Our region was hit with the worst snowstorm of the season on the first day of spring. Nature refused to heed the calendar and preferred to remind us of who is really in charge.
It was a lovely snow. On the first day, feather-size flakes alternated with icy pellets and tiny flecks. This gave a satisfying crunchiness to the blanket of white as I trudged up to retrieve the mail and newspaper. The neighborhood was eerily quiet, reminding me of Conrad Aiken’s magical short story, “Silent Snow, Secret Snow.”
“A ghost of snow falling in the bright sunlight, softly and steadily floating and turning and pausing, soundlessly meeting the snow that covered, as with a transparent mirage … . Its beauty was paralyzing — beyond all words, all experience, all dream. No fairy-story he had ever read could be compared with it — none had ever given him this extraordinary combination of ethereal loveliness … .”
My wife was away at a quilting retreat in Ocean City. There it was all rain, sleet and gray, crashing ocean waves — not a snowflake in sight. Missing my partner at dinner, I turned on Turner Classic Movies (TCM), my go-to channel in these troubled times where each news bulletin is agita-inducing. “The Graduate” was playing and I joined it about 10 minutes in. I hadn’t seen the film in years and was surprised at how well this tale of alienation, lost innocence and an inability to engage with the adult world had held-up. The narrative is underscored beautifully by the music of Simon and Garfunkel; notably their haunting “The Sound of Silence.”
I hit “Info” on my remote and discovered the date of the film was 1967. This fact hit me like a 2x4. I was looking at a 50-year-old film! How was it that I remembered the music and bits and pieces of the plot and dialogue so well? How could those 50 years have flown by so fast? In 1967, I was just 22 and preparing to marry in September.
In seeking some perspective, I subtracted 50 years from this date and realized my experience was equivalent to someone having watched a film in 1917 and then seeing it again in 1967. I did some Googling. In 1917, the new art form of film was ascendant with the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton and Mary Pickford before the lens. Hollywood had discovered narrative film-making and matched action editing (creating continuity while cutting from a wide shot to a medium shot). The talkies were still 10 years away. Sadly, by 1967, virtually the only exposure the above stars received was in “History of Cinema” courses.
My head started to swim. I had absolutely nothing in common with the world of 1917, but still felt a strong affinity for the characters, dialogue and settings of 1967’s “The Graduate.” Dustin Hoffman’s escapades seemed to have happened only yesterday. Then I wryly smiled as I remembered some disquieting lyrics from Paul Simon’s “Hazy Shade of Winter.” The song isn’t part of the film score but perfectly fit my present mood: “Time, time, time, see what’s become of me while I looked around for my possibilities … .”
No, I didn’t have a good, stiff drink after all of these ruminations. Though it’s no longer “the springtime of my life,” I’d rather “hang onto (my) hopes my friend,” as the song goes on to muse, than choose despair.
Life is full of experiences like this which can’t help but remind us of the passing years. We have a grandson in first grade and one who graduated from high school last year. A granddaughter is set to graduate this June, and we have three more in-between. We celebrated two of their birthdays during our Easter dinner. Each event mirrors what’s been and what’s to come. “Seasons change with their scenery, weaving time in a tapestry.”
While eating lunch the day after the big storm, I again turned on TCM. A light snow continued to fall. As if to bookend my reflections, the 1935 film adaptation of Eugene O’Neill’s, “Ah, Wilderness!” was playing. It had a great cast (Lionel Barrymore and Spring Byington as the mom and dad, Mickey Rooney as one of the sons, the inimitable Wallace Beery as the alcoholic uncle) and pulled me in almost immediately. The dad’s closing dialogue was like a cherry on top of the previous 24 hours. “Well, spring isn’t everything … . There’s a lot to be said for autumn. That has beauty, too.”
Perfect. “And no one dared disturb the sound of silence.”
