Heigh, Ho, the Wind and the Rain

I walked into a building this afternoon, out of the rain and wind; and all of a sudden I remembered something from college.

 

A few weeks ago, I saw the Prospect Theater Company’s The Underclassman, a very enjoyable musical by Peter Mills & Cara Reichel, based on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s time at Princeton, and the events that inspired Tender Is the Night.

I enjoyed it very much; and one of the things that struck me most was the way it captured the sense of college years as being a brief interval of paradise.  There’s a very effective scene at the Jersey Shore, around 1915 or 1916, playing on the thought that beyond the peaceful shore, great nations were at war.  (“Shore” and “war” were the rhyme, but I don’t recall the exact line.)

I don’t think of my college years as a paradise, set off from the rest of my life (although I am aware how privileged I was to go to college).  Maybe because I haven’t always been a full-time sage, and have for most of my life worked in academia, I don’t have the sense of college as a brief, lost interval.

 

But as I came in out of the rain and wind, I instantly thought of a day long ago when Bill and Pete and I came into a college building, out of a similar storm, and did simultaneous double-takes. We came in through a little-used back entrance; and there on the lower landing was Sally, with a blanket, and a picnic lunch spread out.

We shouldn’t have been surprised at anything Sally would do.  But an indoor picnic in the winter …

We were invited to join her; and since we had our lunches with us, there was enough for everyone.  Sally provided pastries which her grandmother, and her grandmother’s friend, had made.   We dutifully composed a thank-you note, beginning “Dear Sally’s Grandmother and Sally’s Grandmother’s Friend”.

 

I don’t remember what class we had been coming from; nor what class we went to next.  But all of a sudden today, I remembered the little bit of paradise, the indoor picnic on a stormy day, long, long ago.

And I’m thinking of what someone wrote, long, long ago:

The warmth of indoors, after winter rain

and silence after walking a windy mile;
soft light on her sleeve, and on her hair
and on her smile.

Thank you, Sally’s Grandmother; and Sally’s Grandmother’s Friend.

And thank you, Sally.

Winter Provisions

                                                                                                                November 2^nd, 2014
“Winter will be coming”.

It certainly wasn’t cold today - mid-forties - but cooler than it’s been in quite a while; and with Descent Into The Darkness Day upon us, dark earlier than we’ve been used to.  It was good to stop into the warm pub, on the way home from not running a marathon. (I did, as the train crossed the bridge into Manhattan this morning, catch a glimpse of industrious, if misguided, runners).  But on the way home, well-guided if not industrious, I wanted warmth and something to eat.

The regular waitress was busy with a special party, but slowed enough as she passed my table to say “winter will be coming”.

We’re not even halfway through the fall, but the idea of winter coming has been planted. Most years, there’s a day in late August when a faded look to the trees, or a sudden breeze, or a passing cloud across the sun, makes me think “fall is coming”.

And today was the fall day when early darkness and unusual chill, and a passing comment made me think of winter.

It used to be a joke between my mother and me that “it’s time to get in the winter provisions”.  There was a theory that I would get a good supply of heavy and bulky items well before the bad weather set in, so that when it was snowy or icy I wouldn’t have to venture out; or at worst would have to carry only light perishables through the deep drifts and howling wind.

It was a fine theory.

Every year, when the first heavy snow hit, I’d look at my empty pantry, and call my mother to say “I’m going to hitch Oliver to the sleigh and set out to the village.  I’ll get your provisions too.” (Oliver Twist was my cat. He was an orphan, and when I fed him he asked for more).

More often than not, my mother would have had not only the forethought, but the ambition, to have gotten extra groceries; and her apartment being closer than the village, I’d wind up getting a meal there.

In the midst of the Y2K hysteria, we were advised to prepare “as if for a major storm”.  I pictured myself on the first dawn of the new millennium struggling through deep snow, prepared as usual.

There was another joke between us. After visiting my brother and sister-in-law, either on or soon after Thanksgiving, in the northern wilderness of Fort Montgomery, we would say that the mountain pass would soon be closed by blizzards, and we wouldn’t see them till the new year. I don’t recall ever missing a visit there, either on or soon after Christmas.

 

Coming out of the warm pub, I thought of holidays past; and winters past, and winters to come. And I thought of stopping in the supermarket as I passed, to begin laying in supplies.

 

But I have plenty of time.

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Sandy Andy

I had a Sandy Andy.

I hadn't thought of it in a long time.  I was passing the post office on Katonah Avenue the other evening, and I suddenly remembered my Sandy Andy.

It might not in fact have actually been called “Sandy Andy”, but that’s what my mother referred to it as.  

For those who never had the great pleasure of owning and operating one, I’ll try to describe it.   The one pictured here (I’m not sure how long the link will remain active)

http://www.ebay.ca/itm/VINTAGE-SAND-BOX-TOY-TIN-SAND-LOADER-/261264789183?pt=Vintage_Antique_Toys_US&hash=item3cd4984ebf

is similar, but in my memory at least mine was taller. There was a lower hopper which you would fill with sand.  Turning a crank would cause a series of buckets on a chain to dip into the lower hopper, fill with sand, and convey it to the upper hopper.  From the upper hopper the sand fell through a chute into a waiting car on rails.

The rails were on a hinged beam; when the car was full, the weight caused the beam to slant down; the car would run down the beam, and at the bottom it would tilt and dump the sand back into the lower hopper. A clever arrangement prevented sand from falling out of the upper hopper -- the buckets kept filling it as long as the crank was turned -- until the now lighter car rode the rails on the beam back to under the chute.

And except for the energy provided by turning the crank, it was all done by gravity and clever engineering.

As I child I found the action fascinating.  There was the growing “suspense” as the car filled; which bucket load would be the one to make it heavy enough to start the tilt/run downhill/dump/return sequence?

As an adult I find the construction fascinating.  And, I suspect, if I could only have it again, I’d find the action fascinating too.  The growing suspense ....

I mentioned Sandy Andies to Julie.  She had never had the great pleasure of owning and operating one; she didn’t know what they were.  I described the wonderful device and its amazing operation.  

There was more than a double take; she actually bounced in the chair.  “You poor child!  What were your parents trying to do to you?  Introduce you to a life of meaningless, repetitive labor? Show you that the universe has no meaning?”

I was dismayed.  Not only did she not love my Sandy Andy, she misunderstood, disdained, and abused its memory.

I probably should have known better, but some time later I tried to tell her about another wonderful toy I had. It took some searching, but I’ve been able to find it online. The Magnetic Sneaky Snake Game.

http://www.timepassagesnostalgia.com/&pm=0&searchkeywords=Magnet+Reptile&sin=7771

In case that link no longer works, picture a plastic base, about eight inches or a foot long.  In the center, a bowl-like depression, representing ... how can I do it justice? ... a snake nest.  On either end, a coiled spring, standing upright from the base but curving towards the center.  The free end of each spring had a plastic shake head, with a magnet in it.  The two “snakes” had magnets of opposite polarity, so they’d repel each other and move in what I assume was at least a vaguely snakelike way.

In the depressed “nest” were two or three steel “eggs” about half an inch in length. The final piece of equipment was a wand, with a magnet on the end.  The object of the game was to use the magnetic wand to pick up the eggs, one by one, and get then out of the nest, without being struck by the shakes, which of course would be attracted by the magnet.

I had a lot of fun with it.

Julie didn't so much jump in her chair as catapult out of it. She was lucky she didn't land on the floor. I don’t know, maybe she had had dolls or toy cookware or boring stuff like that.

Anyway, I was passing the post office recently.  A mail carrier got out of a mail truck, carrying one of those plastic bins full of envelopes. She went over to the mailbox in front of the post office, and started putting the mail into the box.

I had an image of the buckets on a chain, endlessly recycling the same sand, and the two hoppers being endlessly refilled.  A metaphor of meaninglessness?  The universe cycling forever from big bang to big crunch?  Julie bouncing endlessly in the chair, reacting in horror to meaninglessness?

Whatever. I saw that, and I wanted my Sandy Andy .