Don’t They Teach Historical Context at School Anymore?

A winter solstice in 1922

By

Michelle Stirling

This piece originally appeared on Medium.

When asked to reveal the hidden meaning of his poems, Robert Frost’s response was

“If I wanted you to know I’d had told you in the poem.”¹

The other day, someone informed me that their teenager had been told at school that the famous Robert Frost poem — “Stopping by a Woods on a Snowy Evening” — was about suicide. Unfortunately, this is one of my favorite poems, and unfortunately, I have very unhappy, burdensome memories of people I loved who died by their own hand. So, the poem is ruined for me now with what I feel is an idiotic interpretation taught in a ‘modern’ school context.

Apparently, the reference to being ‘between the woods and snowy lake’ suggests, to some, a reference to Dante’s circles of hell, with the deepest place being a frozen lake.

Really?

Doesn’t anyone study history anymore? Don’t people look at the historical context of writings?

I am reminded of a day at schul when a passage from the Torah was read about how the men left the tent, leaving women to help a woman giving birth. Feminists in the congregation were outraged and spoke out about how the patriarchy was ‘shirking’ responsibility and being unwilling to watch the woman’s pain.

Myself and another man who had grown up on the farm burst into laughter. In a survival culture, no one had time to stand around and wring their hands. Had they witnessed the pain of birth? Every springtime the men would be out in the pasture, pulling lambs and calves, ensuring survival of the herd. They certainly witnessed or participated in more births than any of the women.

And why did they abruptly leave? A woman, a vital part of the domestic unit, was about to be laid up for a few days after childbirth and with a new baby. They went back to work to keep the tribe alive! To shepherd the sheep, perhaps slaughter one for food, to make sure the newly vulnerable mother and child were protected. Having the physically stronger menfolk standing around in a birthing tent would be a waste of crucial time for food gathering and security. They had ‘miles to go before I sleep.’ They had to get on with it.

Similarly, while metaphorically people can read much into Frost’s work, let us remember the context of the times, and, what he said in the opening quote.

Robert Frost was a farmer — a real farmer in a time before cars proliferated. “Stopping by a Woods on a Snowy Evening” describes a real, typical encounter of a farmer on a horse-drawn sleigh, finding a moment of joy in the wonder of nature in an unexpected time and place — a dark woods, a snowy evening, when he is achingly tired.

There is a certain magic on the uniquely dark winter nights — in this case, the darkest evening of the year — in other words — the solstice. December 21. He does not mention the moon, but it is unnecessary. As anyone can who lives in northern climates can tell you, in the depths of winter, often the reflecting whiteness of the snow is so powerful that it lights the world from the earth up, not from the moon, stars or sun, down.

This is not the breathtaking sunrise or sunset other poets write about. This is about a magical encounter with nature on a very dark night.

In fact, having spent many winter nights walking home alone from town to our acreage as a youth, I can tell you he is probably ‘stopping by a woods’ to also go to the bathroom. There. Hope that hasn’t spoiled it for you. However, this is likely why he mentions that no one will see him.

Imagine this farmer, a man of course, because that is the historical context of the poem. He rose before dawn to perform the chores — fed the pigs and chickens. Milked the cow. Probably chopped some wood and kindled the fire. Perhaps his farmwife made him breakfast with fresh eggs and brewed some chicory coffee or tea to warm him after those 5 o’clock labours in a dark barn, lit by kerosene lantern.

Then he had to harness the horse to the sleigh, make sure he had the crucial list of necessities in hand, perhaps a small packet of bread and cheese or a slice of meat for a lunch on the road, and then he was off to town. Miles ahead.

Many hours by sleigh. Imagine the grim burden of travelling alone for hours, hopefully wrapped in a fur or several blankets to keep warm, your body numbly jolted with every bump along the way as sleighs had no shock absorbers. Hands gripped the reins, soon frozen into position, in a time before Thinsulate gloves and palm warmers.

And then the bells. The Bells!

Since the sleigh silently glides over the snow, and the hooves are muffled by the snow, no one can hear you coming. Sleighs also did not have brakes — so it was the law to have bells on, which served the purpose of scaring off wildlife in the woods and alerting pedestrians in town. Imagine hours and hours of persistent jingle jangle — with no i-tunes, no radio, no roadside McDonald’s or Tim Hortons.

Just you. The horse. The bells. The cold. The mission.

Why indeed would a person venture out on the Solstice? Why, Dec. 21st is just days before Dec. 25th, a day that used to be the highlight of the year for most families, especially rural families. Christmas Day! A day of rest, which only required a person to do the regular chores — getting up at 5 to milk the cow, feed the pigs, chickens, horse(s), gather eggs, chop some wood for the fire. Then you could ‘rest.’ Not if you were the farmer’s wife, of course. You would have been up half the night preparing the turkey and the house would have been filled with extra warmth and the rich, anticipatory smell of a fabulous feast. And then, in some order, on that special day, one would also have opened gifts — many handmade gifts, made with loving care over the months leading up to this moment — hand-knit sweaters; home sewn dresses or shirts; hand knit gloves, hats, socks, scarves; special home-baked cookies. Perhaps a mandarin orange in your stocking, or chocolates — but, not many.

But to have such a feast one needed a few last supplies — staples like flour, sugar, perhaps some candied fruit. Perhaps a packet of mixed nuts or chocolate. Perhaps some mandarin oranges — not many — just one for each…sometimes, just one for all, divided by sections. And there might be something at the post office from granny and grandpa.

And so, our traveller has the list and has arrived in town after hours on the sleigh; perhaps there’s a stable for the horse, but more likely he’s just tied with a feed bag to stand and wait.

Numb and aching from the bone-grinding bumps of the sleigh, hands crimped with cold and raw from the sometimes-awkward jerk of the reins, our traveller makes his limping rounds.

The town is a wonder. It is Christmas, and while not too commercial in 1922 (the year the poem was written), there is obviously seasonal joy and activity. The traveller is confronted with people he knows and who know him, but he lives a different life way out on the farm. He has almost forgotten how to be social.

There also he is confronted by the economic disparity. The general store has so many things — and many lovely things he might like to buy for his wife and children — but he can only count out his pennies for the specific items on his list. Those things he’s promised. Promises to keep.

And he must not forget a thing — for it’s a long way back — a trip he won’t make twice this month.

At the store, perhaps he is confronted with a dilemma. Did the wife want mixed candied fruit or only the green or red cherries? He does not know and cannot decide — but chooses, trying to remember her preference. The mandarin oranges are in a big wooden crate packed with shredded paper. He chooses carefully — so many are moldy. He will wrap them and pack them in the pocket inside his heavy coat, so they won’t freeze.

The shopping done, he stops at the local stable where he can eat his simple lunch in warmth. The farrier offers him a coffee. The warmth of it is a surprise. He didn’t realize how cold he is through and through.

And then, it’s time to go. It will be dark soon.

As he travels through the bustling town, he feels out of place. On the farm, he feels like a king. He has his own hand-hewn castle, his small empire of animals, his loving wife, a true partner in the dream of a better life, and the children who will one day inherit the farm and be richer than he’d ever dreamed of being years ago — of course — that’s if there’s a good year this year. The last two were tough, but next year… next year should be good.

But his sleigh passes an elegant kind of mansion. He recognizes the banker descending from a carriage with a worker bustling about with festive packages. He raises a hand in greeting. The man lent him $50 once to homestead the farm. His wave goes unnoticed. He shakes the reins — “Giddyap.” The loyal little horse complies, straining to pull through the choppy snow on the edge of town.

And then it’s miles to go.

The sights and smells of town have unsettled him. He thinks of his lonely wife with just the children for comfort while he’s away; just the farm dog to fend off any intruders. Is it a castle or a prison he’s built, so far from others? The house that seemed big and safe this morning feels small and cramped now he’s seen the banker’s house. He knows when his wife is fed up with the kids in those cramped quarters, she dresses them up and kicks them out of the house to play in the barn — even in the dead of winter. They curl up in the straw to stay warm and get a scolding when they come back in for scattering straw everywhere. If they’re lucky she’ll make them a hot chocolate.

And then he remembers he forgot one thing.

Cocoa powder.

No hot chocolate till next month.

The bells. The bells. The bells.

And now the snow begins to fall a bit harder. He must not tarry. If the wind comes up the trail could get drifted in.

An hour. Then two. Then three.

The fading ghastly light of day, pale and queer on this overcast solstice reminds him suddenly of summer, hot sweat, the full sun on his back, cutting the land with a hand plow, walking patiently behind the horse, as if enslaved to him and not the other way around. But they are a good team.

The trail opens out to a clearing. A small lake to one side glistens as if covered in diamonds.

Image licensed from Adobe Stock.

He has to stop.

The wind drops to a whisper. Fat snowflakes lazily descend in dizzying patterns.

His aching body, numbed by cold, almost creaks as he descends the sleigh to find a suitable tree where he can relieve himself of the coffee. He looks around to be sure no one is watching, and laughs to himself that he is probably peeing on the banker’s property. No malicious intent, but it crosses his mind to ask himself who is richer, indeed?

The diamond covered lake is his alone. It is all his for this moment and forever.

The hard life he has chosen is his own. He doesn’t owe the man a penny anymore.

The future path is his alone. He is alone in these woods — but quite at peace with that.

It is so silent. The wind like the breath of G-d, something of spirit, not of this earth. The barren black trees don’t move with it — only the snowflakes dance — sometimes drifting, sometimes a whirling dervish.

Sometimes he hears them land. A tiny, impossible ting. And then.

The bells.

His horse wants the stable. He can not stay here long. The runners might freeze to the snow, and then, alone, he might have trouble freeing them.

His toes are numb as he climbs up on the sleigh, his fingers frozen.

The cold makes him sleepy; the long journey wearies his bones.

Home. The horse to the barn, the man to the evening chores.

Feeding the animal empire. Feed, water and blanket the horse; without his faithful friend, there would be no trips to town until summer. And it is he — the man-power tied to the horse-power that have made it possible to homestead. To build something of his own — an impossible dream in the city for a man like him with good hands, a good heart, and hard work, but no schooling.

Chop some firewood he reminds himself, drifting. That will warm him up. He always liked the satisfying slice, deftly aiming the axe to split the log just so.

Trees now shroud either side of the road. Cold sets in as night now rises up from the ground.

He imagines his victorious return to the house with all the treasures. Reminds himself of the mandarins — will he forget and squash them inside his coat in his labours, like last time?

Another few miles and then…a hot drink, frozen feet by the fire, a hot meal, and a happy wife.

Except for the missing cocoa. He promised.

He will be home — not soon — but soon enough. Drifting off. The horse knows the way.

The bells. The bells. The bells.

He suddenly wakes. The horse is at the barn, snorting, pawing the ground and shaking its head.

A curtain draws back at the window; the farm dog busts out of a snow cave near the door and runs laps around the yard. His wife arrives with a lantern, wrapped in just a shawl, a hot drink in hand.

Wait!

His frozen hand retrieves the oranges one by one for her. He smiles.

The horse snorts.

A quick sip of the hot drink. He knocks the snow off a flat railing and puts down the mug as he turns to the task of unharnessing the now impatient horse. Then straight into the barn where he takes an old towel and begins the task of rubbing down, drying off his precious travel-mate. Hay. Water. A blanket for the night.

Then chores.

The tin mug of tea waits outside. Now gone cold. Now frozen.

Firewood. Chop. Chop. Chop.

His hands can barely grasp the axe handle. His back cries out in pain with every blow.

Now home. Now boots off by the fire. Now hungry.

Now. Asleep.

Beside a lake full of diamonds. A rich man dreaming on his own journey through life.

— -

Life for Robert Frost was hard — as it was for so many people a hundred years ago. Tuberculosis killed his father when he was young — as it did for most who died in Canada up to the 1950s (other than those dying of old age). He did have mental illness and alcoholism in his family. Today a lively debate surrounds the issue of whether drinking causes the depression or depression causes the drinking — maybe some of both. Do either go away if one or the other stops? As with many people of that era, some of his children died before him — a sorrow unlike any other that renders the parent helpless and senseless.

But in that hard life, there was a deep satisfaction of making it in the world yourself. There was no click and point virtual universe. It was all real — the painful, the ugly, the beautiful, and the ineffable. There were no selfies and not much about ‘me’ — other than what you made with your own two hands for your own survival or enjoyment. Since there were so few other distractions — no TV, limited radio if you owned one and lived in the right place, little or no electrical power unless you lived on a city block with a local provider — so when it got dark you maybe read a passage or two from the Bible by lamp or candlelight, did accounts, some stitching by hand or wood tooling — and then you went to bed.

You were tired. Because it was damn hard work to survive then, to be skilled in so many tasks, to have to perform them by rote or invention, on the spot, at any time, without the aid of Google or YouTube instructions. You had to face reality bluntly every day. No social assistance would come to your aid — perhaps the church minister might come by, a travelling preacher, and if you lived in town, maybe someone from the ladies’ auxiliary. Good friends or family were often willing to lend a hand or take you or a child or two in for a time — but they were poor, too. And if you were taken in, you gave back, every day. Sometimes as a much-resented servant, another mouth to feed from an empty pot; sometimes with grace and thanksgiving for lending a helping hand.

That was your luck.

Life dealt you a hand. You played it.

Small treasures like the beauty of nature deeply touch those who have faced life and death and for some reason, survived.

That is why, when someone told me that “Stopping by a Woods on a Snowy Evening” is a poem about suicide, I had to laugh and then cry. I actually cried. If anything, it is the one poem that got me through that dark, dark time when my best friend killed herself, when she was just 14 and I a year older, when people told me to get over it, when it made no sense, as if it ever does, and when I walked many miles with my dog, many miles, so many miles, by the river, watching the beaver, the blue heron, the fox and her curious kit, the red-tailed hawk sailing above, the geese in a V with their lonely cries. I walked so many miles in the wind and rain, in the icy cold, in the hot sun, and even on winter nights when I, like Robert Frost, found myself surrounded by glistening light on the darkest evening of the year. So many miles I had to go before I slept, freed of that black dog of sorrow. I just kept reminding myself of the wonder, reminding myself not to linger in the cold — to press on through the darkness — those miles to go, and then to sleep.

Michelle Stirling is a Calgary writer, popular historian and op-ed columnist.

___

Thanks for reading or more from this author, read Confronting Indian Residential School Confabulation and Media Irresponsibility

BREAKING NEWS: James Pew has contributed a chapter to the new book Grave Error: How The Media Misled us (And the Truth about Residential Schools). You can read about it here - The Rise of Independent Canadian Researchers

Also, for more evidence of the ideological indoctrination in Canadian education, read Yes, schools are indoctrinating kids! And also, Yes, The University is an Indoctrination Camp!

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1. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/frost.html