My father has this annoying little ditty that he feels compelled to repeat each spring:
"Spring has sprung, the grass is rise, I wonder where all the flowers is?"
This, apparently, encapsulates the total wisdom my family has accumulated over the ages, to be passed down from generation to generation. So as my grandfather annoyed my father with this, so too, in the timeless way of generational baton passing, must my father regale me with this gem - accompanied, of course, by a few uncontrollable chuckles and snarfs. We live hundreds of miles apart nowadays, but the wonders of modern technology make it very easy for my father to nevertheless carry on this tradition. The phone rings, I see the number on the caller ID, and it's roughly April, so I know it's coming. Alas, who am I stand in the way of family heirlooms? I answer, and grimace.
But it is indeed spring, and things are indeed springing, including the crocuses in my front garden. These little guys are pretty hearty, having poked up a bit early only to endure a thick frost for the effort. I also note the irises are coming up as well, though they haven't flowered yet. (I'm completely sympathetic. I myself am a wake-up-at-the-crack-of-noon type of guy.) All of this is to say that with spring and new beginnings, I want to take this long-neglected blog in a new direction. I am going to take some of Robert Frost's poetry on a regular basis and use it as inspiration to talk about some aspect of life in these New Hampshires. Now, I am not an English major so don't expect some deep analysis about how Frost used mackerel as a symbol for his sexual frustration or anything like that; I'll just use it as a starting point to wander off and talk about some interesting tidbit about New Hampshire that I've noticed. Frost is ideal for this kind of thing because, well, I just plain enjoy his poetry, but also because Frost himself was really an urbanized southern New Englander who tried hard to become a rural New Hampshirite. His quest to fit in to the unique culture of this state included, according to the guides at the museum in his former farm in Derry, NH, secretly listening in to his neighbors' party phone line conversations for hours to try to nail down the New Hampshire accent. So I sympathize with Frost; I love this state and call it home, but will never be a true "native." (Frost, BTW, eventually moved to Vermont. Quitter.)
So that's the plan. I'll give it a whirl, and see if I end up having my home fire bombed by horrified English teachers or if I'll be sued by Frost's surviving relatives.
Showing posts with label robert frost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label robert frost. Show all posts
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Spring in New Hampshire
My father has this annoying little ditty that he feels compelled to repeat each spring:
"Spring has sprung, the grass is rise, I wonder where all the flowers is?"
This, apparently, encapsulates the total wisdom my family has accumulated over the ages, to be passed down from generation to generation. So as my grandfather annoyed my father with this, so too, in the timeless way of generational baton passing, must my father regale me with this gem - accompanied, of course, by a few uncontrollable chuckles and snarfs. We live hundreds of miles apart nowadays, but the wonders of modern technology make it very easy for my father to nevertheless carry on this tradition. The phone rings, I see the number on the caller ID, and it's roughly April, so I know it's coming. Alas, who am I stand in the way of family heirlooms? I answer, and grimace.
But it is indeed spring, and things are indeed springing, including the crocuses in my front garden. These little guys are pretty hearty, having poked up a bit early only to endure a thick frost for the effort. I also note the irises are coming up as well, though they haven't flowered yet. (I'm completely sympathetic. I myself am a wake-up-at-the-crack-of-noon type of guy.) All of this is to say that with spring and new beginnings, I want to take this long-neglected blog in a new direction. I am going to take some of Robert Frost's poetry on a regular basis and use it as inspiration to talk about some aspect of life in these New Hampshires. Now, I am not an English major so don't expect some deep analysis about how Frost used mackerel as a symbol for his sexual frustration or anything like that; I'll just use it as a starting point to wander off and talk about some interesting tidbit about New Hampshire that I've noticed. Frost is ideal for this kind of thing because, well, I just plain enjoy his poetry, but also because Frost himself was really an urbanized southern New Englander who tried hard to become a rural New Hampshirite. His quest to fit in to the unique culture of this state included, according to the guides at the museum in his former farm in Derry, NH, secretly listening in to his neighbors' party phone line conversations for hours to try to nail down the New Hampshire accent. So I sympathize with Frost; I love this state and call it home, but will never be a true "native." (Frost, BTW, eventually moved to Vermont. Quitter.)
So that's the plan. I'll give it a whirl, and see if I end up having my home fire bombed by horrified English teachers or if I'll be sued by Frost's surviving relatives.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Road Well-Trampled: Writers in New Hampshire
What is it about this state that makes a guy (or gal) whip out a pen and start writing? Mind you, as I've always maintained, New Hampshire is one of the most beautiful states in the Union, so the New Hampshire-as-Muse is at least partially understandable, but still -- this place is absolutely crawling with writers (which in some circumstances can be understood to mean, "competition"). It's probably sufficient for publishers when they receive a manuscript to see that it's post-marked New Hampshire; "This one's a shoe-in. Publish it!" Do northern Yankee farmers have some hidden well of angst somewhere beneath their granite, beating hearts that compels them to grab paper and quill and start pumping out prescient prose and poetry -- or, in the case of native New Hampshirites Adam Sandler and Sarah Silverman, fart jokes? in England, farmers go mad and start faking alien crop circles in their fields, but in New Hampshire, they start writing haiku about stone walls. I, myself, am a victim of the New Hampshire muse, having already penned a book and planning for more, but I'm just a pedestrian writer -- New Hampshire has driven otherwise productive and happy citizens such as J.D. Salinger, Jodi Picoult and Robert Frost to forsake practical employment for the pen. The ultimate litmus test for this writing compulsion is whether the greatest American writer ever visited New Hampshire, and indeed, Mark Twain had a series of pictures taken in 1906 while visiting in Dublin, New Hampshire, in the state's southwestern Monadnock region close to both the Vermont and Massachusetts borders. I guess the question is, who left a greater stamp on whom, Mark Twain or New Hampshire...?
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