Here’s one of my 2006 college essays I wrote when I went back to school after many years to put my Vietnam Veteran, US Marine,Purple Heart, in the Hall of Honor. His last words I heard him say to the VA hospital before he commit suicide: There is no help for the White man in this country. He was homeless on lower Wacker Drive, while Black Michelle, mentor for and Barach Hussein were above in a skyscraper working at prestigious legal firm high above my husband.
When I was at the Las Vegas college for English 101, of the 25 essays I was forced to read or told I would fail, there was only one about the White male. This analysis below for “Once Upon the Lake,” by E.B. White. He also co-authored easy pocketsized English Grammar book, “Strunk and White,” which I studied to help my writing. This essay suggests the White man was “impotent.” And after Jews got through with my husband, a White veteran for Jew bankers and their race, and the Yellow Communist Chinese shot off his testicle in his groin, you can see the powers against the White man, me, you and Race.
Here’s the story. Then my essay:
One summer, along about 1904, my father rented a camp on a lake in Maine and took us all there for the month of August. We all got ringworm from some kittens and had to rub Pond’s Extract on our arms and legs night and morning, and my father rolled over in a canoe with all his clothes on; but outside of that the vacation was a success and from then on none of us ever thought there was any place in the world like that lake in Maine. We returned summer after summer–always on August 1st for one month. I have since become a salt-water man, but sometimes in summer there are days when the restlessness of the tides and the fearful cold of the sea water and the incessant wind which blows across the afternoon and into the evening make me wish for the placidity of a lake in the woods. A few weeks ago this feeling got so strong I bought myself a couple of bass hooks and a spinner and returned to the lake where we used to go, for a week’s fishing and to revisit old haunts.
I took along my son, who had never had any fresh water up his nose and who had seen lily pads only from train windows. On the journey over to the lake I began to wonder what it would be like. I wondered how time would have marred this unique, this holy spot—the coves and streams, the hills that the sun set behind, the camps and the paths behind the camps. I was sure that the tarred road would have found it out and I wondered in what other ways it would be desolated. It is strange how much you can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the grooves which lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of another thing. I guess I remembered clearest of all the early mornings, when the lake was cool and motionless, remembered how the bedroom smelled of the lumber it was made of and of the wet woods whose scent entered through the screen. The partitions in the camp were thin and did not extend clear to the top of the rooms, and as I was always the first up I would dress softly so as not to wake the others, and sneak out into the sweet outdoors and start out in the canoe, keeping close along the shore in the long shadows of the pines. I remembered being very careful never to rub my paddle against the gunwale for fear of disturbing the stillness of the cathedral. The lake had never been what you would call a wild lake. There were cottages sprinkled around the shores, and it was in farming although the shores of the lake were quite heavily wooded. Some of the cottages were owned by nearby farmers, and you would live at the shore and eat your meals at the farmhouse. That’s what our family did. But although it wasn’t wild, it was a fairly large and undisturbed lake and there were places in it which, to a child at least, seemed infinitely remote and primeval.
I was right about the tar: it led to within half a mile of the shore But when I got back there, with my boy, and we settled into a camp near a farmhouse and into the kind of summertime I had known, I could tell that it was going to be pretty much the same as it had been before–I knew it, lying in bed the first morning, smelling the bedroom, and hearing the boy sneak quietly out and go off along the shore in a boat. I began to sustain the illusion that he was I, and therefore, by simple transposition, that I was my father. This sensation persisted, kept cropping up all the time we were there. It was not an entirely new feeling, but in this setting it grew much stronger. I seemed to be living a dual existence. I would be in the middle of some simple act, I would be picking up a bait box or laying down a table fork, or I would be saying something, and suddenly it would be not I but my father who was saying the words or making the gesture. It gave me a creepy sensation.
We went fishing the first morning. I felt the same damp moss covering the worms in the bait can, and saw the dragonfly alight on the tip of my rod as it hovered a few inches from the surface of the water. It was the arrival of this fly that convinced me beyond any doubt that everything was as it always had been, that the years were a mirage and there had been no years. The small waves were the same, chucking the rowboat under the chin as we fished at anchor, and the boat was the same boat, the same color green and the ribs broken in the same places, and under the floor boards the same freshwater leavings and debris–the dead helgramite, the wisps of moss, the rusty discarded fishhook, the dried blood from yesterday’s catch. We stared silently at the tips of our rods, at the dragonflies that came and wells. I lowered the tip of mine into the water, tentatively, pensively dislodging the fly, which darted two feet away, poised, darted two feet back, and came to rest again a little farther up the rod. There had been no years between the ducking of this dragonfly and the other one–the one that was part of memory. I looked at the boy, who was silently watching his fly, and it was my hands that held his rod, my eyes watching. I felt dizzy and didn’t know which rod I was at the end of.
We caught two bass, hauling them in briskly as though they were mackerel, pulling them over the side of the boat in a businesslike manner without any landing net, and stunning them with a blow on the back of the head. When we got back for a swim before lunch, the lake was exactly where we had left it, the same number of inches from the dock, and there was only the merest suggestion of a breeze. This seemed an utterly enchanted sea, this lake you could leave to its own devices for a few hours and come back to, and find that it had not stirred, this constant and trustworthy body of water. In the shallows, the dark, water-soaked sticks and twigs, smooth and old, were undulating in clusters on the bottom against the clean ribbed sand, and the track of the mussel was plain. A school of minnows swam by, each minnow with its small, individual shadow, doubling the attendance, so clear and sharp in the sunlight. Some of the other campers were in swimming, along the shore, one of them with a cake of soap, and the water felt thin and clear and insubstantial. Over the years there had been this person with the cake of soap, this cultist, and here he was. There had been no years.
Up to the farmhouse to dinner through the teeming, dusty field, the road under our sneakers was only a two-track road. The middle track was missing, the one with the marks of the hooves and the splotches of dried, flaky manure. There had always been three tracks to choose from in choosing which track to walk in; now the choice was narrowed down to two. For a moment I missed terribly the middle alternative. But the way led past the tennis court, and something about the way it lay there in the sun reassured me; the tape had loosened along the backline, the alleys were green with
plantains and other weeds, and the net (installed in June and removed in September) sagged in the dry noon, and the whole place steamed with midday heat and hunger and emptiness. There was a choice of pie for dessert, and one was blueberry and one
was apple, and the waitresses were the same country girls, there having been no passage of time, only the illusion of it as in a dropped curtain–the waitresses were still fifteen; their hair had been washed, that was the only difference–they had been to the movies and seen the pretty girls with the clean hair.
Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end; this was the background, and the life along the shore was the design, the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design, their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky, the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling, and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat, wondering whether the newcomers at the camp at the head of the cove were “common” or “nice,” wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn’t enough chicken.
It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness. The arriving (at the beginning of August) had been so big a business in itself, at the railway station the farm wagon drawn up, the first smell of the pine-laden air, the first glimpse of the smiling farmer, and the great importance of the trunks and your father’s enormous authority in such matters, and the feel of the wagon under you for the long ten-mile haul, and at the top of the last long hill catching the first view of the lake after eleven months of not seeing this cherished body of water. The shouts and cries of the other campers when they saw you, and the trunks to be unpacked, to give up their rich burden. (Arriving was less exciting nowadays, when you sneaked up in your car and parked it under a tree near the camp and took out the bags and in five minutes it was all over, no fuss, no loud wonderful fuss about trunks.)
Peace and goodness and jollity. The only thing that was wrong now, really, was the sound of the place, an unfamiliar nervous sound of the outboard motors. This was the note that jarred, the one thing that would sometimes break the illusion and set the years moving. In those other summertimes, all motors were inboard; and when they were at a little distance, the noise they made was a sedative, an ingredient of summer sleep. They were one-cylinder and two-cylinder engines, and some were make-and-break and some were jump-spark, but they all made a sleepy sound across the lake. The one-lungers throbbed and fluttered, and the twin-cylinder ones purred and purred, and that was a quiet sound too. But now the campers all had outboards. In the daytime, in the hot mornings, these motors made a petulant, irritable sound; at night, in the still evening when the afterglow lit the water, they whined about one’s ears like mosquitoes. My boy loved our rented outboard, and his great desire was to achieve single-handed mastery over it, and authority, and he soon learned the trick of choking it a little (but not too much), and the adjustment of the needle valve. Watching him I would remember the things you could do with the old one-cylinder engine with the heavy flywheel, how you could have it eating out of your hand if you got really close to it spiritually. Motor boats in those days didn’t have clutches, and you would make a landing by shutting off the motor at the proper time and coasting in with a dead rudder. But there was a way of reversing them, if you learned the trick, by cutting the switch and putting it on again exactly on the final dying revolution of the flywheel, so that it would kick back against compression and begin reversing. Approaching a dock in a strong following breeze, it was difficult to slow up sufficiently by the ordinary coasting method, and if a boy felt he had complete mastery over his motor, he was tempted to keep it running beyond its time and then reverse it a few feet from the dock. It took a cool nerve, because if you threw the switch a twentieth of a second too soon you would catch the flywheel when it still had speed enough to go up past center, and the boat would leap ahead, charging bull-fashion at the dock.
We had a good week at the camp. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly, day after day. We would be tired at night and lie down in the accumulated heat of the little bedrooms after the long hot day and the breeze would stir almost imperceptibly outside and the smell of the swamp drift in through the rusty screens. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof, tapping out his gay routine. I kept remembering everything, lying in bed in the mornings–the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangi, and how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails, when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar, and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night, and what it had felt like to think about girls then. After breakfast we would go up to the store and the things were in the same place–the minnows in a bottle, the plugs and spinners disarranged and pawed over by the youngsters from the boys’ camp, the fig newtons and the Beeman’s gum. Outside, the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. Inside, all was just as it had always been, except there was more Coca Cola and not so much Moxie and root beer and birch beer and sarsaparilla. We would walk out with a bottle of pop apiece and sometimes the pop would backfire up our noses and hurt. We explored the streams, quietly, where the turtles slid off the sunny logs and dug their way into the soft bottom; and we lay on the town wharf and fed worms to the tame bass. Everywhere we went I had trouble making out which was I, the one walking at my side, the one walking in my pants.
One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella. When the others went swimming my son said he was going in too. He pulled his dripping trunks from the line where they had hung all through the shower, and wrung them out. Languidly, and with no thought of going in, I watched him, his hard little body, skinny and bare, saw him wince slightly as he pulled up around his vitals the small, soggy, icy garment. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death.
October 25, 2006
“Once More to the Lake”
Author, E. B. White, takes his son on a fishing trip at the cabins just as his father took him when he was a little boy. His in depth description of that week really explains the role of a male from puberty to male menopause. I find that the essay is a work of brilliant genius in communicating this path of life, as he does in his other book “Is Sex Necessary: Or Why You Feel the Way You Do. 1929.” (forwarded by John Updike) Mr. White, I believe, had to hide sexual ponderings just as Jesus had to hide spiritual truths in parables; it was all the common folk could comprehend and accept at the time.
At the beginning of the story, Elwyn White buys some “bass hooks” and “returns to the lake to revisit old haunts.” He describes that urgent thought echoing in the corners of his mind: “I began to sustain the illusion that he was I, and therefore, by simple transposition, that I was my father.” The lake has changed little and is not a wild lake, but describes a few changes. White and son go fishing successfully, catching two bass, and also enjoy the encounters on a motorboat. One of the only changes is on their way to dinner at the farmhouse- there are only two tracks instead of three on the tar, meaning that the horse and buggy complete with its splotchy, smelly manure, had been replaced by car tire tracks to follow on the path. Even the fifteen year old waitresses have only differed over the years by the process of washing their hair with products as the women in Hollywood movies showed them to do. The author points out that advertised brand names to influence life had changed, while the lovliness of turtles activities in nature remained the same. At the end, there is a tremendous thunderstorm that whips the little fishing village into excitement and frivolity for his son who gets naked, puts on wet trunks, and enjoys the freedom of the rain. Yet E.B. White feels this to be sort of a death for him or his virility.
The essayist effectively paints a vivid painting of the landscape scene at the lake, complete with stillness and boredom. The reader feels as if he is being transformed into Elwyn’s youthful memories of the romance of older boys playing mandolins, girls singing, and sweet music on the lake, the joyful beginnings of a heterosexual relationship. He goes deeper into what it felt to think about girls then, in contrasted to what he is seeing and feeling today which appears empty and contrived to him. One can relish the importance of the mundane in his words, so that when the exciting time comes, there is a sharp contrast. His egotistical reflections accurately portray human existence with no frills, unless one like’s commercials on t.v. and accepts that as “reality”. Step by step, Mr. White defines the “peace, goodness, and jollity” that is the totality of who he is, whether we like him or not.
Even though the critique following the essay complains that E.B. White has effrontery and is self-centered, I feel, that E. B. White effectively and boldly describes the sexual life of a male as lacking color and sparkle, a drudgery one must endure rather than enjoy, and is progressing worse instead of getting better. He is ever so subtle, and literally covers up this rise and fall of sexual tension through nature’s sights, sounds, and smells at the lake. His purpose is buried, and one has to really be a literary sleuth to read through the clues he gives. Since the year was 1904, Puritanical America would frown on him as if he were a pervert, expounding on sensual thoughts. The story gives me the feeling as a woman that I would like to jump into the pages, rather than the lake, and redeem his sexuality, rather than the shackles of boredom, that grip his body, mind, and soul, regarding sex!
He pens a man’s hormones with a startling simple phrase as “restlessness of the tides and the fearful cold of the seawater” in defining the outset of puberty. He refers sacredly to this thinking as a “holy spot”, that began cool, motionless, yet smelled of “lumber and made of wet woods whose scent entered through the screen.” The reader can almost “smell” the story through the nostrils, rather than see it during many paragraphs. This vacation lake was never a “wild lake”, because sex was a taboo then with very little action. In Puritanical days, Americans followed the English tradition that sex was a vacation visited once a year, and that the couple endured it with very little emotion or understanding. One of his fears was the “gunwale for fear of the disturbing the stillness of the cathedral,” indicating that religion and society kept a steel mental barrier on one’s sexuality. Yet this retreat seemed “infinitely remote and primeval,” something lingering in the recesses of his mind of many generations past. His sense of smell is again re-ignited in the “smelling the bedroom,” followed by “his son’s sneaking out”, which surely all three generations, grandfather, father, and son, have experienced. He describes his fishing event camouflaging his male organ of his and his son’s as “We stared silently at the tips of our rods,” as if thinking, but not spoken, “What am I supposed to do with this and why?” And then he says that his boy was “silently watching his fly” revealing his youthful son’s wondering when his zipper would open and casts shadows of doubt on a reality that seems to have the sun shining all the time with very few problems. The father’s gnawing thought about his son is: Would be ready for his first sexual encounter, or sees it as uneventful as he does, with only a splash of excitement and passion here and there.
E.B. White uses language that elicits images of the female body. The rumblings of the man’s sensuality is whispered as there was the “merest suggestion of a breeze,” followed by the realization that there was something bewildering with “This seemed an utterly enchanted sea, this lake you could leave to its own devices for a few hours and come back to and find that it had not stirred, this constant and trustworthy body of water.” Could that have been the fluid body of a female whose only thought of sex was obligation or abstinecnce? He then described fish such as mussels, and minnows, which accurately describe the scent of the female vagina.
He then describes his latent appetite for sex with the phrase “the whole place steamed with midday heat and hunger and emptiness.” By describing the fifteen year old waitress-girls that should deliver a “sexual meal”, he moans that they seem only interested today in following Hollywood’s directive toward the ease buying a new hair product to attract men into the mating ritual. The young women never challenge society’s limitation on female sexuality breaking the illusion of the peacefulness of the lake as deceiving and putting one’s sexuality to sleep, rather than stirring it up. E.B. ponders the placidness of the restraint and denial of sexual feelings in everyday life, to the point of very bland description of nature such as “tranquil design”, “summer without end”, and “floating against the white clouds in the blue sky.” It took me a lot of growing pains from leading the life of celibacy, in and out of marriage, being a victim of married Jewish men’s preying on Gentile women in the professional scene, and finally getting drugged and raped by a man from Holland, to take off the façade and silence of sex, and search for its true meaning which I believe very close to nature as E.B. White described in his essay.
E.B. effectively gets me to put my thinking cap on and question: What is rumbling under this placid paradise? When he says, “an unfamiliar nervous sound of outboard motors,” I believe the gurgling hormones were started to erupt the “sedative, an ingredient of summer sleep,” that had been going on for thousands of years, but no one on the earth was daring enough to think about it. The author describes the mastery of the boat’s motor, but in reality, it is man trying to achieve complete mastery the delicate nuances of his role as a sexual male, but only follows the footsteps as his father lived his life, rather than thinking for himself. Something seems to take over the subtlety of sex. It is taken over by corporate America, with slogans and name brands, to make money off of what was once free, natural, and beautiful, now became costly, contrived, and almost ugly in his two simple, yet penetrating words-“oppression and heat.” Names like Fig Newtons, Beeman’s, Coca Cola, and Moxie, now act as dictators to influence our minds, instead of our own primitive natural instincts. He now writes questioning is “he” the one walking in his pants?
But, finally comes the “thunderstorm,” and the “second-act climax” which he says is the “big scene.” The sexual symphony fills the air for just a bare few moments of the story. “The kettle drum, the snare, bass drum and cymbals, crackling light against the dark, the gods grinning and licking their chops” are euphuisms for the excitement of the male in sexual foreplay, ecstasy, and satisfaction, which one would call a “quickee” today. It follows with the calmness again returning with “After the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. Even his son will get initiated into sex as he “goes to put on wet trunks on his hard little body, skinny and bare.” But, it ends that the author felt an icy chill of death in his own groin, probably symbolizing the fact that he has sex no more, caused by the “use it or lose it” mentality of the older generation.
Being a female, and the opposite partner of the male as defined in this story, I could empathize with author’s feelings cloaked in a cloud of symbolism covering up what he really was talking in an age of sexual depression, repression, suppression, and lack of intelligent expression. I especially liked his comparison of the advertising of name brand products to our mass selling of sex. I believe a person’s sexual identity is a free gift from the grace of God and not a god of marketing and advertising, as E.B. was witnessed many, many years ago.
In conclusion, E.B. White was a fatalist buying into the concept of his other book, “Is Sex Necessary?” meaning, all the glory of nature is all around, but is it important and vital, the very essence of life, or mundane and boring almost to a point of yawning? He was a very brave man to talk about sex in 1929, even if it was in the disguise of his trip with his son to the “lake.” Only now instead of the grueling study and education about sex that I submerged myself into, men substitute an advertised product of “Viagra” which is deceiving men into a false erotic state that can actually hurt men in the long run instead of helping them being virile. He apologizes for his autobiographical thinking with, “I have always been aware that I am by nature self-absorbed and egoistical; to write of myself to the extent what I have done indicates a too great attention to my own life, not enough to the lives of others. But when I am discouraged or downcast I need only fling open the door of my closet, and there, hidden behind everything else, hangs the mantle of Michel de Montaigne, smelling slightly of camphor.” I as the reader was left with the invisible smell of sex, which is continually present, yet society has cut my nose off by traps of limitation that I can only seem to visit it in reality once a year, like the lake vacation, and depressing worse, if ever again.