Elizabeth+Varner

Elizabeth Bishop http://www.poetryfoundation.org/uploads/authors/elizabeth-bishop/448x/elizabeth-bishop.jpg In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the //National Geographic// (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole --"Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an //oh!// of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was //me//: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an //I//, you are an //Elizabeth//, you are one of //them//. //Why// should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the //National Geographic// and those awful hanging breasts held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. ................................................................................. || **Analytical Summary 1** ‍‍‍‍‍‍Channeling her six-year-old self, Elizabeth Bishop recounts waiting for her Aunt Consuelo at the dentist, and her first realization of being one person in billions. Engrossed and “too shy to stop,” (33) reading an issue of //National Geographic//, she absorbed photos of a volcano, “Osa and Martin Johnson/dressed in riding breeches,” (21-22) “babies with pointed heads” (26) and bodies of mutilated women. The flood of global images was something she had never been exposed to before, living in Worcester. The date on the cover read “February, 1918” (53) and she was unable to fathom that such events were occurring even as she sat in the waiting room. ‍‍‍‍‍‍ Paralyzed by the currency of the snapshots, a moment of recognized terror enveloped her, a tidal wave of self-awareness. She wanted “to stop/the sensation of falling off/the round, turning world,” (56-58) and return to her pinpointed location of Worcester. Six-year-old Elizabeth “felt: you are an //I//,/ you are an //Elizabeth//,/you are one of //them//” (60-62). This progression of identification, as a blissfully unaware child to realizing she was one of “//them//,” was her first moment of mature clarity. Experiencing this moment at such an early age must have influenced her poetic perception of the world, making simple details paramount in her works. After her revelation, “I scarcely dared to look/to see what it was I was,” (64-65) Bishop reminds the reader that she is reminiscing this moment from a six-year-olds’ point of view, “I gave a sidelong glance/ --I couldn’t look any higher--/at shadowy gray knees” (66-68). Physically, she is a child dwarfed by adults. Mentally, her epiphany dwarfs the insight and wisdom that most adults will ever possess. She recognizes “nothing stranger” (72) had, or could, “ever happen” (74) and tries to rationalize “What similarities…/ held us all together/or made us all just one?” (77, 82-83). Confused of her identity, as to whether she was still an individual or hopelessly lost in the conglomerate of humanity, she finally reasserts herself, “then I was back in [the waiting room]” (94). Having contemplated the universe for a few panicked minutes, six-year-old Elizabeth returns to the surroundings of the waiting room, “it was still the fifth /of February, 1918” (98-99), disassociated from the jumbled graphics. || I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled and barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green weed hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen --the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly-- I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. --It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip --if you could call it a lip grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels--until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. || **Analytical Summary 2** By contrasting the grim physical attributes of a “tremendous” fish with intricate beauty, Bishop explores the deserved entitlement every organism has to survival (1). “His brown skin hung in strips” (10) “like wallpaper:/shapes like full-blown roses” (13-14). Instead of forming grotesque patterns, ‍‍‍‍‍his shredded scales appear as voluptuously blossomed roses fit to adorn the interior of a venerable home ‍‍‍‍‍. Unkempt and “speckled with barnacles” (16) he still appears dapper, clothed in “fine rosettes of lime” (17). His unintentional, unattended appearance retains a wild beauty which few have the opportunity to admire. Bishop continues, contrasting his “coarse white flesh” (27) to feathers, as if his rough meat could create a delicate, downy figure. While the fish may not be perceived as beautiful, its existence is as equally substantial and necessary to nature as the most stunning sunset. After focusing on the fishes’ likeness to natural splendor, Bishop connects this simple, pea-brained animal to the complexity of human physicality. Plateauing the two species through similarities, she notes that his eyes are “shallower,” “yellowed,” (36) and his irises look like “tarnished tinfoil” (38). These are not negatively connoted observations but carefully composed, given a weighty appreciation. Bishop “admired his sullen face” (45) as well as his jaw and lip, still equating the anatomies of fish and human. By searching and finding these parallels, she erodes the superiority of humans, making monumental differences inconsequential. From the fishes’ lip “hung five old pieces of fish-line,” (51) and with newfound approval of these battle trophies, Bishop described them “like medals with their ribbons/frayed and wavering,/a five-haired beard of wisdom/trailing from his aching jaw” (61-64). Catching the fish, though, garnered her the ultimate victory. Unable to accept the imbalance her brilliant, “rainbow” (69) victory would create, Bishop set him free, defending unrestrained freedom for all. || At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony --like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river. The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony. He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun. Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle. I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, --I saw it with one eye close to the crumb-- and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee. We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony. || **Analytical Summary 3 ** Taking a different approach than her usual detail-oriented, free-flowing style, Bishop’s “A Miracle for Breakfast” is a sestina, repeating the same original six end words for six stanzas, concluding with a summary envoi of only three lines, using only three of the six end words. At first imperceptible to the untrained eye, “coffee,” “crumb,” “balcony,” “miracle,” “sun,” and “river” soon become staccato mantras throughout the poem. Perhaps used to mimic the bleak, seemingly interminable Great Depression (the subject of the poem), Bishop employs the sestina to drill into the reader a caustic impatience for justice. Looking up at “a certain balcony” (3) the narrator waits for the oxymoronic “charitable crumb” (2). One man has the power to distribute the rations, symbolizing the control the American government excised over its people during the Depression. “His head, so to speak, in the clouds” (18) the superior man sprinkles down breadcrumbs and drops of coffee to the impoverished people, expecting them to rejoice, yet they are still “waiting for the miracle” (24) of actual improvement in their lives. The narrator drifts from reality but what he or she imagines “was not a miracle” (25) because it is a true figment of imagination; fruitless hungering. Daydreaming of “a beautiful villa” (26) and “every day…/at breakfast time I sit on my balcony/with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee” (34-36) the narrator wishes to control his or her own life, rather than lining up for the man’s meager “meal.” The final three lines return to this situation, though, lamenting its futility. Hopelessly waiting for a miracle, the narrator sees “A window across the river caught the sun/as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony” (38-39), as if those in the sun, across the river, have received their miracle. Accepting their crumb and coffee, the narrator disdainfully awaits the sunlight’s halted journey across the river. || Oh, why should a hen have been run over on West 4th Street in the middle of summer? She was a white hen --red-and-white now, of course. How did she get there? Where was she going? Her wing feathers spread flat, flat in the tar, all dirtied, and thin as tissue paper. A pigeon, yes, or an English sparrow, might meet such a fate, but not that poor fowl. Just now I went back to look again. I hadn't dreamed it: there is a hen turned into a quaint old country saying scribbled in chalk (except for the beak). || **‍Analytical Summary 4 ‍** Charmingly concise and humorously quizzical, “Trouvée” ponders the insoluble: Why did the chicken cross the road? Bishop, in her usual straightforward style, renews the search for an answer after observing fowl road kill. Asking “why should a hen have been run over?” (1-2), “how did she get there?” (7) and “where was she going?” (8) Bishop tries to unravel the secret agenda of this busy hen. The fact that a flightless bird pecked its way to “West 4th Street” is absurd, it has no business outside of its coop. “A pigeon, yes,/or an English sparrow” (13-14) would deserve such a ritualistic death, as the accepted vagrants of cities, but not a pure, innocent hen. Hens serve a higher purpose than begging for crumbs; they provide eggs and meat, and this contribution should warrant them a more humane death. This particular chicken chanced social norms and was subsequently reduced to “a quaint/old country saying” (21-22). Bishop returned to the scene of the crime to reassure herself that she “hadn’t dreamed it” (19); that this hen was (formerly) living proof that chickens do have a mind to cross roads. The trivially conversational tone puts the joke on “that poor fowl” (16), accrediting the most common answer—to get to the other side—to the original, age-old question. Hens have no forethought, no destination; they mindlessly peck their way through their humdrum days, waiting to become mothers and then someone’s supper. Bishop enjoys the philosophical fodder the dead chicken unintentionally provides, taking the excuse to question the little things in life. “Trouvée” translates to “found,” and while Bishop found the literal answer to the question—chickens cross the road to die—she also found an everlasting enigma. || We must admire her perfect aim, this huntress of the winter air whose level weapon needs no sight, if it were not that everywhere her game is sure, her shot is right. The least of us could do the same. The chalky birds or boats stand still, reducing her conditions of chance; air's gallery marks identically the narrow gallery of her glance. The target-center in her eye is equally her aim and will. Time's in her pocket, ticking loud on one stalled second. She'll consult not time nor circumstance. She calls on atmosphere for her result. (It is this clock that later falls in wheels and chimes of leaf and cloud.) || **Analytical Summary 5 ** Frothing with barely contained contempt, “The Colder the Air” fractures Bishop’s previously placid tones while retaining her attentive descriptions. “This huntress of the winter air” (2) is perfection, her every movement instinctually punctual. Onlookers feel they “must admire her perfect aim” (1), as if forced to behold her fierce prowess. She is “sure” and “right” (5) whereas “the least of us could do the same” (6). ‍‍‍Bitterly ‍‍‍acknowledging their weakness compared to her strength, the feeble majority smolder to crack the colder minority, threatening to disturb the frigid forest. “Chance” (8) and “time” (13) are on her side though, effectively preventing such desired defiance. The huntress exudes physical and mental stability, which her rivals resent because they lack any self-control. She will never miss a mark because “the target-center in her eye/is equally her aim and will” (11-12), and this combination allows her to own every passing moment. Time is one infinitely “stalled second” which she barely notices and not once will “consult” (14). Having no doubts, “she calls/on atmosphere for her result,” (15-16) her weapon already embedded in her prey in an unnoticed moment. By focusing on the huntress’ intense serenity, Bishop allows the jealousy of the enemies to become tangible to the reader. Nature has no concept of time, and as the huntress is one with nature, neither does she. While the rest of the world remains a slave to seconds, minutes, and hours, she lives in unburdened freedom. Such a liberated lifestyle is impossible, which is why Bishop allows the harsh tone to surface. By threatening to disturb the balance of time, greater appreciation for small moments emerges. The initial response of envy transforms into ardent covetousness, wishing to have the huntress’ peace and control of both mind and body. Bishop masks her emotions to withdraw raw reactions, proving inner desire always waits right beneath the surface. || The moon in the bureau mirror looks out a million miles (and perhaps with pride, at herself,  but she never, never smiles) far and away beyond sleep, or perhaps she's a daytime sleeper. By the Universe deserted, // She // ’d tell it to go to hell, and she'd find a body of water, or a mirror, on which to dwell. So wrap up care in a cobweb and drop it down the well into that world inverted where left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me. || **‍‍Analytical Summary 6 ‍‍** An intimate love poem, “Insomnia” only reveals itself as such in its last line, finally illuminated by Bishop’s indirect references to a “deep” (17) love. Elusively “inverted,” (12) Bishop reverses the traditional love of a man and a woman by leaving the “you” and “me” (17) ambiguous, revealing her lesbianism. Withholding “you love me” (17) until the last line reflects the privacy she kept about her sexuality throughout her work; lesbianism is a subtle, sparsely used theme in her poetry. Commonly denoted as female, the moon reigns over the night, confident enough to tell the masculine “Universe” (7) to “go to hell” (8). Inserting feministic victories throughout the poem, Bishop challenges male readers to imagine the world from a woman’s perspective, “where left is always right,” (13) and “where the heavens are as shallow as the sea” (16). She compares celestial heavens with the shallow sea because of the moon’s power over tides, reinforcing that this is truly a woman’s world, even if women appear to be “daytime sleeper[s]” (6). In this reversed world, the moon would redouble her presence in the night and “find a body of water,/or a mirror, on which to dwell,” (9-10) also alluding to Bishop’s feminism. Women “stay awake all night,” (15) compensating for man’s blatant seizure of daytime power. The opposing intimacy of nighttime at last reveals Bishop’s amorous intentions, poignantly divulging her deepest feelings. || The tumult in the heart keeps asking questions. And then it stops and undertakes to answer in the same tone of voice. No one could tell the difference. Uninnocent, these conversations start, and then engage the senses, only half-meaning to. And then there is no choice, and then there is no sense; until a name and all its connotation are the same. || **‍‍Analytical Summary 7 ‍‍** Arrhythmically constant, the “tumult in the heart” (1) and the rationale of the head continuously converse, deliberating even the slightest questions. From a monistic perspective, they “answer/in the same tone of voice” (3-4) because they belong to the same body, and share the same thoughts and emotions. Bishop captures the scattered, endless commentary in twelve succinct lines, not wasting time expanding after concluding that such conversations blur “until a name/and all its connotation are the same” (11-12). “Uninnocent,” (6) these conversations manipulate their own mechanism. They “engage the senses,/only half-meaning to,” (7-8) as if unaware of their motives. The heart and mind play a cat-and-mouse game of deception, swapping roles until “no one could tell the difference” (5). The whirlwind of thought and emotion would be enough to overwhelm anyone, but by understanding exactly what her body seeks to accomplish, Bishop’s intellect outwits her finicky subconscious. Trivial snippets of these conversations all become “the same” (12) with “no sense” (10) attached to them, and their dizzy dance filters into the background. The inaccessible complexity of the human subconscious thwarts many, but Bishop organizes the files in her mind by importance, ultimately retaining control over her consciousness. || Oh, but it is dirty! --this little filling station, oil-soaked, oil-permeated to a disturbing, over-all black translucency. Be careful with that match! Father wears a dirty, oil-soaked monkey suit that cuts him under the arms, and several quick and saucy and greasy sons assist him (it's a family filling station), all quite thoroughly dirty. Do they live in the station? It has a cement porch behind the pumps, and on it a set of crushed and grease- impregnated wickerwork; on the wicker sofa a dirty dog, quite comfy. Some comic books provide the only note of color-- of certain color. They lie upon a big dim doily draping a taboret (part of the set), beside a big hirsute begonia. Why the extraneous plant? Why the taboret? Why, oh why, the doily? (Embroidered in daisy stitch  with marguerites, I think,   and heavy with gray crochet.) Somebody embroidered the doily. Somebody waters the plant, or oils it, maybe. Somebody arranges the rows of cans so that they softly say: ESSO--SO--SO--SO to high-strung automobiles. Somebody loves us all. || **Analytical Summary 8** Fastidiously recounting this “oil-soaked, oil-permeated” (3) filling station, Bishop deduces the nuances of a simple lifestyle to uncover the truth that love is present in every circumstance. “Father wears a dirty,/oil-soaked monkey suit,” (7-8) surrounded by his “greasy sons” (11). Almost as an afterthought, just to add clarity, Bishop includes, “(it’s a family filling station)” (12). This provides a sense of small camaraderie, this oneness of greasy father and sons, “all quite thoroughly dirty” (13). Bishop inquires into the rest of their lives, “Do they live in the station?” (14) noticing a worn set of wicker furniture on the back porch. A blackened chair holds a “dirty dog, quite comfy,” (20) obviously part of the family. Adding a “note of color” (22) to the ashy landscape are some comic books, perhaps providing imaginative relief when the dirty sons want to escape the filling station. These objects reflect their masculine owners, but the comics are placed on an inexplicable doily, next to “a big hirsute begonia” (27). ‍‍‍‍Both frivolous, feminine accents, unfit for a filling station ‍‍‍‍, Bishop ponders, “Why, oh why, the doily?” (30). True to form, she then describes the specific stitch—“daisy stitch/ with marguerites…/heavy with gray crochet” (31-33). Men certainly would not have attached enough care to embroider a doily, leaving only one option. “Somebody” (34) embroidered the doily and waters the plant, and “somebody” tidied “the row of cans/so that they softly say:/ESSO--SO--SO--SO” (37-39). Small details are Bishop’s forte, and she weaves together these fragments to complete the story of the filling station: “Somebody loves us all” (41). || This poem has specific spacing that won't transfer into Wikispaces, so I uploaded a document of it for your enjoyment. || **Analytical Summary 9 ** Describing the objects on her cluttered desk in the style of a late-night newscast, Bishop reinvents her world with abstract, complex interpretations. Poetic only in the sense of her thoroughly imaginative reports, “12 O’Clock News” does not incorporate standard poetic devices. Bishop creates a new formula and delivers a uniquely comprehensive account of the days’ events, observing only eight items around her desk. Her gooseneck lamp, hanging over her desk, becomes “the full/moon” (1-2) but gives “little light” (4), so that “visibility is poor” (4). This brief weather report introduces the “12 O’Clock News” before switching to a badly lit camera shot of an “escarpment” (7). The keys of the typewriter-turned-cliff appear as “terraces” (11), and their slightly chipped shapes “gleam” (9) in the moonlight. Bishop notes “And yet, on them the welfare of this tiny principality depends,” (11-13) because the offspring of the keys—her valuable words—support the entire biome. A “slight landslide” (14) of manuscripts exposed the “soil” (15) of her battered desk underneath, but Bishop limited herself to one sentence of description, understanding that news is fast-moving and only delivers the necessary facts. That there are “no casualties” (17) is the most vital piece of information; the only one the viewers care to hear. “Almost due north” (18) of the landslide appears to be an undiscovered “‘field,’” (19) of “obviously man-made” (20) material. The lone typed sheet appears “dark-/speckled” (19-20) to the aerial news team, and it mystifies those in the air and back in the newsroom. Examining the proportions of the objects before her, Bishop describes an envelope as a “gigantic” (25) “sign-board” (24-25). The “small, backward country” (21) of her desk is scattered, trapped in pre-“industrialization” (23) with almost no way to support itself other than relying on the key “terraces,” yet it can afford outlandish advertisements. The envelope concludes the first five stories of the newscast, before turning to the more intriguing human-interest pieces. Switching to a “mysterious, oddly/shaped, black structure” (27-28) the ancient artifact ink-bottle may be a “terrifying ‘secret weapon’” (34-35) but could also be a “great altar” (38) erected by the indigenous people. The ambiguity leaves it up to the viewers’ interpretation as this breaking news story awaits more detailed information. Continuing in the vein of activities of the indigenes, one had been “spotted!” (43). Although only a body, the discovery is worthy of excitement, his appearance quickly disseccted as having been a “unicyclist-courier” (45) who probably fell to his death while pedaling between the tightly-packed terraces. This could possibly accrue a public safety angle: Protect the Couriers! Who or what the indigenes need protection from is uncertain, because although the landscape is perilous, a “‘nest’/of soldiers” (52-53) was just discovered. Bishop’s ashtray of crushed cigarettes becomes a pile of “at least eight” (56) “hideously contorted” (55) bodies, their reason for being on the indigenes’ island unclear. Their bodies only indicate the “sad corruption of/their leaders” (63-64) and “hopeless impracticality” (62) of attacking an unprotected colony of natives. Bishop’s “12 O’Clock News” explores a feral new land that national television has already begun to corrupt, dropping down news teams and scrutinizing the secrets of the island. Her desk becomes swarmed with outside sources, no longer a private place where ink-bottles could be misplaced and forgotten for an unspecified amount of time. The gooseneck lamp shines a spotlight onto her deepest thoughts, exposing them for all to pick at, but Bishop fights back by upending her traditional poetic style and broadcasting herself before others beat her to it. || For a Child of 1918 My grandfather said to me as we sat on the wagon seat, "Be sure to remember to always  speak to everyone you meet." We met a stranger on foot. My grandfather's whip tapped his hat. "Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day." And I said it and bowed where I sat. Then we overtook a boy we knew with his big pet crow on his shoulder. "Always offer everyone a ride;  don't forget that when you get older," my grandfather said. So Willy climbed up with us, but the crow gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried. How would he know where to go? But he flew a little way at a time from fence post to fence post, ahead; and when Willy whistled he answered. "A fine bird," my grandfather said, "and he's well brought up. See, he answers  nicely when he's spoken to.   Man or beast, that's good manners.   Be sure that you both always do." When automobiles went by, the dust hid the people's faces, but we shouted "Good day! Good day!  Fine day!" at the top of our voices. When we came to Hustler Hill, he said that the mare was tired, so we all got down and walked, as our good manners required. || **Analytical Summary 10 ** By reminiscing a wagon ride with her grandfather, Bishop reveals the changes between old-fashioned and modernized manners of 1918. Bishop had a stable, happy childhood with her grandparents, and in 1918 she would have learned these lessons as a six or seven-year-old. Grandfather said, “‘Be sure to remember to always/speak to everyone you meet,’” (3-4) and while they called out to all whom they trotted by, the modern automobiles sped by and “the dust hid the people’s faces” (26). The more technology advanced, the less personal and polite society felt it needed to be. Bishop’s grandfather sat firmly in his “wagon seat” (2) on the way to “Hustler Hill” (29), clearly not caught up in the modern rush. Another piece of etiquette her grandfather passed to her was, “‘Always offer everyone a ride’” (11). When Willy accepted a ride from them and his pet crow “flew off,” Bishop “worried” (15) that he would be lost. The crow symbolizes the push and pull of old and new, and their everlasting connection. One cannot exist without the other, but Bishop felt caught in between. Should she mold herself to old standards, or apply herself to new ones? Her young, sponge-like brain processed both approaches, but ultimately abided by her grandfather’s wishes, adhering to the sage etiquette of always respecting elders. Bishop, the modest girl, contrasts with Willy, the extroverted boy. She travels by her grandfather’s side, while he freely roams down the road with his pet crow. No matter the boy’s appearance, Bishop’s grandfather extends the same courtesy to him as he would a fellow older man. Manners apply to everyone without restriction, but the next lesson for Bishop to learn may be to breach the gap of old and new. ||
 * **In the Waiting Room**
 * **The** **Fish**
 * **A Miracle for Breakfast**
 * **Trouvée **
 * **The Colder the Air**
 * **Insomnia **
 * **Conversation**
 * ** Filling Station **
 * **12 O'Clock News**
 * **Manners**