Citizens

1. “Mr. Greenwood in the office of the Knox Woolen Company, August 1900.”


Mr. Greenwood is at his work in a little museum of calendars — at least six of them, by my count. The one behind him is the public one, the one that’s open to us visitors as well as Mr. Greenwood. But his private stock is probably not a reserve of days but a reserve of pictures to be delighted in. Tied off beside his head is a light bulb, but the sun of a long New England summer day seems to be what is illuminating the pleasure chamber now and filling it with still more pictures to keep visitors happy. See how the sun throws Mr. Greenwood’s shadow onto the wall below the glassily reflecting lithograph of an Inman Line steamer.* See how the light carves his left shoe with its heel counter and its lace into bas-relief.

But in the weak sun of New England the photograph required a long exposure, and there Mr. Greenwood’s body-moving breaths had to be recorded as a blur affecting his face. Mr. Greenwood’s life was proceeding on its course during the instant in 1900 when a shutter was opened to it, but in his museum of time it isn’t available for exhibit.

2. “Margaret & Augusta Talbot, March 1899 in back of the Congregational Church.”

It appears that the church, with its name and its grammar of location (“in back of”), functions as a point of reference for the place occupied in an otherwise empty whiteness by two little persons with names of their own. Superimposing themselves in black on the white ground, the three names (Margaret, Augusta, Congregational Church) assign Margaret & Augusta to coordinates in a permanent world. Captioned with names that can be located on a map (that Margaret, that Augusta, that in-back-of-the-church), they have become heroines (so long as the snow shall endure) of the historical fiction that there is no death.

Sources: Photographs by Theresa Parker Babb in the Camden (Maine) Public Library, https://www.flickr.com/photos/cplmaine/24633201459/in/photostream/ and https://www.flickr.com/photos/cplmaine/25415271492/in/photostream/. Photoshopped.

*

Verso separates from recto

Because it is now a part of the collection of a great library, this demotic little document wants to be read on the library’s terms. These terms include the bibliographical words “recto” and “verso”: words that weren’t part of the card’s language when it was, so to speak, a card. There were immediacies to those communications which are gone now, and reading the card under library discipline can’t bring them back. There can be no feeling left to revive in the recto’s image of the beneficent Czar or the verso’s words about a dreadful bad cough. But feeling’s literary history can grow from the tomb under the gentle rain of additional information.

Initial information, then: in 1920 the card was written by somebody named Clara Leavitt to an address in Maine, and its phrase “dreadful bad” in the verso text is a Maine idiom. Knowing that much, I can begin assembling data into a shadow biography of the woman who wrote “dreadful bad.” In 1920, say some of the data, a Clara L. Leavitt, aged 24, was living in the village of Waldo, Maine, at two addresses: one on Sheldon Road, the residence of her parents, and the other on Patterson Road, where she worked as a housekeeper for a man named Roy C. Fish. Clara the housekeeper’s spelling is a little shaky, but her handwriting is assured and her language is clear: perhaps a testimonial to New England’s high educational standards, perhaps also a sign of what Clara actually was. And Waldo adjoins the town of Belfast, so now I can guess that the word “Belfast” is what the card’s postmark was trying to say to the historical record at 5:30 PM on February 4, 1920.

In New England in the early twentieth century, villages too small for a post office were the bleak settings of ­Ethan Frome and Edwin Arlington Robinson’s poems: something like orphanages for life, where life ended soon. In Waldo in 1920, for instance, Clara’s parents were also sheltering a seven-year-old granddaughter, Avis Leavitt, about whose parents the surviving records seem to retain no memory. She would live to the age of 56. As to Clara, she married Everett G. Payson of Waldo on March 18, 1929. Three years younger than Clara, he had been married previously to Margaret J. Gurney (1900 – ?), the mother of his daughter Anniebell Payson (1920-1923). To the 1930 census, he was a farm laborer who owned a house worth $200. Clara didn’t outlive him; she died in Belfast on April 7, 1967, probably around the time of her seventy-first birthday.

Half a century before then, the serious little Czar on the recto of her card had received his waiter’s salute. The card bearing that image was published in 1914 or 1915, but by the time Clara Leavitt wrote “dreadful bad” on its verso, the Czar had long since come to his own dreadful and well-deserved end. If that long-term change meant anything to Clara, it doesn’t show on her side of the cardboard. There on the verso, the communication seems to be only that the seasons went on – first in Mr. Fish’s home, then in Mr. Payson’s. The verso was only a blank space until Clara filled it, and when it was full she licked a stamp and brought that episode of her life to an end. But the recto wasn’t yet ready to end, because as of 1914 or 1915 it had five or six years of change to undergo. After 1914 or 1915 it never was blank, and then it kept itself busy signifying in new way after new way until the day it stopped signifying forever.

For the card, the five or six years began on the date when a courtier without a visible sense of irony wrote, “As the photo shows.”

Year by year from that moment on, people who looked at such photos actually saw less and less. Eventually they understood that the photos were going blank because they had no more to show, and then the Czar and his family were led down to the basement for their appointment with a firing squad. But what still does show amid the courtier’s now meaningless words is a trace of Clara’s pencil. Clara did some erasing before she mailed her card, but the Clara lines that remain are now going to remain forever, thanks to the immortalizing spirit of the archive. There will also remain a little segment of the card’s postmark: the black cancellation that came whamming down on the verso during the evening of February 4, 1920. That was what finally brought the change to a stop. From that moment, the card’s recto and verso would be divided between a before and an after, and the tailored little czar and the words “dreadful bad” would be separated from each other by a wall of time as opaque as a slip of cardboard.

Sources:

Winokur-Munblit Collection of the Russian Empire Postcards, Library of Congress, http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2012648262/. Photoshopped.

Online sources of information about Clara Leavitt:

http://www.mocavo.com/Clara-L-Leavitt-B1896-Waldo-Maine-1920-United-States-Census/09356065416247432197

http://www.mocavo.com/Clara-L-Leavitt-B1896-Waldo-Maine-1920-United-States-Census/00829956448961505575

http://marriage-divorce-records.mooseroots.com/l/76908968/Clara-L-Leavitt#

http://www.mocavo.com/1930-United-States-Census/126213/004950958/422#row-0

http://www.geni.com/people/Clara-PAYSON/6000000022524627808