Category Archives: Alan W. Smith (Roger W. Smith’s father)

on happiness vis-à-vis sadness (and the other way around)

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“We are more apt to feel depressed by the perpetually smiling individual than the one who is honestly sad. If we admit our depression openly and freely, those around us get from it an experience of freedom rather than the depression itself.”

— Rollo May, Paulus: Reminiscence of a Friendship (1973)

 

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These thoughts, this post, are occasioned by a film I saw about beleaguered people in a foreign country.

I was transfixed — totally engrossed in the people’s stories and the picture the film gave of their daily lives.

I shared my enthusiasm for the film with someone close to me and suggested that she see it with me.

She said no, she had no interest (despite my strong recommendation) in seeing the film.

“Why?” I asked.

She answered (perhaps she was looking for excuses), “I don’t want to see something that will make me sad.”

This struck me as patently ridiculous. Since when has it been imperative to avoid things — in life, in art — with the potential to make oneself sad?

 

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It should be obvious that true art mixes joy and beauty with pathos.

In his Poetics, Aristotle developed the theory of catharsis (from the Greek κάθαρσις, catharsis, meaning “purification” or “cleansing” — the purification and purgation of emotions — especially pity and fear — through art”; as explained on Wikipedia). Note that, as explained in the online encyclopedia article, catharsis represents an “extreme change in emotion that results in renewal and restoration” (italics added).

The film which I saw was a documentary about North Korea entitled Under the Sun. More about this below.

 

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So much for theory. Let’s consider some examples. But first, a digression about happiness in PEOPLE.

To what extent is happiness a desideratum? Can we expect it? Is there even such a thing — is it real? How should we regard others who are, seem to be, or claim to be, happy?

My father, Alan W. Smith, thoroughly enjoyed life, on many levels: an interest in things (including the delight he took in little things, such as observing what happened once to dry ice when he threw a chunk of it over the side of a ship into the water; he wanted us to see it), including intellectual curiosity; a love of music (chiefly as a performer); a delight in people and their company; a delight in little amusements; pleasures such as eating, drinking, and the outdoors (experienced as an everyday citizen, not as a woodsman; e.g., raking leaves in the fall, a walk with his wife or the dog on the seashore, a blizzard). He had a keen appetite for life.

Unlike a lot of adults, he loved his work. He never begrudged, never complained about anything. Welcomed everything and anyone who came his way.

He could loosen and cheer up a group simply by being himself and by virtue of his presence. He didn’t mind looking ridiculous, making fun of himself (or being made fun of), or being regarded as extravagant or incautious.

Oftentimes, he would enter a parlor with people leaning forward in their chairs — tight lipped, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s everybody looking so glum for?” he would say. The complexion of the group would change just like that and people would begin talking and joking. In the words of Louisa May Alcott*, he “pervaded the rooms like a genial atmosphere, using the welcome of eye and hand which needs no language to interpret it, … making their [his guests’] enjoyment his own.”

He took the weather with equanimity, be it a blizzard, a hurricane, or an earthquake.

My father happened to be in the Bay Area, visiting my older brother in the late 1980’s, shortly before the former died, when an earthquake struck. “I’ve always wanted to be able to experience what an earthquake feels like,” he told me afterward. As my former therapist pointed out, such an attitude showed an appetite for life and an eagerness to experience it.

A hot summer’s day? A great excuse for setting off a few fireworks in our back yard, or for a lobster cookout (which both my parents loved) in the front yard of our rented summer house on Cape Cod.

I remember a blizzard in my home town of Canton, Massachusetts when I was in high school. Everything was shut down. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. An idea came to my father. Wouldn’t it be great to toast marshmallows and cook hot dogs in our living room fireplace? There was a problem, however — we didn’t have the ingredients. Such niggling problems never seemed to stand in the way of the fun planned by my father. Come to think of it, how about a walk? We walked, tramped about two miles each way through snowdrifts, found a store that was open, and bought marshmallows, hot dogs, and buns.

There was, of course, another side to him. He could be pensive and gloomy. He could be irascible and had a bad temper. His cheerfulness was only one side of the coin.

When something untoward happened to him — an argument with his second wife, for example — he would say to himself through gritted teeth (as she used to tell me), “I’m not going to let it ruin my day.”

*In Alcott’s novel Work: A Story of Experience (1873).

 

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Phony Cheerfulness

A truism: no one is happy all the time.

There was a nice looking, perky girl in the class a year ahead of me in college: Marie E______.

Perhaps I shouldn’t say this. It will sound petty and perhaps mean spirited. But Marie’s perpetual cheerfulness grated on me.

A friend of mine, who lacked emotional depth and (often) insight into human relationships, was eager to get to know Marie and had several tennis dates with her. The relationship went no further.

“The thing I like most about her,” he told me, “is that she’s always cheerful.” This comment seemed obtuse and fatuous. It nettled me. I would be willing to bet that Marie’s perpetual cheerfulness was her way of dealing with insecurities that she probably felt.

 

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Happiness in a person without an admixture of sadness seems to be inimical to the human condition. One wants to get to know both sides of a person — to hear about their highs and lows from him or herself.

What about my father? you might ask. Didn’t I just wax rhapsodic over his cheerfulness and capacity to enjoy life?

I noted that he had another side that, while it was less often seen, would suddenly be displayed in bursts of anger. And, my father knew profound grief from family tragedies for which he did not bear responsibility but in which he was the chief mourner and suffered the most.

A capacity for joy does not preclude an awareness of sadness, does not obviate sadness.

Who wrote the Ode to Joy? The same composer who in his late quartets, beautifully, incomparably, expresses pathos, sadness.

 

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The film mentioned above is Under the Sun (2015), a documentary about North Korea. It was directed by the Russian documentary filmmaker Vitaly Mansky.

It is beautifully done and tugs and pulls at the viewer emotionally on many levels. The central person in the film, who is unforgettable, is an adorable eight-year-old North Korean girl named Zin-mi. The plot is ostensibly about Zin-mi going through steps, including school, as she prepares to join the Korean Children’s Union. At the film’s conclusion, she breaks down and cries upon being admitted to the children’s union. She is perhaps crying from relief that the stress of achieving the goal is over and, it seems, from what one would call joy mixed with sadness.

As I noted in a previous post:

re “Under the Sun” (a film about North Korea)

https://rogersgleanings.com/2016/08/25/re-under-the-sun-a-film-about-north-korea/

The compelling thing about the film is that you come away caring about the people and touched by the film’s PATHOS — despite the fact that one is aware that the people live incredibly hard, regimented lives in a totalitarian state where they have been effectively brainwashed and reduced almost to automatons (or so it often seems).

The film features beautiful, elegiac music composed by a Latvian composer, Karlis Auzans. It captures the pathos musically, for example, in a scene where you see North Koreans having family photos taken in a sort of assembly line fashion. A couple stands proudly in front of an automatic camera with their children. The photo is taken and another couple poses. And so on. As they stare into the camera, one sees expressions of pride but also feels a great sadness. The music rises to an emotional pitch and captures this. One feels empathy with the people posing, with the North Koreans! One feels that they are people, just like us. That, despite very hard lives, they experience feelings like ours. One feels like crying oneself, but one, at the same time, experiences a kind of joy in contemplating the miracle of human existence, and how this elemental reality links us all, regardless of circumstances.

 

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This got me thinking about pathos in literature and music. About the comment “I don’t want to see something that will make me sad.”

Anna Karenina ends sadly. Does that make one any less desirous of reading it? It seems that in most operas the plot involves a tragic love affair, often with someone committing suicide, dying of grief. Art (in the broad sense of the word) is full of grief, so to speak, as well as happiness — as depicted by the artist drawing upon a profound knowledge of human life. Would one wish all art to be reduced to the level of a situation comedy?

What about music? Ever hear stirrings of pathos? In Beethoven’s late quartets, in Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique symphony, and so forth?

Case closed.

 

— Roger W. Smith

  February 2018; updated May 2018

a February concert

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Last night I attended a concert at Carnegie Hall.

The program:

Mozart Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, K. 550; Orchestra of St. Luke’s; Robert Spano, conductor

Bryce Dessner, “Voy a dormir”; Kelley O’Connor, Mezzo-Soprano

Beethoven, Piano Concerto in E-flat Major, Op. 73 (“Emperor”); Jeremy Denk, piano

I jotted down some notes and impressions as well as personal thoughts on my way home.

 

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Mozart symphony no 40

have known and loved the first movement from a very young age

but, to my surprise, I think I enjoyed the second movement (Andante) even more tonight … it is a musical conversation between the instruments … Mozart THINKS musically (as I noted in a previous post)

The second piece, “Voy a dormir,” was the world premiere of a work by a young composer … beautiful soprano voice (the composer collaborated with her on the work) … Spanish text, based on poetry by Alfonsina Storni (Argentinian)

It is pleasurable to hear Spanish and to be able to follow the lyrics, since I know the language. It sounded so beautiful, as are all the Romance languages. All kind of the same — in a way — and at the same time each unique with its own “melody.” En el fondo del mar / hay una casa / de cristal.

Listening to the Emperor Concerto performed live. What an experience. There is such a range of emotions in Beethoven — e.g., from the first to the second movement.

One can HEAR such a difference in and evolution of styles between and from Mozart to Beethoven. From classical to romantic. But, to me, Haydn is the clearest exemplar of the classical style — not Mozart (not to detract from Mozart; it’s just a question of musical styles).

I had unusually good seats. It was great to watch the conductor, Robert Spano, and the piano soloist close up.

There must be such an incredible feeling of power to be the soloist in a piano concerto.

 

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I thought of my father, a pianist who conducted occasionally

and of my family’s experience with music as performers

my father, who graduated from Harvard with a bachelor’s degree in music and who was a professional musician and piano teacher

my mother, who was in the Radcliffe College chorus and played the piano

my three siblings, all of whom are gifted musicians, notably on the piano, and each of whom achieved proficiency in more than one instrument

my maternal grandmother, who — I never knew this during her lifetime — is said to have played the piano well

my paternal grandmother, who was a church organist and choir director … and my father the same

my paternal grandmother’s mother (my great-grandmother), who, I was told by an aunt, played the piano and sang in a Methodist Church in the nineteenth century

 

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I have hazy memories of my father conducting once or twice … I see him striding down the aisle proudly with his usual good posture, perhaps a bit more serious of mien than usual, but not overly so; assuming an appropriate air of dignity … being applauded … the performance commencing

where did he learn to conduct? … guess it’s not difficult if you have performed in orchestras … he did not, to my knowledge, conduct classical works

 

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when one is growing up, one takes one’s parents and nuclear family largely for granted … they are a given, like your front yard or neighborhood

your parents’ unique or distinctive attributes are something you are not likely to think about until much later in life

watching this particular concert, I felt a twinge of sadness, loss, and regret for my father and mother — occasioned by thoughts of what such a concert would have meant to them; how we could have talked about it (and would have enjoyed doing so); and how their existence and persons not only made mine possible, but endowed me with musical and aesthetic sensitivity

 

— Roger W. Smith

   February 16, 2018

 

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Mozart. Symphony No. 40

second movement (Andante)

I am not the center of the universe.

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Call it an epiphany.

Did you ever have an experience in the course of life, at a particular moment on a particular day — something seemingly inconsequential — that permanently altered your fundamental outlook on life?

This happened to me once.

It is funny how such moments of extraordinary perception and insight come about.

The sudden realization I had was something obvious which could be expressed as follows: The world doesn’t revolve around me.

Of course, I already knew that. I was not that self-centered. But, the epiphany inducing incident, which occurred when I was in middle age, blew away the last vestiges of adolescent style self-absorption.

 

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I had just completed graduate school and was hired by a consulting firm as a technical writer. I was about to begin my first day of work.

The head of my department, Jack Barrett, called me to finalize arrangements. I asked if I could report on March 15, which was a couple of days away. Would that be all right?

“Certainly,” he said.

I was looking forward to the new position, but at the same time I was kind of rueful because I had been getting, all of a sudden, some very interesting freelance writing assignments of which I was proud. I said to Barrett: “Today, I will be working on the City Desk at Newsday. I have been asked to work there a lot lately.” Something like that.

“Hmm,” he said, and quickly moved on to discussing a couple of details of my employment. He could have cared less about the freelance work I was doing. He was a busy man running a department. He had called me merely to finalize arrangements. We had already discussed my qualifications and accomplishments in the interview, based upon which I had been hired. That was a fait accompli.

Why should I have thought he would be interested in the details of my freelance work, I saw, to my chagrin.

It hit me square in the face: Most people are engrossed in their own responsibilities and daily activities. They don’t have time to focus on mine, nor would they be likely to be all that interested. Perhaps my wife would. But that’s different. One should not assume that people one meets in public, so to speak, are that interested in or focused upon you. When interacting with them, one should always keep in mind: it’s about THEIR priorities, not yours. For the moment, that is. Or, to put it another way (awkwardly), in the present actuality. This does not mean self-abnegation is required. It’s simply a matter of always keeping the thought uppermost in one’s mind: what is the other person likely to be thinking? where are they coming from? what do they need or require?

 

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My father told me a story once which, I think, illustrates the same point, though perhaps not obviously. He said that as a young man he had a tendency to try to impress people. Once, he said, he was at a party and somebody or other was talking about a new model car that was supposed to be THE car to own, a vehicle one would be proud to be seen driving. My father put his two cents worth in and started talking about that car and how great it was, and how he knew all about it. The man who had introduced the car as a topic of conservation looked askance at my father and said, “You own one?”

“No, I don’t,” my father had to admit.

My Dad said that the realization came upon him that he was always talking as if he were entitled to be an authority on this or that — to weigh in — or that he was in on something, to impress people. The other man’s comment made him see this, to his chagrin, but for him it was a valuable lesson.

 

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People are preoccupied with themselves and their concerns, whatever they are doing and thinking about at the moment; what concerns them; what they are or must be dealing with. I am of scant interest to them and if one manages to engage another’s interest, it is only transitory.

 

— Roger W. Smith

   November 2017

Sunday morning; “The Red Pony”

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Good morning, Scott.

It’s 7:22 a.m.

I’m following the foot philosophy and am going to Manhattan to take the ferry again. I’m not sure why.

I saw “Ex Libris,” the Frederick Wiseman film about the New York Public Library, last night … it’s over three hours long.

I was tired, which may have been a factor, but I wasn’t that thrilled with the film; and, I was very disappointed with Wiseman’s “lecture” Thursday evening.

Nevertheless, I am glad I saw the film.

Today, I am going at 11 a.m. to see another film at the Film Forum: “The Red Pony,” a late 1940’s film, with a score by Aaron Copland, based on the Steinbeck novella. We read it in junior HS.

I had one good teacher in junior high: Miss Hanlon, our eighth grade English teacher. She seemed to think well of me and of my appreciation of reading.

Once we were reading “The Red Pony” and I made what seems in retrospect to have been a perceptive comment about the boy, Jody’s, father. I said that he was a certain kind of stern father who had trouble showing affection for his son. I was thinking of my relationship with my own father. Miss Hanlon appreciated these comments.

Roger

 

— posted by Roger W. Smith

   September 2017

two letters of condolence; and how (in my opinion) to write one

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Two letters of condolence are posted here:

from my father to the wife of a deceased relative

from me to the wife of high school classmate of mine

 

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Dad's letter of condolence.jpg

 

my father, Alan W. Smith

December 1971

 

Dear Carolyn,

I don’t know when I’ve been so saddened by news as I was at that of Arthur’s death. We saw at the marina and Chart Room [where my father was pianist], just one small segment of his activities, I know, yet when I think of the way the room lighted up when he entered, I realize what a void there will be in many, many places.

Elinor and I extend our deepest sympathy to you.

With affection,

Alan Smith

 

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Roger Smith to Carol Minkwitz [a high school classmate, wife of Russell Minkwitz]

October 2015

 

Dear Carol,

Hello. I had some contact with Bob Seavey via email this weekend. I wanted to get in touch with him.

I heard back from him about Russ’s passing. In high school, we used to call him Rusty.

I was awfully sad to hear the news. It has affected me all day. I knew Russ was very ill, since you told me about it at our 50th reunion. I knew he had ALS, a terrible disease, as we all know. Still, his death comes as a shock.

I remember Russ from our 45th reunion. He was one of the people I was most glad to see. He looked great then, and no doubt no one knew then of his impending illness.

You know, at events like a reunion, you can be a bit apprehensive about seeing people again after all those years. With Russ, I felt completely at ease right off the bat. I was so glad to see him. He was so friendly, so well spoken. He made it plain that he was glad to see me.

And, of course I remember Russ from high school. What do I remember about him? That he was handsome, a great athlete, and a very good student. He was a true scholar-athlete.

What else do I remember about him? Russ was a truly nice person. He was soft spoken and modest. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. He was good natured in general and took kidding well.

We were in Mr. Badoian’s math class together (along with you), and Russ really liked the class and Mr. Badoian. (I think math was his favorite subject.) Mr. Badoian, in turn, liked Russ. When he found out that Russ had a girlfriend, he used to kid him about it. Russ, as usual, took the teasing modestly and well.

At our 45th reunion, Russ told me a little about his student days at Penn State. He played under Coach Paterno, I believe. He said he really regretted quitting football because of an injury. I appreciated Russ’s candor. I could relate to what he said because there are things I regret (don’t we all) not having done when I was young, when I had the opportunity.

I can’t imagine what a loss it must be to you, Carol. I am truly sorry. I hope your children and grandchildren can be some consolation to you.

I have great memories of Russ, who was one of my favorite classmates. Please know that he lives on in my memory.

I will make it a point from here on to stay in touch with you.

Warmest regards,

Roger

 

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My advice for writing such letters:

keep it simple

don’t say or invent things that are not true

don’t effuse, especially if you didn’t know the person well

use details, especially those that call the person to mind

Don’t effuse. Note that my father observed this principle in his letter, but he wrote a kind letter that was not cold or impersonal.

Use details, especially those that call the person to mind. This last principle seems to often get overlooked. It is my belief that these little details give comfort. And, the letter writer is giving a kind of offering, better than flowers. Because, if you can think of details about the deceased person that you remember with pleasure, and you share them with that person’s family, they will have something to add to their store of memories. Such details can be comforting and help to preserve the person’s memory.

An example of this last principle (use details) is provided by a eulogy by her former minister given at my mother’s memorial service in 1973. It was not a letter of condolence — it was a eulogy delivered in a memorial service — but the minister’s words on that occasion are worth quoting. He said:

I can remember Elinor sitting with Alan [my father was church organist] each Sunday in the balcony of the First Parish Unitarian Church of Canton. I felt she was cheering me on, and I never really got over the disappointment of not seeing her there, during the years of her illness.

I can remember Monday mornings spent over a cup of tea in the Smith kitchen. The warmth of that kitchen was Elinor’s warmth: it was the warmth and strength of her concern and her caring. Were I to return to that room now, I would still feel it.

I too remember my mother’s kitchen. But, what the minister said reinforced and strengthened that memory, and I was very glad to realize that others felt the same way about the special place she made it.

 

— Roger W. Smith

   September 2017

 

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Addendum:

RWS condolence letter 10-20-2018

I have added here (above) as a Word document another letter of condolence written by me. I think it shows how to write a letter of condolence when the deceased individual is someone whose family you have not been acquainted with for a long while.

 

— Roger W. Smith

   October 2018

“Christ the Lord Is Risen Today”

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“Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.”

Like other great hymns, it sure has staying power. One never tires of it.

The key must be simplicity, straightforwardness. A clean vocal line and progression.

Regarding the second track posted here, for organ, I can almost hear my father belting it out in the church he served as organist. I think it was often the recessional.

The hymn has lost none of its stirring power and appeal for me. Plus, I enjoy it. It’s hard to feel down when one hears it.

 

— Roger W. Smith

  September 2017

reflections about my Dad as a pianist

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The following is the text of an email of mine to family members (plus, note audio file above):

 

I have been sort of in the dumps today.

Wanted to listen to some light music.

I am listening to Dad’s private mini concert for Marge, from 1981.

I haven’t listened to it in years.

I am surprised by how much I am enjoying it.

He starts out the first piece pounding away, and it doesn’t seem like a good quality recording, but the recording quality gets better for the remainder.

I just listened to Dad’s rendition of “Lida Rose.” Not bad.

Now, he’s playing “New York, New York.” He should have gotten a job at Yankee Stadium!

Now he’s playing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

Old chestnuts.

He has a predilection (too much) for boogie-woogie.

I can see why people liked to hear him play, how much enjoyment they got from it, and how it must have relaxed them after a day’s toil.

I think a factor would be how much he enjoyed playing — playing for other people, that is  — and, though he could be a bit of a showoff, I guess (what musician isn’t?), his playing is anything but ponderous. He just wants you to enjoy the music as much as he does.

At least, that’s the way it seems.

 

— Roger W. Smith

  November 13, 2016

My Father’s Career as a Musician

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A message from someone who read a post on this blog, asking about my father’s career as a musician, prompted me to respond as follows:

— Roger W. Smith

   September 2016

 

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re my father (Alan W. Smith):

Thanks for asking! To respond to your queries:

My father was a pianist.

He also played accordion occasionally.

Plus, he was a church organist and choir director.

And a piano teacher.

He had a music degree from Harvard.

He was not famous.

He started working professionally in his teens while still in school.

He did all kinds of gigs — everything from musicals and ice skating shows to bar mitzvahs.

He played piano for years as a regular at a restaurant on Cape Cod. People loved him. He loved to meet people and socialize. Knew every tune.

He loved his work. He would frequently say to me, “I never worked a day in my life.”

 

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addendum:

In response to further queries from the same individual, I have added a little bit more about my father’s musical career:

I was always proud to be able to say that my father was a musician. He didn’t have the same type of job as most of my friends’ fathers did. He hated the thought of a 9 to 5 job.

My father performed with a few famous people, once or twice. I believe he made a demo record with Dinah Shore. And, he was proud to say that he performed once with a backup band behind Cab Calloway.

He hardly ever talked about it, but he played the trombone in high school. Early in his career – when he was still quite young – he performed with Harry Marshard and his Orchestra in Boston. It was the Big Band Era (1930’s and 40’s). He may have played some trombone then.

He worked with guys from all walks of life and educational levels, ranging from cultured and highly educated (Ph.D. in one case; a bass player who used to accompany him) to crude, uneducated guys who liked to swap dirty jokes. Many of his fellow musicians moonlighted  as musicians while pursuing careers such as dentistry and academics. He learned from this how to get along with people from all walks of life and from various educational and cultural backgrounds.

My father was in the Army during World War II. I don’t think his role was as a musician — in fact, I’m certain it was not. He was proud of his military service. (He did not see combat.)

a hot summer morning (with reflections on the topic of weather)

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I had a very enjoyable walk in my favorite local park this morning.

It got very hot as the day progressed, but I thoroughly enjoyed the walk and being outdoors.  I love summer weather, period.

There is a restaurant right near the park. I have hardly ever gone there, but I got to the park very early and decided after a little while to get breakfast.

A woman came into the restaurant when I was there. She is a regular there, as was indicated by her interaction with one of the waitresses. She looked about my age.

She said to the waitress something like, “This heat is terrible. It’s awful to have to put up with it – it’s disgusting.”

A lot of people complain about the weather, but the way she said it was accusatory, like the heat was an outrage being perpetrated upon her that she should not have to put up with.

Of course, I feel completely the opposite. I was enjoying the day so much. It was a balmy heat – I love the sun. It was extremely hot, but there was a modest breeze and it was not humid.

Some people will take offense at anything!

 

— Roger W. Smith

   July 18, 2016

 

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addendum:

As the summer draws to a close, I have been thinking some more about the subject of weather.

I live in the Mid Atlantic region of the United States. I grew up in New England. In both places, I was very glad that I was able to experience all four seasons.

I love the change of seasons, to be able to experience it.

About a week and a half ago, we had a spell of very hot and humid weather that was very uncomfortable. (Even I found it to be so.) You have a few spells like that during summer in New York City. Usually, only a few days of really hot weather. At most other times, while the City is hot in the summer, it is not unbearable heat wise.

I found during the recent hot spell that it was often cooler outdoors. If there was a breeze, it was often pleasant and certainly bearable. I was surprised that hardly anyone seemed to be outside (relatively speaking). I guess everyone was staying indoors because they wanted air conditioning.

I find that even on the hottest summer mornings, it is cooler (outdoors, that is). And, it can be that way in the evenings, too. This is particularly true in the parks. The grass and soil absorb the heat, whereas the pavement radiates it back like an oven.

 

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I take all weather with equanimity. I am somewhat rueful that the balmy, delightful summer days will be ending soon, but, on the other hand, I am looking forward to the wonderfully temperate, beautiful autumn days. Fall is truly a gorgeous time.

I enjoy extremes of temperature. I like to experience them. This includes bitterly cold winter days. I do — in the depth of winter, when the whole world seems to be in its grip — often wish that it would end and long for the spring, rejoice when it comes. (It came early this year, which is to say right on schedule.) But, I still appreciate the winter, which has its own harsh beauty. And, the contrast between it and other seasons makes me appreciate them all the more. Furthermore, sometimes the cold, ice, and snow can be invigorating, as well as beautiful.

I guess one could say that I take the weather as it comes. I never complain about it.

I got this from my father and mother, who did not take the beautiful New England weather with its four distinct seasons for granted.

Particularly noteworthy was my father’s attitude towards extreme weather conditions and climate changes. He NEVER complained about the weather. He welcomed the extremes. He never used weather conditions as an excuse for missing work or an appointment. He seemed to take a perverse delight in the challenges severe weather would present, and his car never stopped running, snow chains and all.

— Roger W. Smith

  September 2016

 

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Juniper Valley Park, Middle Village, Queens, NY;  July 18, 2016 — photograph by Roger W. Smith

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Juniper Valley Park

a letter of recommendation

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My father wrote this recommendation for my good friend John Harris in October 1965. John was a 1963 graduate of Canton High School in Canton, Massachusetts.

I feel that my father’s letter of recommendation demonstrates – provides one small example of – how well he could handle any writing task.

I have found that various samples of writing can teach you a lot about writing in general. This includes both good and bad writing.

In the case, of bad writing, I find that it sometimes enables me, by comparison, to become more aware of what the difference between good and bad writing is, and thereby to see more clearly what the ingredients of good writing are.

Similarly, one can learn a lot about good writing both by reading and appreciating the works of the masters – an Edward Gibbon or Charles Dickens, say – and by examining pieces of everyday writing – including those of young people and of adults who are not necessarily of English prof caliber – when it is apparent that there is an innate gift for expression and an ability to convey ideas and feelings. It could be a letter not intended to be “literary,” for example.

What I notice in my father’s writing:

GRACE – his prose is always graceful, regardless of what he is writing about, whom he is writing to, or how important the topic may or may not be.

CONCISENESS – he says just enough, no more or less. There are no unnecessary words.

CLARITY – his prose is crystal clear.

COHERENCE – the sentences and paragraphs are tied together seamlessly, like a well made piece of clothing.

IT FLOWS – the exposition proceeds logically and straightforwardly. There is no discontinuity.

TONE – it is just right for target audience. There is awareness on the writer’s (my father’s) part of who his audience is – whom he is writing TO – and of the kind of language and tone that should be employed for that target audience.

CHOICE OF SUBJECT MATTER – he uses appropriate, telling examples, the best ones he can think of, to get his points across. He has gone through his mental storehouse of impressions and memories to come up with the best examples. He has chosen the ones that best fit. Then, he has plugged them into the letter in just the right places, where they support the key points being made.

ORGANIZATION – the organization is not really noticeable, which is not to say it is flawed. It is not noticeable because it doesn’t require attention. One can follow the logic of the communique with no special effort required. There are a logic and orderliness to the way the letter is constructed. Points follow in the order that makes most sense. (This, by the way, is not true of a lot of writing. Poor organization can tire a reader trying to follow what is being said.)

EMPHASIS – this is something my high school English teacher commented upon that many writers seem to be either unaware of or unable to achieve. The letter is constructed in such a way that key points are highlighted without this being obvious.  I believe that the ability to achieve this is a mark of a master writer.

 

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I have thought about writing at this level of excellence (as I deem this short, perfunctory communique to be) and have concluded that in writing, many of the principles that apply also apply to music. For example, a composer must achieve a logical progression to his piece; he can’t be, or at least shouldn’t be, bombastic; he needs to hold the listener’s interest and to be able to convey musical ideas in such a fashion that they are not utterly incomprehensible and “take hold” upon the listener.

Which brings us back to the topic of EMPHASIS.

In good music, you feel that there is something inevitable about the “logic,” the flow of the music. You feel it sort of HAD to be constructed that way. You feel the piece could not have been composed differently.

I would contend that my father’s letter, while perfunctory in one sense, shows some of the same qualities. You get the feeling that there was only one kind of letter of recommendation that would do for this particular individual (my friend) in this situation, and that my father managed to write just that letter.

 

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I myself have often felt, when writing, that there is some kind of abstract, perfect piece of writing — appropriate to, called for, as pertains to — whatever I am writing about – just what needs to be said about this or that topic (say, a book under review) – and that I have to “find” the absolutely perfect words, not only so that they are expressed perfectly, but also that they are just what needs to be said about this or that topic, and that they cover it fully. In other words, it’s a question of both prose (wording) and subject matter (content).

It’s kind of like the search for the Platonic ideal.

So that the examples chosen to make the point are just the right ones. Say, it’s a book review I am writing, for example. This would mean that I have discussed exactly those parts of the book that merit or require discussion, that I have found exactly what passages should be quoted, and have come up with the best analogies or comparisons that must be made to other works with which this book should be compared.

Searching for the best examples, for just the right things to say, can make writing very difficult, indeed exhausting. Many pieces are not written this way. They are tossed off, written in haste. (A writer notorious for this who comes to mind is the historian A. J. P. Taylor; many op ed writers compose in this fashion.) Such writing can be adequate, but it does not have the staying power of a piece that a great deal of thought and effort have been put into.

I think my father did something similar here. He thought of just what needed to be said about my friend. He chose the best examples: marshaled them. Then, he succeeded in presenting them in the most effective possible fashion.

A further word about emphasis. In writing, as in music, emphasis, which is to say putting the weight where you want it to fall — making the reader (or listener) come to attention — can be achieved in many different ways. It could be a short, punchy sentence or phrase (“I recommend him without qualification”) or it could be something elaborate and wordy. It depends.

Variation often helps here, which means variety of pacing and tone and an admixture of the terse and direct with more high flown, wordy, abstract language. Composers do this all the time: a short musical phrase followed or preceded by a long intricate passage.

 

— Roger W. Smith

     April 2016