that Baby has swallowed the threepenny bit; the stupor all through the afternoon; the Christmas cake with almond icing an inch thick; the peevishness next morning and the castor oil on December 27th—it is an up-and-down business, by no means all pleasant, but well worth while for the sake of its more dramatic moments.”

This essay and a few others have a way of humanizing Orwell, turning him into just another slob, like us.

Saturday, December 03, 2016

`Adscititious Excellence'

A word that stopped and charmed me: adscititious. I recognized it as rooted in Latin but that, and its context in The Rambler #179, published on this date, Dec. 3, in 1751, were of little help as to its meaning. Here’s the paragraph by Johnson in question:

“It seems therefore to be determined by the general suffrage of mankind, that he who decks himself in adscititious qualities rather purposes to command applause than impart pleasure: and he is therefore treated as a man who, by an unreasonable ambition, usurps the place in society to which he has no right. Praise is seldom paid with willingness even to incontestable merit, and it can be no wonder that he who calls for it without desert is repulsed with universal indignation.”

And here is the OED: “Forming an addition or supplement; not integral.” In other words, inessential, added-on, superfluous -- not a word one would use to characterize Johnson, whose life, for reasons both philosophical and financial, was pared to the elemental. The word reminds us of blather and bombast in politics, gingerbread in architecture, accessorizing in fashion, purple in prose, and we’re back to Johnson’s recurrent theme, vanity. In his own Dictionary, he gives the following definition: “that which is taken in to complete something else, though originally extrinsick [sic]; supplemental; additional.” He seems to have been fond of the word. In The Rambler #155 he uses it again: “He that shall solicit the favour of his patron by praising him for qualities which he can find in himself, will be defeated by the more daring panegyrist who enriches him with adscititious excellence.”

Not that the adscititious is always to be scorned. Art is never strictly utilitarian, and a world without the adscititious would be a duller place. The OED’s first citation dates from 1620, and is taken from Bacon’s Instauratio magna (The Great Restoration): “They therefore called this [motion] perpetual and proper . . .and they called the others adscititious.”

The dictionary’s most recent citation, from 2008, serendipitously lead me to a marvelous bookish find: “Crates of chilly hardware—coffee tins of rusty nails and mismatched bolts and nuts . . . and adscititious crap.” This is from William Davies King’s Collections of Nothing (University of Chicago Press), a wonderful book devoted to King’s own collecting mania and accumulation in general. I’m not a collector, and prefer a Spartan aspect to my surroundings, but as a reporter I always enjoyed writing about people who succumbed to the amassing urge. I met collectors of sand, wood, beer cans and the coins and currency issued by leper colonies. All were unusually learned people, even pedantic within their area of specialization, and eager to share the joys of stockpiling.

Friday, December 02, 2016

`Things Appear More Distinct and Precious'

I bought the day’s New York Times from the newsstand on the first floor of the Albany County Courthouse, and rode the elevator to the third floor where my newspaper had an office. My beat was courts. The room was narrow, shabby, high-ceilinged and dim, and I generally preferred writing in the main office out in the suburbs. It was Dec. 3 and already cold in upstate New York. The steam radiator banged away as usual without producing much heat. I looked at the Times and learned Philip Larkin was dead. I have few site-specific memories of where I was when I’ve learned of the deaths of public figures – JFK, Louis Armstrong, Bill Evans – but none is so detailed in sense impressions as Larkin’s. I remember the cracks in the wall and the checkerboard linoleum.

For an American, my love of Larkin is of longstanding. I knew little of his private life, and nothing revealed since his death has surprised or offended me. We’re big boys and girls, well-versed in our own failings, so nothing human ought to shock us. The publication two years ago of James Booth’s Philip Larkin: Life, Art and Love has helped correct the P.C.-driven post-mortem caricature of the poet that still prevails. “There is, of course, no requirement that poets should be likeable or virtuous,” Booth writes, adding, “Larkin’s negative public image is built neither on his poetry nor on the evidence of those who knew him well.” Read cold and without prejudice, his best poems are evidence of an extraordinarily gifted, witty, sensitive poet and man. If we are honest, we concede that few writers know us so well. In “Larkin’s Voice” (ed. Dale Salwak, Philip Larkin: The Man and His Work, 1989), the American poet X.J. Kennedy gets him just right:

"Unlike the typical American Orphic bard of the moment, Larkin never says, `Behold! I am one hell of a brilliant visionary, and my life is the most important thing in the world – admire me, damn you, or die.’ By contrast, the voice of Larkin, modest and clear and scrupulous, is that of a man who sees himself as just a bit silly. . . . In the end, I think, we love Larkin for admitting to a quality we recognize in ourselves – a certain dull contentment with our lives, for all their ignobility.”

I remember reading Leonard Garment’s memoir Crazy Rhythm not long after it was published in 1997. As a young man he had played tenor saxophone and clarinet in Woody Herman’s band, but is remembered as an adviser to President Nixon, and his special counsel during the final two years of his administration. That a professional jazz musician (and a Democrat) could eventually advise a troubled president is sufficient reason to read his book, but Garment’s closing paragraphs are what I remember best. I’ll transcribe them without context:

“All of us were aging; but all of us were made happy, for a moment immortal, by the sense of completeness and love in the house.

“Philip Larkin had something to say about this [Garment quotes “Long Sight In Age”]:

“`They say eyes clear with age,
As dew clarifies air
To sharpen evenings,
As if time put an edge
Round the last shape of things
To show them there;
The many-levelled trees,
The long soft tides of grass
Wrinkling away the gold
Wind-ridden waves- all these,
They say, come back to focus
As we grow old.’

“In the middle of the journey, as Larkin knew more than most, we find ourselves in dark woods where the right path seems lost. But even so melancholy a poet saw for a prophetic moment that at the end of the confusion there is sometimes a clearing in whose sunlight things appear more distinct and precious than ever before.”

Larkin died on this date, Dec. 2, in 1985.