Showing posts with label " Murray Morgan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label " Murray Morgan. Show all posts

Monday, January 3, 2022

Jonathan Raban to Murray, 27 June 1994 -- "loveliest village on the plain"

Here Jonathan Raban applies his literary erudition to boomtown building in the American West. He was working on "Bad Land" (published in 1996), an exploration of the early twentieth-century homesteading experience in eastern Montana, where American optimism and railroad promotions combined to create communities that were destined to wither in arid reality. One of them was Ismay, Montana, which was briefly notorious for informally renaming itself "Joe, Montana," in 1993, and more recently made the news for returning its federal COVID stimulus funding. The mayor of the community of approximately 17 people explained that as the town has no municipal water supply, no paved roads, and no sewer system, it had no real use for the proffered first installment of $4,853.35.

Raban also wondered about the south King County town of Auburn, which has not dwindled like Ismay, though neither has it become the "loveliest village of the plain." He was correct that it gets its name from the Goldsmith poem. That was after the original name, Slaughter, in commemoration of a Lt. William A. Slaughter who was killed in the "Indian War" of 1856, was determined to be a curb on growth.

Dear Murray,

This is a scribbled postscript to a party here on August 3rd, ...

In the meantime I have a thought/query. I've lately been nagged by the question of just how well-known in the West was Oliver Goldsmith's poem "The Deserted Village", with its idealised picture of rural life. I remember the first time I drove past Auburn, and wondered idly if its name might be an allusion to the poem ("Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain..."), and the memory was cranked up the other day, when I was Ismay, MT (and the scene of Percy Wollaston's memoir) and read the first issue of The Ismay, published in 1908, which had a booster-poem on its front page whose last four lines go as follows:

...Long may she thrive while countless homes do stand

on such abundant and fertile land.

While natives listen at eve's alluring strains,

Blest little Ismay, youngest city of the plains!

Well, the author of that one clearly has a memory of Goldsmith somewhere in his or her head, as several earlier lines confirm.

It makes good sense to me that when the railroad companies and the government got into the business of village-making between abut 1880 and 1914, Goldsmith's poem would have made a nice piece of propaganda. In his version of things, landlordism, the spread of the great estates and the enclosure acts were destroying the pastoral life of rural England.

 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

But in democratic America (or so I imagine the gist of the propaganda), one could turn the clock back and reconstruct the kind of rural idyll that had largely died in undemocratic England in the eighteenth century. Sweet Auburn redivivus! Blest little Ismay! If one has Goldsmith on one hand and Percy Wollaston in the other, quite an interesting chime is struck, I think, between the two. If there's something to this, then some of the mental energy and picture-building that went into the homesteading movement came from an odd, very American version of rural nostalgia.

The irony is, of course, that no lovely villages have ever been more rapidly deserted than those of the Badlands and western plains. Goldsmith would have been appalled by the rise of the ranch over the homestead and by the way in which the homestead acts were exploited by the timber, mining, and railroad corporations, who managed to make the activities of the English landlords look like very small beer indeed. 

 

The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay...

There are several Auburns scattered over the U.S.; some, like the one in New York, may well predate the Goldsmith poem. But I do wonder whether the Auburns of WA, California and Nebraska, for instance, consciously set out to recreate the loveliest village of the plain.

 

Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside,

to 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

 ...asks Goldsmith; and, some 100 years later, courtesy of the railroad companies, comes the answer--why, western Washington, or eastern Montana...

Now you'll tell me that Auburn was named after one Hiram Aloysius Auburn, otherwise known as the Green River Timber King. But I'd love to believe that it got its name from someone thinking of "The Deserted Village" -- and thinking that a village in the far West might enjoy the innocence long lost by its counterparts in England.

Crabbe's response to Goldsmith ("The Village") is much the better poem; and funny, too, with his castigation of the stupidity and brutishness of rural life. I love his description of the villages as "sedately torpid and devoutly dumb". If only the homesteaders had read Crabbe instead, an enormous amount of human misery might have been spared.

No need to respond to this--and certainly not in writing. But next time we speak, will you burst my balloon on the naming of Auburn, or leave it intact?

My feet are in agony. I'm wearing in a pair of new snakeboots in preparation for my second visit to Ismay, where three weeks ago I spent most of my time walking through the buffalo grass like a heron on hot bricks. There were rattlesnakes galore. But I am totally bewitched by that extraordinary landscape -- maybe because it is nearly as alien and solitary as the ocean. Poor old Wollastons (and all their neighbors).

My best,

Jonathan

Thursday, May 14, 2020

31 December 1939 -- Shirer, Hitler, Trump, and Godwin's Law, plus a guest appearance by George Wallace

This is apropos of nothing in this blog's regular subject matter except that I've been reading William Shirer's Berlin Diary lately. He was reporting around Europe at the same time my folks were honeymooning down the Danube in 1939. He was more experienced and much better informed than they were, and his takes on the impending war are a contrast to their sunny predictions.

I'm guessing he and Murray met in 1941 when both were back in New York working for CBS, because the copy I have is autographed to Murray.


Berlin, December 31 

A flood of New Year's proclamations from all and sundry -- Hitler, Gรถring, Himmler, etc. Hitler holds out hope of victory to the people in 1940. Says he: "United within the country, economically prepared and militarily armed to the highest degree, we enter this most decisive year in German history ... May the year 1940 bring the decision. It will be, whatever happens, our victory." 

He goes to extreme lengths to justify his war, and if the German people were not so poisoned by propaganda and suppression of the slightest factual news from abroad, they would laugh. He says the "Jewish reactionary warmongers in the capitalist democracies" started the war! Words have no more meaning for the man nor, I fear, for his people. He says, "The German people did not want this war." (True.) "I tried up to the last minute to keep peace with England." (False) "But the Jewish and reactionary warmongers waited for this minute to carry out their plans to destroy Germany." (False.)
...
Cold, and a coal shortage. The office boy said tonight we were out of coal at the office and that there was no more coal to be had. [bolding mine]

--Berlin Diary, p. 270-271 

One question I had when reading this entry on New Year's Eve 1939 was, what if Hitler and crew had Twitter? When Shirer says "words have no more meaning for the man," I can't help but think of a current "wartime president."And though I know Godwin's Law about bringing Hitler into a discussion, I am also aware that Godwin himself recently retweeted this, which is worth a read:
https://www.newsweek.com/hitler-incompetent-lazy-nazi-government-clown-show-opinion-1408136

And while I'm on the topic of demagogues and how to know them, here's Hunter S. Thompson on George Wallace in 1972:


"The root of the Wallace magic was a cynical, showbiz instinct for knowing exactly which issues would whip a hall full of beer-drinking factory workers into a frenzy -- and then doing exactly that, by howling down from the podium that he had an instant, overnight cure for all their worst afflictions: Taxes? Nigras? Army worms killing the turnip crop? Whatever it was, Wallace assured his supporters that the solution was actually real simple, and that the only reason they had any hassle with the government at all was because those greedy bloodsuckers in Washington didn't want the problems solved, so they wouldn't be out of work. The ugly truth is that Wallace had never even bothered to understand the problems--much less come up with any honest solutions--but the "Fighting Little Judge" has never lost much sleep from guilt feelings about his personal credibility gap. ..." 
[bolding mine]

--Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, p. 275



Thursday, July 14, 2011

Murray to Rosa, 1938 -- "I wish I knew what to do"

Murray left the Grays Harbor Washingtonian after a year and went to work for the Seattle Municipal News, the publication of the Seattle Municipal League. In August, he became the League's secretary, directing their candidate evaluations. The job brought him back to Seattle, and closer to Rosa, but he chafed at office politicking and the loss of freedom to organize his own time.

July 13, 1938

I wish I knew what to do, my pet. I'd like to travel, but I'd have to have a job and I wouldn't want to travel that way because it would take me away from you. I miss you so darn much just being this far away. And I'd like to go back to school just for the sake of learning more. And I'd like to be on a paper again for the sake of a job with companionship and less responsibilities, but I know that I would rebel again at taking orders at slanting news, etcetera. And I'd like to get a weekly paper somewhere, but I hate the gamble and am not sure enough of my knowledge of printing. If it were only the writing that one had to worry about. So I'm all undecided and restless.

July 14, 1938

...Did you ever read Whitman, hon? I've tried several times in years past to wade into him, but the man's colossal egotism has always gotten in the way. I started again this morning, on the street car going down town ... and I really got something out of it. For instance,

...

Whitman the shaggy hero

Beginning My Studies

Beginning my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,
The least insect or animal, the sense, eyesight, love,
The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,
I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,
But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.

For the first time I've had the idea that Dad's shaggy hero is talking to me.

...

One compensation of a new job in a more prosperous city was more money, most of which he spent on books and records. In October he won $18.80 in a dice game and spent it on "a whole flock of books that I've been really wanting but, since they are classics, have neglected to buy": Paradise Lost, Dante, Dialogues of Plato, Shakespeare, Ambrose Bierce's "In the Midst of Life," Romaine Rolland's "Jean Christophe." "Hon, they're just beautiful." A few days later he used another windfall to buy recordings of Sibelius and Haydn. And in December he announced the acquisition of Vernon Lewis Parrington's Main Currents in American Thought, all three volumes for $6.70.

Checking in with his friends still in college, he found Depression era financial worries beginning to be superseded by the fear of war.

Sept. 27, 1938

Dearest Nun:

My little office radio is sure coming in for use these days. People from all over the building have gathered in here to hear the Hitler and Chamberlain speeches the last couple of days. I wish that you could have listened in, pet. The contrast between the talks of the two men was probably as impressive as the Praha speech we heard last Friday. Hitler sounded like a wounded animal most of the time -- he snarled and screamed and sometimes whimpered. The English prime minister, on the other hand, had a Milquetoast voice and his understatements were comparable to those of Steinbeck or Hilton. "I found Mr. Hitler's stand most unreasonable."

Seattle people whom I have been talking to are pretty worried. They all think that we're cinch to get into the mess if it boils over, and the kids out at the fraternity were all talking nervously about "That hideout in the Olympics." Hell, they could have a fraternity row 50 miles in from Quinault if they all lived up to their "I'll ditch" promises.

His own response to a likely future as a soldier was carpe diem. He quit his job at the Municipal League, having confirmed his suspicion that he was not suited to organizational life, and dove into research on European history, kayaking, and architecture. He decided to travel, hoping to establish himself as a freelancer. Rosa always said that his marriage proposal consisted of an announcement that he had bought an extra ticket on a freighter headed for Europe, in case she wanted to come. He did give her at least a month's notice, writing on Feb. 1, 1939, that "This idea of quitting one job and getting married without the prospect of another is so beautifully unorthodox that I like it for that reason alone, as well as for romantic ones."

They were married in Murray's dad's church on March 5, with HVM presiding, and left the same day. Since their 10 a.m. sailing meant an 8 a.m. ceremony and little time for chat, Murray and Rosa planned for just the immediate family. But Henry Victor invited the whole church and most of them not only showed up but followed them to dockside. Rosa wore a blue suit and Murray, of course, brought along his typewriter. They traveled on the Norwegian freighter Heranger. Murray had already made two sea trips to Europe. Rosa had never been east of Spokane or south of Oregon.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Murray sees the Boys in the Boat--Olympic Games, Berlin, August 15, 1936


Dearest Rosa, 

It’s after twelve now and in the morning I have to get up really early in order to prepare for leaving here for the Hague, so this letter will be of the dashed-off variety. 

Yesterday was about the most thrilling for sports that I’ve ever had. The reason, of course, was the crew race. After the Germans had won the first five races at Grunau the British gave me a big spine tingle by breaking the jinx. Then the next race brought on Washington against the field. I went absolutely nuts all the time during the race. In the first place, Washington was last till after the half-way mark, and even though I knew that they specialized in making good finishes I didn’t want them to gamble on their ability. Then with about 500 yards to go they were third, way back of Hungary, Italy and Germany who were fighting it out. Suddenly they really turned on the heat and started to move. 
Murray wore a borrowed Husky sweater to the Games

Great chucks of water flew up as the blades smacked into it. Coming like a shot the Husky Clipper nailed Italy about sixteen yards from the end and moved out to win by .4 of a second. My voice is still lingering around Grunau somewhere because I haven’t been able to find it since. Incidentally, I fear that I bewildered the poor Germans with my shouts for “Washington.” They still don’t know who I was rooting for. 

Gee but it will be swell to start heading for home pretty quick. I’m pretty well fed up with foreign food and foreign voices. Gee what I wouldn’t give for a good American dinner right now, and a bed that has springs which are not instruments of torture. 

And would I love to see you. Oh, gee, darling, but I’m really lonesome over here. But it won’t be so terribly long now. 

I just can’t stay awake any longer, hon. All my love.

Really and forever,

Murray