Granville Austin

 

Excerpts from Retrieving Times
Granville Austin
White River Press, 2008

 

The Town of Norwich, Vermont, laid its spell on me in 1932 when I arrived at age five. It has never let go. Neither have I.

I have retrieved, as best I can… my times in Norwich. Individuals taught me. More, they and my surroundings learnd me, a mysterious process, somewhat like osmosis, dealt with in the final chapter. In effect I absorbed these times. Now, squeezing these absorptions and reducing the juice to concentrate, like sap from rock maples, I have become aware of much I was being learnd about the best of rural Vermont society in the Thirties and Forties.

Norwich grammar Norwich Society Mrs. Dewing and her violin Doctor Jones and his horse Father Hodder and the gardener Winter Coming The Christmas Pageant Getting “learnd” Where will the bullet stop?

Norwich grammar

Teachers deplored double adjectives even when they were more descriptive than single ones, demonstrating again that proper speech has its limitations. “That big tall tree on the corner come down in the wind” summons up a bigger, taller tree, as well as a fiercer wind, than would “that big tree” or “that tall tree fell down.” “That big and tall tree” is clumsy wording even if proper—besides, it denies the tree its grace. As you can tell, accuracy figured large in our observation of events. “Little small” frequently was said. For some reason, this evoked less opprobrium from on high. Perhaps because it is more expressive than either small or little, separately. Tiny was no substitute, and a word we rarely used, it being too small. Even bugs were small, not tiny. I still believe “little small” more descriptive than “very small,” as in “he was a little small cuss”—human or animal.

Double subjects came next in their disfavor. We were not to say “Jimmy he did” but Jimmy did”. This is one of many instances, it seems to me, in which correct speech lacks colloquial speech's punch. “Jimmy he” puts Jimmy right at the center of the action: “Jimmy he bagged a paatridge” or “Jimmy he fell through the ice.” The latter is colder and wetter than if only Jimmy had fallen in. The comma between Jimmy and he, even though silent, added drama. In “Jimmy he busted his leg,” the neglected comma allowed Jimmy time to arrive on the scene and to squeal in pain.

Norwich Society

“Society” was a term foreign to Norwich. The Hanover Gazette (across the Connecticut) published no “society pages.” Possession of a Ph.D. put no one on a pedestal. Only medicine men and women were addressed as doctor. A long family history in the town did bring prestige. Distinctions were noticed, but not observed as guides to conduct. In Merrill's Store, plumbers were distinguishable from professors, but citizens were expected to subscribe to the town's norm of equitableness, recognition of intrinsic worth. Perfection was not to be expected, but men and women, boys and girls, and the relations among them were to be “true” in character, as the sills of a house, or posts should be true—straight, level, upright, square with other elements in the construction….If the standard was not tangible, it was implicitly recognized. Reputations were known. This was the atmosphere that cocooned me.

Mrs. Dewing and her violin

Mrs. Dewing just was. She entered Miz Cross's room with the verve of a jack-in-the-box,

clad in a tweed skirt, sweater, brown stockings and sensible shoes. Fiddle case under her arm, she greeted us with merry eyes that her thick-lensed glasses couldn't conceal. She would unsheathe her violin, tune it quickly, and play for us. I was told she was very good; I knew she was magical. No cobra would have been so mesmerized by a snake charmer's flute. As she played, her short bangs would quiver, and her body radiate music. Done, she would lower the violin, smile at us, and announce the learning for that day. I suppose she was middle-aged, but for me then and now she was ageless, and so were the days when she came to class.

For Mrs. Dewing we sang not badly and with joy, knowing little of what we were doing—sort of like enjoying a dessert although ignorant of its making. When we were lazy and sang poorly she would remind us of her pastor father in Canada. From the pulpit he would admonish his congregation, “The Lord loves good music—you'll be singing that hymn again.”

Doctor Jones and his horse

Doctor Jones spoke seldom and was remembered as a common-sense practitioner who made house calls in any weather. His horse made him famous. The beast took to lying down between the buggy shafts, causing the doctor frustration and costing him time to rouse the horse and get him pulling. One day, just after breakfast, when the horse lay down where the doctor's driveway joined the street, the doctor lost patience. He climbed down from the seat, walked to the horse's head and sat on it. He called for pipe and tobacco and puffed serenely, unmoved by the horse's protests. Come noon, so the story goes, Doc Jones stood up and so did the horse. Doc never had to repeat the performance.

Father Hodder and the gardener

Driving to and from Vespers, Father Hodder for weeks had admired a farmer's flower garden. Seeing a man hoeing in it one evening, he pulled over, got out, and leaned over the fence. “We talked for a while,” Father remembered, “and I told him that I thought his flowers were beautiful. ‘You ought to thank the Good Lord for this garden.' I said. He looked at me for a time and said, ‘ Parson, you shoulda seen this piece when the Almighty had it to himself.'”

Winter Coming

November grew colder. The ground froze. Ice skimmed ponds. We studied the semaphore arms of leafless trees and sniffed the air like hounds for signals of snow. Clouds and tree trunks were the best predictors. Slate-colored or black clouds meant rain—gloomy rain—as did tree trunks black in evening light. A soft gray sky the color of beech trunks meant it might snow. Our anticipation grew.

We knew winter was coming.

The Christmas Pageant

The town's Christmas Pageant was identical in spirit. Originally, each church had celebrated its own festival. The chaplain of the Grange, Glen Parker, had a better idea. Representatives of the churches gathered. They accepted the offer of Nick Jacobson, who was Jewish, to write the script. The procession began at Betty Booth's house on Elm Street, as she led her donkey with Peggy Ammel as Mary riding side saddle. The donkey was known to like cookies. One story says that if he baulked, an Oreo might get him going. Arriving at Main Street, Al Foley, sometime town meeting moderator, read Caesar Augustus's decree that people should be registered and taxed. No longer should Nazareth be their destination. So the procession and townspeople headed up Main Street toward Bethlehem for Mary and Joseph to be registered, singing on the way to the Norwich Inn, where owner Borden Avery declared he had no room. Next, at the Grange Hall, gifts—ultimately destined for hospitals—were assembled and all proceeded to the hay-softened manger in Bethlehem, aka Glen Parker's barn. To this day, this manger, by deed, is part of Parker's former property no matter successive owners.

Getting “learnd”

…..life in Norwich learnd me much that long has been useful. Learnd is a word manufactured for this occasion to distinguish it from the Englishism, “learnt” and from “learn ed ”, which I certainly was not. “Learnd” is not to be confused with “taught”. Miz Cross was right: our teachers taught (and very well, too); they didn't “learn” us. Learning was our job. Of course, Norwich air and those breathing it taught me, but I think they learnd me more than they taught.

 

Where will the bullet stop?

My father and Charlie DeVaux learnd me vividly about consequences. “Where will the bullet stop?” is a momentous question. If you don't know the answer, you may kill someone. More, what may be the results of a word or an action—your own or another's—on the shooting range, in the voting booth, from a favor bestowed or received, in a policy, in an idea? It's a rural question with global implications.