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| Snowy day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art |
The day before my father died
last March, I moved in close to his right ear and asked him a few
questions.
“Do you remember Primrose
Avenue?” I said.
That’s the name of a street
near the house where we lived when my brother and I were growing up in Mt.
Vernon, N. Y.
Primroses are small colorful
old-fashioned flowers. Primrose the street was pretty, too. It began in a vale
(an appropriately antiquated word) near the business district, then meandered along,
past a small park with lilac bushes and a few benches. As it climbed a hill, the street widened with
grand houses on either side, some with marble steps at the curb. These had been used for carriages in the
1890s.
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| Primrose Avenue postcard, around 1905 |
Now it is 2018 and a big storm has swirled into New York City. Down on the street, you can hear the snow crashing into the wind. I remember this sound from my childhood when snowstorms occurred routinely from November to March. We trudged to school through banks, drifts and slush. Sometimes the driving snow stung our eyes.
During the winter of 1970, a
blizzard socked the New York metropolitan area. It lasted a few days. I can still conjure that wonderful sense of
being stuck inside. Even if one had an
appointment, it would be impossible to get there. Everything was closed; only our homes were
open for business.
One night, the snow finally stopped. Looking out the window, we saw a few flakes
trickling down. My father and I decided
to take a walk. In boots and layers of
sweaters coats scarves hats gloves, we stepped outside.
We started around the block
and came to Primrose Avenue. The last
foot of snow had not been plowed and we couldn’t find the sidewalk, so we
walked up the middle of the street.
I remember a pink glow, which
must have been the snow reflecting the streetlight. Also the crunch, crunch of our boots. I also recall, dimly, our
conversation.
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| My father reading to me (left) and my brother (right), early 1960s |
My father was a talented
writer and editor who worked largely with dry bureaucratic prose. At heart, though, he had a true literary
sensibility. Because of him, there were
volumes of Whitman, Dylan Thomas, Housman, and Keats in the house; also such
novels as The Naked and the Dead, Of Human Bondage, and Johnny Got His Gun. My mother recommended King’s Row and anything by John O’Hara, but he urged on me Lolita and You Can’t Go Home Again.
After his death, I found notes
for the book reviews that he wrote during his years as a newspaper reporter. It was a good way to make extra money and get
free books. In 1947, for example, his reviews included All the King's Men and a thriller called The Big Clock.
Who knows why he also was reviewing
Boswell’s Life of Johnson (published in 1791), but of it
he noted simply: “Had to choke this one down.”
Back to Primrose Avenue.
As we walked through the pink
light and dwindling snowflakes, he imparted something magical to me. I believe it involved the exhilarating
connection between literature and experience.
The scene, the shadow, the words and characters – you could always
return to them, or call them up. And of
course, what he said turned out to be true.
That’s why I’m glad that New
York is finally getting a snowstorm, this snowstorm, the first one since his
death. It feels like I’ve crossed a
continent to get back to Primrose Avenue and he’s there with me, talking and
walking in the unplowed world.
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| Throughout his life, my father jotted down the titles and authors of books he wanted to read. |
Met photo by Claudia Keenan
https://www.throughthehourglass.com/2018/01/of-time-and-blizzard.html
