The Peripatetic Reviewer
BY
I WAS fourteen when I made my first long cruise on the Barnegat. There were four of us in a 23foot catboat, the oldest a freshman at Cornell. The cabin was so small that two of us slept with our heads out in the cockpit, hearing the gentle slap, slap of the water as we turned in our sleep. We stopped at Seaside Park for the famous buns; off Beach Haven we ran into a school of weakfish which kept us in chowder for two days; we swam in the inlets, we peeled until our noses were raw, collected enough mosquito bites for pleasant scratching; we ran free before a steady wind; and when finally we made the entrance to Atlantic City, we committed the fatal mistake of tying up at the Yacht Club just as a three-day northeaster was coming over the horizon. The seas that came scudding in smashed our tender to kindling and nearly rolled the stick out of the cocky little cat. We were marooned ashore (our total purse $5.77); humbly we slept in the lee of the Clubhouse porch.
Gastronomically I always associate those early cruises with a burning heart. It may have been the canned tomatoes, which were a repeat (I use the word advisedly) item on our menu. Or it may have been the canned beans and the fried potatoes which were never quite fried through. Whatever the cause, the result was certain: I burped my way along with what was then politely known as a burning heart. Perhaps that is why, unless I am sailed by a skipper who is also a good cook, like Llewellyn Howland, I prefer today to do my cruising by land or by plane.
A cruise Down East on Route 1 can be very inviting in the early summer, especially if there is a Maine lake with smallmouthed bass awaiting your fly rod over the horizon. North of Portsmouth the shore road threads in and out of the inlets and bays, through the tiny green-sloped harbors, past the white maritime mansions, anchored so serenely in their elms, past the trim, thrifty farmhouses whose paint has a sun-washed newness. Slow down at Brunswick to enjoy the Bowdoin pines; pause for ten minutes at Freeport to climb up the two floors to Mr. Bean’s heavenly emporium for anglers; and then, as you resume, note how your curiosity is quickened and relayed by those enchanting names, Wiscasset, Damariscotta, the Camden Hills, Searsport, and Winterport. You see, without noticing, the slacks and shorts, the uplift bras, and the garish colors of the summer folk, but your thoughts are attracted by the living which goes on down the green and white shaded streets that lead off the highway. Is the Maine stock, you wonder with envy, as durable and untroubled as it looks? Would you change places?
England to New England
From the secure havens of the Maine coast it is not a far cry to England; yet in the delight of rediscovering our own country this summer it is easy to forget old friends abroad. This realization prompts me to quote from a letter written to a friend in Hamilton, Massachusetts, who had sent food to an unknown Londoner:—
DEAR FRIEND:I had no idea my name had been sent in through the WVS for a parcel, and if you knew what these “extras” mean to the harassed British housewife, you would be able to realize how very grateful I am to you for your kind thought and generosity. We have always had enough to eat, but throughout the war we have had so little variety and been so short of fats— our ration still is 3 oz. butter,
3 oz. margarine, 21 oz. of lard each, a week — which is very difficult to manage on when all the fat is taken off the meat before we get it.
I am glad to say there is very little grumbling about it, though we did all hope rationing would have been decreased this year.
3 oz. margarine, 21 oz. of lard each, a week — which is very difficult to manage on when all the fat is taken off the meat before we get it.
I am glad to say there is very little grumbling about it, though we did all hope rationing would have been decreased this year.
At the risk of boring you, I will tell you about our family life in the last few years. My husband’s business, which was men’s clothing, died with the beginning of the war, and he became Deputy Chief Air Raid Warden for Camberwell, which Boro has been one of the worst bombed in London. He had nearly as many nights out of bed as in, which the many bombing incidents around here were the cause of, as he always went to any incident in this Boro, to see that the wardens’ service was operating properly. Now that the war is over, his job is ended, and as he is sixty-five, so far has not obtained fresh employment.
I was WVS District Leader for East Dulwich. There were six Air Raid Precaution Posts manned by ARP wardens and I had a WVS Post Leader for each (which covered twenty or thirty streets). The Post Leaders had Street Leaders in each street, so that when the incidents occurred through bombing, V-l’s or V-2’s, I called on the Post Leader in whose area the trouble was, and she got helpers, and we went to the scene of the trouble, to help the bombedout people, and assist the other services in any way we could. . . .
The last incident we were on occurred three minutes from this house, on January 6, 1945, Saturday afternoon, at 4.45. We had heard explosions several times during the day, without any warning! They were V-2’s. My daughter and I were in our lounge, when suddenly the whole house seemed to jump in the air and all the windows crashed in! (It was the fourth time our windows had been blown in.) In the front of the house all the window frames were hanging outside.
Fortunately the rocket had fallen almost on the spot where we had two mines in 1941. The houses had been cleared away from that, or there would have been more deaths. As it was, there were six buried under the ruins, and two killed in the street, and about twelve injured. It was dark by five o’clock and there was a thin sheet of ice on the roads. All the rescue and warden services were there within four minutes, but had to send for the big cranes to move the debris. Two searchlight vans arrived, and played the light on the ruins on which the rescue parties worked, assisted by the RAF men with their Alsatian dogs — trained to find people buried under the rubble. I knew that two friends of mine were under the ruins of their home — they were both dead when they were got out. The WVS opened up an Enquiry Point in one of the less ruined houses and we were soon very busy, serving out American Red Cross chocolate, which we made in the American thermostat urns, helping people to get some of their belongings out, and getting cars from our Volunteer Car Pool to take them to friends, and answering a thousand questions from anxious friends and relatives, and giving information.
The pluck, patience, and spirit of the people were wonderful. I have never ceased to marvel at it. I have stood by families whose broken furniture was standing out in the road because the house was unsafe. All the things they had lived with and loved — and we watched the heavy rescue men take long poles and push the sides of the house in because it was unsafe to let it stand! All the terrific dust would come showering out over everything in the road, and they have said, “Oh, we are the lucky ones!” — thinking of their dead and injured neighbors. The war has taught me to admire my fellow beings.
Though we have had an oil bomb, a phosphorus bomb, a shower of incendiary bombs, mines, high explosive bombs, V-l’s and V-2’s all around here, none of this family ever had a scratch. . . .
My elder daughter remained at her office in the City throughout the war and after office hours during that time did work at a First Aid Post, in the ARP control room at the Town Hall, and firewatching at the office at night. My second daughter went to India and was in Calcutta, and then on to Siam, and was in Bangkok. She flew home from Karachi just after Christmas this year.
My elder son was a territorial before the war, so went straight into active service when the war started. He was in North Africa, in the landing in Sicily, also in the landing in Italy. He is now a Major in the Royal Engineers. He has been home from Italy for twenty months. He had malaria and dysentery, but was not wounded. He went to Germany last July and is still there — he is thirty.
My younger boy was a Flying Officer, Pilot on a Lancaster bomber, and his plane was shot down in the last raid on Boppard in Germany. He was twenty-three — full of life and love and promise. I feel that part of me has died with him.
Please don’t think it is in any spirit of boasting I tell you of our life. It is just that I believe that if we, on each side of the ocean, knew more of the personal side of each other’s lives, we should have a better chance of understanding. Again, I thank you for your great generosity and kindness and assure you that all the things you have sent will create quite a “party” atmosphere here. My son comes home on leave next week, and we shall think of our very kind friend in Hamilton when we are enjoying the good things.
Yours very sincerely,
V. N.
I was WVS District Leader for East Dulwich. There were six Air Raid Precaution Posts manned by ARP wardens and I had a WVS Post Leader for each (which covered twenty or thirty streets). The Post Leaders had Street Leaders in each street, so that when the incidents occurred through bombing, V-l’s or V-2’s, I called on the Post Leader in whose area the trouble was, and she got helpers, and we went to the scene of the trouble, to help the bombedout people, and assist the other services in any way we could. . . .
The last incident we were on occurred three minutes from this house, on January 6, 1945, Saturday afternoon, at 4.45. We had heard explosions several times during the day, without any warning! They were V-2’s. My daughter and I were in our lounge, when suddenly the whole house seemed to jump in the air and all the windows crashed in! (It was the fourth time our windows had been blown in.) In the front of the house all the window frames were hanging outside.
Fortunately the rocket had fallen almost on the spot where we had two mines in 1941. The houses had been cleared away from that, or there would have been more deaths. As it was, there were six buried under the ruins, and two killed in the street, and about twelve injured. It was dark by five o’clock and there was a thin sheet of ice on the roads. All the rescue and warden services were there within four minutes, but had to send for the big cranes to move the debris. Two searchlight vans arrived, and played the light on the ruins on which the rescue parties worked, assisted by the RAF men with their Alsatian dogs — trained to find people buried under the rubble. I knew that two friends of mine were under the ruins of their home — they were both dead when they were got out. The WVS opened up an Enquiry Point in one of the less ruined houses and we were soon very busy, serving out American Red Cross chocolate, which we made in the American thermostat urns, helping people to get some of their belongings out, and getting cars from our Volunteer Car Pool to take them to friends, and answering a thousand questions from anxious friends and relatives, and giving information.
The pluck, patience, and spirit of the people were wonderful. I have never ceased to marvel at it. I have stood by families whose broken furniture was standing out in the road because the house was unsafe. All the things they had lived with and loved — and we watched the heavy rescue men take long poles and push the sides of the house in because it was unsafe to let it stand! All the terrific dust would come showering out over everything in the road, and they have said, “Oh, we are the lucky ones!” — thinking of their dead and injured neighbors. The war has taught me to admire my fellow beings.
Though we have had an oil bomb, a phosphorus bomb, a shower of incendiary bombs, mines, high explosive bombs, V-l’s and V-2’s all around here, none of this family ever had a scratch. . . .
My elder daughter remained at her office in the City throughout the war and after office hours during that time did work at a First Aid Post, in the ARP control room at the Town Hall, and firewatching at the office at night. My second daughter went to India and was in Calcutta, and then on to Siam, and was in Bangkok. She flew home from Karachi just after Christmas this year.
My elder son was a territorial before the war, so went straight into active service when the war started. He was in North Africa, in the landing in Sicily, also in the landing in Italy. He is now a Major in the Royal Engineers. He has been home from Italy for twenty months. He had malaria and dysentery, but was not wounded. He went to Germany last July and is still there — he is thirty.
My younger boy was a Flying Officer, Pilot on a Lancaster bomber, and his plane was shot down in the last raid on Boppard in Germany. He was twenty-three — full of life and love and promise. I feel that part of me has died with him.
Please don’t think it is in any spirit of boasting I tell you of our life. It is just that I believe that if we, on each side of the ocean, knew more of the personal side of each other’s lives, we should have a better chance of understanding. Again, I thank you for your great generosity and kindness and assure you that all the things you have sent will create quite a “party” atmosphere here. My son comes home on leave next week, and we shall think of our very kind friend in Hamilton when we are enjoying the good things.
Yours very sincerely,
V. N.
From town to country
Anyone now mulling over the problem of retirement will find plenty of incentive and much practical advice in a homely book fresh-laid from Vermont — This Country Life by Samuel R. Ogden.
Sam Ogden was of my own vintage in Elizabeth, N. J. We went to school together, and together we watched as the tentacles of New York closed on what had once been live Jersey countryside. Sixteen years ago Mr. Ogden, his wife, and their two youngsters pulled out of Suburbia in search of a country home. They scouted through Kentucky, Maryland, and Virginia, through Pennsylvania, and finally in the Green Mountains they chanced upon a deserted village which cried out for rehabilitation. They purchased all the properties, chose one of the eight houses for themselves, and then one by one restored and sold the other places back to life. It took hard doing, and of course its greatest drawback was the problem of education for the children. But the Ogdens persevered, and now after four terms in the Legislature and his service with the State Board of Conservation, Sam is a Vermonter to the bone, wishing only that he had made the move earlier. The quiet life, so beautifully delineated in the photographs, has proved both rich and full.
“Mister Roberts”
A native of Iowa who graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1941, Thomas Heggen emerged with the rank of Lieutenant after four years’ service in the Navy. While aboard an assault transport, he participated in the campaigns of Guam, Peleliu, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. In his first book, Mister Roberts, he is writing not about amphibious warfare and bloodshed, but rather about the long frustration, the boredom, nostalgia, and despair of men cooped up aboard ship. Mister Roberts is racy, man-made, as natural as sunlight, and full of those sardonic grunts with which men live through inexpressible boredom. The stories he tells all concern the U.S.S. Reluctant, a Navy cargo ship which for two years has jogged back and forth between the dreary little islands of Apathy, Ennui, and Tedium and back again, Tedium to Ennui to Apathy.
The crew of the Reluctant have a hearty and very expressive loathing of their captain; the officers have applied again and again for transfer — the Captain always forwarded their letters with the endorsement “Not Recommending Approval.” One and all, they are ready to tear up any town out of sheer good will when at last they are granted shore leave. The chapter depicting their leave, and that other on their binocular excitement when they were forbidden to enter the harbor, are high points of hilarious writing.
Mr. Roberts, the most likable officer aboard, dominates the chronicle in a subtle, friendly way, but the lesser men, the doctor, Ensign Pulver, and QM Dolan are drawn to the eyes and unforgettable. This book is vivid, unimpeachable narrative, with no holds barred. But elders with a distaste for the frankness of the sea and profanity should keep out.
Prize poet
Elizabeth Bishop’s first volume of poems, North and South, is a prize book, the winner of a $1000 award from Houghton Mifflin Company, judged the best in a field of 850 manuscripts, and like any prize book, must stand up to that extra severity with which we read prize winners. Her poems may be roughly divided into two categories, bizarre fantasies which can be interpreted pretty much as the reader chooses, and straight descriptive verse, much of it growing out of the author’s experience in Florida, to which she has added a moral or emotional fillip.
But in spite of the well-turned lines, the descriptive phrases which are sharply effective and the metrical skill, I cannot find much satisfaction in this verse. What confounds me is the author’s difficulty in finishing what she begins so well. In poems like “Wading at Wellfleet” or “The Colder the Air,” she does not follow up her brilliant beginning. She can picture a nightmare, as in “Sleeping Standing Up,” she has a clear eye for the look of the world, as in “Florida” and “Roosters,” but, in sum, it seems to me that she is afraid to risk pure lyricism, and is rather shy of ideas.