Friday, April 28, 2017
Thurs., March 7, 1935 - We had rice for hot lunch, and one kettleful was scorched a little! Mr. Niemann fixed the recitation bench and extra seat after school. Went to bed early.
Fri., March 8, 1935 - Made final plans on lunch for party next Friday. Mr. Goodling took me to town after school. Went to lodge tonite. We had a paper bag lunch. Uncle Hans and Lillie at home this eve.
Sat., March 9, 1935 - Sunshiny and rather warm. Went down town this afternoon. Went to bed at 9:30.
Everything old is new again? I've noticed over the past years that educators are again recognizing the benefits of memorizing. As only one example of what's out there on the topic, I found this at the newyorker.com:
Much of our daily lives would be dizzyingly unrecognizable to people living a hundred years ago: what we wear and what we eat, how we travel, how we communicate, how we while away our leisure time. But, surely, our occasional attempts to memorize a poem would feel familiar to them—those inhabitants of a heyday of verse memorization. Little has changed. They, too, in committing a poem to memory, underwent a predictable gamut of frustrations: the pursuit of stubbornly elusive phrases, the inner hammering of rote repetition, tantalizing tip-of-the-tongue stammerings, confident forward marches that finish in an abrupt amnesiac’s cul-de-sac.
Actually, if the process has altered over the years, perhaps we feel the difficulties of the task more acutely than our ancestors did. As a college professor of writing and literature, I regularly impose memorization assignments, and I’m struck by how burdensome my students typically find them. Give them a full week to memorize any Shakespeare sonnet (“Hey,” I tell them, “pick a really famous one—Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?—and you’ve already got the first line down”), and a number of them will painfully falter. They’re not used to memorizing much of anything.
In what would have been my prime recitation years had I been born in an earlier era—junior high and high school—little memorization was required of me. But in early boyhood I did a fair amount of it. My mother, who had literary ambitions, paid me a penny a line to memorize poems. The first one I mastered was Tennyson’s “The Eagle” (“He clasps the crag with crooked hands”), which brought in a haul of six cents. Opportunistically, I moved on to the longer “Casey at the Bat” (“It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day”) and Byron’s “The Destruction of Sennacherib” (whose title I mispronounced for decades), which netted me fifty-two cents and twenty-four cents respectively. Some Longfellow, some Frost. I straggled through Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan” and enough of his “The Ancient Mariner” to purchase a couple of candy bars.
It sounds whimsical and entertaining now, but I suspect some dead-serious counsel lay behind my mother’s beaming encouragement. I think she was tacitly saying, “Stick with poetry—that’s where the money is.”
It’s tempting to sentimentalize an era in which poetry—memorized, recited poetry—held so prominent a place in the culture. But its once-substantial role turns out to be a mixed and complicated tale, as thoroughly chronicled in Catherine Robson’s new “Heart Beats: Everyday Life and the Memorized Poem.” Reared in England, now a professor at N.Y.U., Robson compares classroom procedures in Britain and the United States during the years when recitation held a sizeable and official slot in the curriculum (roughly 1875 to 1950). The rationales for verse recitation were many and sometimes mutually contradictory: to foster a lifelong love of literature; to preserve the finest accomplishments in the language down the generations; to boost self-confidence through a mastery of elocution; to help purge the idioms and accents of lower-class speech; to strengthen the brain through exercise; and so forth. And the construction of a canon—the choice of which poems ought to be assigned to students at various grade levels—grew out of a collision of nationalistic zeal, piety, commercial enterprise (the success or failure of various competitive “readers”—what we would call textbooks), thoughtless imitation, and a fair amount of what looks like happenstance.
Robson grounds her book with three “case studies.” (She occasionally takes on a dry, clinical tone.) The first is Felicia Hemans’s “Casabianca,” a poem that survives today largely as a first line (“The boy stood on the burning deck”), with a vague suspicion that what follows has often been parodied. (Poor Tom Sawyer was afflicted by it in the classroom.) The second may be the most celebrated of eighteenth-century English poems, Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” The third is a poem previously unknown to me, Charles Wolfe’s charming ballad “The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna.” Each poem was at one time universally embraced, both by society and by educators.
“The Burial of Sir John Moore” has a likably homespun texture and offers, from a pedagogical standpoint, a salutary lesson about the triumph of courage over grandeur. (General Moore died, in 1809, in Spain, while leading his troops to a magnificent long-shot victory over the French, and his last words were, “I hope my country will do me justice.” Military exigency did not allow time for a suitable burial—a lack for which the poem seeks to indemnify him.) But the other two poems look like extremely peculiar candidates for widespread memorization. The forty-line “Casabianca,” which was put to memory by countless pre-adolescents, is grotesquely grisly: it tells the tale of a boy sailor who, while prudence is shouting at him to beat a hasty retreat, dutifully remains at his post (“he would not go / Without his Father’s word; / That father, faint in death below, / His voice no longer heard”), and, as a consequence, is blown to smithereens. As for Gray’s lovely, leisurely, dusky elegy, nothing much happens in its hundred and twenty-eight lines, and, as a result, his many scene-setting stanzas are easily confused and transposed by the would-be memorizer; to hold it all in one’s head is a somewhat perverse feat, like those jigsaw-puzzle aficionados who, finding their task insufficiently challenging, put the puzzle together face-side-down.
Though “Casabianca” and “The Burial of Sir John Moore” are actually nineteenth-century poems, they partake of that misty, moss-and-granite melancholy one associates with those of Gray’s contemporaries known as the Graveyard Poets (or the Boneyard Boys). These were a pallid bunch, for whom cemeteries were what bars and brothels would be for many French poets of the nineteenth century—a comfy home away from home. They were continually reminding us that we all have one foot in the grave. It’s a weighty burden to drop on the scrawny shoulders of some ten-year-old boy or girl, standing hunched and terrified before a scowling, correction-bent teacher.
My late colleague Joseph Brodsky, who died in 1996, used to appall his students by requiring them to memorize something like a thousand lines each semester. He felt he was preparing them for the future; they might need such verses later in life. His own biography provided a stirring example of the virtues of mental husbandry. He’d been grateful for every scrap of poetry he had in his head during his enforced exile in the Arctic, banished there by a Soviet government that did not know what to do with his genius and that, in a symbolic embrace of a national policy of brain drain, expelled him from the country in 1972.
Brodsky was a nonpareil in various ways, not least in being the only teacher I knew who continued to smoke during class as the air-purifying nineties rolled around. He loved to recite poetry. The words emerged through smoke, and a thick Russian accent, but the conviction and import were unmistakable: to take a poem to heart was to know it by heart.
I’m struck by how, in the seventeen years since his death, the meaning and justifications for verse memorization have shifted. The effort in its acquisition may be the same, but we’d be naïve to suppose the necessity behind it is unaltered.
Memorized poems are a sort of larder, laid up against the hungers of an extended period of solitude. But today we are far less solitary than we were even a few years ago. Anyone equipped with a smartphone—many of my friends would never step outdoors without one—commands a range of poetry that beggars anything the brain can store. Let’s say it’s a gorgeous afternoon in October. You’re walking through a park, and you wish to recall—but can’t quite summon—the opening lines of Keats’ “To Autumn.” With a quick tap-tap-tap, you have it on your screen. You’re back in the nineteenth century, but you’re also in the twenty-first, where machine memory regularly supplants and superannuates brain memory.
So why undergo the laborious process of memorizing a poem these days, when—tap, tap, tap—you have it at your fingertips? Has this become another outmoded practice? When I was a Boy Scout, in the sixties, I spent some hours trying to learn Morse code and even, on a couple of overly sunny, headachey afternoons, trying to communicate by flag semaphore. Some things were meant to disappear. (And many of my students wish that assignments to memorize poems would follow them.)
The best argument for verse memorization may be that it provides us with knowledge of a qualitatively and physiologically different variety: you take the poem inside you, into your brain chemistry if not your blood, and you know it at a deeper, bodily level than if you simply read it off a screen. Robson puts the point succinctly: “If we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat.”
After all this time, I still have every word of Tennyson’s “Eagle.” He’s a literal part of me, which perhaps accounts for his splendid supremacy in my imagination. No other bird I’ve encountered in poems since—not Keats’ nightingale, or Hardy’s thrush, or Frost’s oven bird, or Clampitt’s kingfisher—can compete with him, roosting as he does in an aerie at the top of the world. Here’s the poem in entirety:
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Six cents. It was a cheap thrill, and an everlasting one.
WHY WE SHOULD MEMORIZE
By Brad Leithauser January 25, 2013
(I must admit, I am not familiar with what may be the most celebrated of eighteenth-century English poems. I will have to look that one up with a tap-tap-tap - MJS)
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Mon., March 4, 1935 - Rained today. Howard came after me to practice at south school. We're giving the play with a dance afterward at Carroll tomorrow nite. I hope we have a good crowd.
Tues., March 5, 1935 - Colder today. Went to Carroll about 6:30. Didn't have a very good crowd, cleared about $11. Mr. Goodling left a note saying that at the school meeting tonite Irene and I got our schools again at same salary.
Wed., March 6, 1935 - Snowed today. Quite tired today. Mr. F. Niemann visited school the last period, fixed map case. Howard came about 5:00 and took me to town. The whole family glad I got my school again! So am I!
Good news all around, it seems. Grandma had to keep that good news a whole day before going home and telling everyone she got her school again. How times have changed. News is nearly instantaneous any more.
Can anyone else hear Aunt Irene's laugh by just looking at that picture?
Monday, April 24, 2017
Fri., March 1, 1935 - Gave our play at the south school tonite. Building was packed. Took in $25 and cleared about $18. Could have sold more pie and ice cream.
Sat., March 2, 1935 - Slept late this morning. Annie and kids here this afternoon. Was invited to a shower for Edna N. but too tired to go. Stopped to see Mayme on way down town tonite.
Sun., March 3, 1935 - To S.S. and church. Rained this afternoon and evening. Howard took me to Goodlings tonite.
Using an inflation calculator, I quickly determined (or rather it was determined for me by one click) that $18 equates to approximately $320 today. Not bad, not bad.
Grandma must have been really, really tired to pass up a shower. It seems like something she would normally go to. I do not know if it was a bridal or baby shower, but for some reason I am thinking baby showers as such are a more recent phenomenon*. So, I will pretend for the purposes of this blog post that it was a bridal shower.
My good buddy Wikipedia tells me:
"A bridal shower is a gift-giving party held for a bride-to-be in anticipation of her wedding. The custom originated in the 1890s and is today most common in the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. The history of the custom is rooted not necessarily for the provision of goods for the upcoming matrimonial home, but to provide goods and financial assistance to ensure the wedding may take place."
The first part of that I knew, the last I did not.
Also, from Wikipedia:
"The custom of the bridal shower is said to have grown out of earlier dowry practises, when a poor woman's family might not have the money to provide a dowry for her, or when a father refused to give his daughter her dowry because he did not approve of the marriage. In such situations, friends of the woman would gather together and bring gifts that would compensate for the dowry and allow her to marry the man of her choice.
A related custom practiced in medieval England was the Bride Ale. This was a feast held before the wedding day, at which the bride made beer and sold it to the guests at a high price."
And paraphrasing part of the article: the term "shower" may derive from the custom in Victorian times for the presents to be put inside a parasol, which when opened would "shower" the bride-to-be with gifts.
*Yep, I was correct. "The modern baby shower started after WWII during the baby boom era and evolved with the consumer ideology of 1950s and 1960s. In other words it served an economic function by providing the mother-to-be with material goods that lessened the financial burden of infant care."
Friday, April 21, 2017
Tues., February 26, 1935 - Warmer today, thawed some. To practice at South school with Walkers and Howard. Put up stage. Howard went back to Pete's again tonite.
Wed., February 27, 1935 - Warm and thawing today. Marjorie C. treated with homemade candy for her birthday. Practice again. Vaudeville entertainers there tonite. Howard went to Pete's again.
Thurs., February 28, 1935 - We had mashed potatoes and macaroni for hot lunch. Dress rehearsal tonite. Went to practice with Walkers and Howard.
I looked it up and little Marjorie was 7 years old in 1935. I thought I had a photo of when she was a young girl, but after several days of thinking and looking and finding nothing suitable, I am going with the above photo of the Christensen family; Marjorie, Jean, Pete, Margaret and Allen. A fine looking bunch.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Sat., February 23, 1935 - Lovely spring day. Mr. & Mrs. Max Ehlers and Clara from Beemer and Mrs. Anna Reiche of Fremont came this p.m. to visit the folks. Went down town this afternoon. Early to bed tonite.
Sun., February 24, 1935 - Didn't go to S.S. or church. Snowy all day, a real blizzard by nite. Howard came after me to practice at South school this p.m., had supper at Iversens and then Howard brought me here.
Mon., February 25, 1935 - Cold and windy. Walkers came after me before I was through with supper. Howard came home with us and went to Pete's to help butcher tomorrow.
I am drawing a blank as to who the Ehlers and Mrs. Reiche are.
And is our best guess the Pete named here Pete Christensen?
More questions than answers today.
I am short on time and will not check to see if I've used this photo recently. If I haven't -- enjoy. If I have -- enjoy it a second time.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Wed., February 20, 1935 - Practiced or rather went through all three acts tonite.
Thurs., February 21, 1935 - Practiced again tonite. Today is Helen's birthday. She made coffee on the oil stove and served cupcakes to us.
Fri., February 22, 1935 - Kids gave a Washington & Lincoln program this p.m. during drawing period. Practiced at N. School. Went to Ferne and Arnold Eckert's charvari dance at Hoskins afterward. Iversen kids and I went with Ray.
I wanted to post this last week, but the new-to-me stash of photographs from Mom was where I was not and I couldn't scan these wonderful pics of the lovely Aunt Helen. And I did not want to post without them. I am glad she was identified as the little girl. I certainly recognize her in the photo on the right, but would not have known who the little girl was without Grandma's notation on the back.