Robert Frost, his Christmas Cards & Khrushchev

"505Turbeaux" (505turbeaux) 12/24/2014 at 11:30 • Filed to: None

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The year is 2014… Living in Los Angeles, amidst the urban sprawl, leaves the heart of this New England boy craving for certain things. Less traffic, more square footage and well…"seasons." Even Mel Torme and Robert Wells tried to beat the heat by penning the wintery lyrics to "The Christmas Song" on an absolutely scorching Angelino day in 1944. And to be honest, that little pang for cooler weather never nags more than during the Christmas season as the sun still splashes relentlessly on Hollywood Blvd.

It causes my mind to drift 3000 thousand miles east and reminisce about the short dark days of a New England December in the small coastal town I called home. The air wafting with chimney smoke, bare tree branches decorated with icicles and snow gently lying on the ground as if someone wanted to place a blanket over the landscape to keep it warm for the winter.

And while I certainly hope my descriptive prowess outlines a pleasant picture, there was a prolific writer who enjoyed a love affair with New England for the much of the 20th Century. A man whose very last name invokes even the most pessimistic person to stop and consider the beauty the world gives them for free. And did you know this author, this very same man, "accidentally" wrote Christmas cards for over 30 years?

Robert Frost won the Pulitzer Prize four times. It's a distinction he shares only with the great playwright Eugene O'Neil. Toss in the honorary degrees from Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Dartmouth, Oxford and Cambridge and the man who never earned a degree in the conventional manner certainly found a way to hang a few on the wall.

The year is 1874…

Originally born in San Francisco on March 26, 1874, Robert was only 11 when his father William Prescott Frost Jr. passed away from Tuberculosis in 1885. Unable to support the family, his mother Isabelle decided to move Robert and his sister Jeannie (just nine years old) across the country to live with Frost's paternal grandparents in Lawrence, MA. And thus, his love affair with New England was born.

Growing up, Robert was certainly academically gifted, graduating as co­valedictorian from Lawrence High School in 1892. However, like many people in their early twenties, he seemed to drift and wander, not quite sure what he wanted out of life. He held several jobs as a teacher, cobbler and even edited the Lawrence "Sentinel." He tried college, enrolling at both Dartmouth and Harvard, though neither of those stints seemed to please the young turk.

By 1894, at the ripe old age of 20, the stars of success decided to shine their first small light on the man. Frost's poem "My Butterfly: An Elegy" was published in the New York Newspaper "The Independent." Reportedly Frost was paid a handsome $15 for his ink; a sum that would be over $400 today when adjusted for inflation today.

Frost was so overjoyed with his success that he implored the other covaledictorian Elinor to marry him. And how did he do it? In a world long before the societal pressures of a diamond ring and an Instagram post…he wrote a poem called "Twlight."

However, Elinor proved to be the better chess player. (She had already rebuffed his advances in 1893.) Even with a poem from the soon to be American treasure written specifically for her, she said "no" once again.

So pained by this rejection, he fled down to the swamps of Virginia. Why? It's hard to tell,butin a world before a Las Vegas getaway to make a man feel on the mend, it seems as if he was seething for adventure. Yearning to prove to himself that even the world had dealt him a cold blow, he was ready to give it right back. Though, sadly, like many young men probably sitting at a Vegas blackjack table at this very moment, the adventure wore thin. Penniless and broken-­hearted, he had to write his mother for money to come home. His dalliance, while grand…just wasn't whom the man was inside. Hat in hand, he returned to New England.

Finally,in 1895, by sheer determination or Elinor's waning defense…the two were married. But though he had finally convinced the companion of his dreams to be by his side, the next few years offered their share of both sadness and euphoria.

After welcoming a son, Elliott and daughter Lesley in 1896 and 1899 respectively, his son died at the turn of the century just two months shy of his fourth birthday. In 1901 he reads Thoreau's "Walden" for the first time, citing it as a work that gives him great inspiration. However, on July 10th of that same year, his grandfather William Prescott passes away. The reading of the will sets Frost on a new journey entirely as he inherits the family poultry farm in Derry, NH. His grandfather also leaves Frost with a sizeable annuity worth approximately $21,000 per year in today's money.

Frost stays put for 11 years working the poultry farm, teaching and writing (probably in reverse order) until 1912 when he decides he's had enough of farm life. Seeking to fill an internal creative void, he moves England hoping to be part of the literary scene. It was a transition that proved easy as he was accepted with open arms. Imagine high tea with Frost, Ezra Pound, William Butler Yeats and Hilda Doolittle? (not to be confused with the fictional Eliza.) He not only traveled in those circles, but they became dear life-­long friends. With his creative reservoir now full, his pen began to quickly scribble across paper at a feverish pace. The result? Some very important early works including "A Boy's Will" and "North of Boston."

However, with World War I underway, and the safety of Europe in question, Frost decided to move his family back to Franconia, New Hampshire…where he will reside for the next five years. Again, finding his heart…and his voice in New England.

The once smoothfaced Frost had now matured, his twenties a distant memory belonging to another century, he found himself squarely in his 40's, ready to be the writer that will soon earn international fame. The writer that will soon accidentally pen some of the most collectable Christmas cards in history.

The Year is 1929…

Some monumental things occurred in 1929 (aside from the stock market crash.) The first telephone was installed in the White House, Buck Rogers became the first sci-­fi comic strip and the Philadelphia A's beat the Chicago Cubs 4 games to 1 in the 26th WorldSeries. (The Cubs still haven't won a World Series since 1908.)

When we catch up with Frost, he now resides on a farm dubbed "The Stone House" in South Shaftsbury, Vermont. He is a professor of English at Amherst College (where he'll remain until 1938) and has just published the one-­act play "A Way Out." On a personal note, his only sister Jeanie passed away at 64 years of age. It was a quiet end to a tortured life. Jeanie had spent the last nine years in a Maine mental institution following an arrest in 1920 where it became evident to all around that her erratic behavior could no longer be managed without the help of professionals.

Enter what will affectionately come to be known as Robert Frost's "Christmas Poems." Joseph Blumenthal, a prolific printer and designer in his own right, had founded Spiral Press in 1926. Blumenthal would be assigned work by some of the biggest publishers of the time including Henry Holt, Random House and The Museum of Modern Art.

While working for Holt, Blumenthal landed the plumb assignment of type-­setting Frost's

1930 book "Collected Poems." While burning the midnight oil, it occurred to him that the poem "Christmas Trees" would make an excellent Christmas greeting; especially if printed with an attractive typeface on expensive paper stock. After seeking the permission of his employer, Blumenthal printed 275 copies, keeping 75 for himself and sending 200 to his employer.

What is unclear is whether Frost gave permission or the Henry Holt executives acted independently. However, in any event, once Frost got word of the existence of this holiday greeting, he immediately requested six copies of his own. With his tail between his legs,

Blumenthal then had to ask for the greetings back from his recipients to fulfill Frost's request.

The poem "Christmas Trees" (originally penned in 1920) is a wonderful comment on man versus nature. Truthfully it is quite relevant to those who fight against deforestation today. It begins:

"The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out

A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;"

As the poem continues, the visitor makes an offer to the owner to purchase 1000 trees from his land for the cut-­rate price of 3 cents a piece. The owner is gob smacked at the forward nature of the visitor. As if not even sure how to react to being offered such a small price for so many wonderful trees that took decades to grow. In the end the owner rebuffs the visitor and ends the poem with a message to his readers.

"Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.

I can't help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you here with a Merry Christmas."

The next holiday card was not printed until 1934. One might glean that The Depression left little money for frivolous expenditures such as greeting cards, or it simply might've taken a while for the idea to be revisited. The poem "Two Tramps in Mud Time" received the distinct honor of being the next holiday selection. This time 775 cards were printed and distributed by six different people associated with Henry Holt or Spiral Press. Interestingly, this work has nothing to do with the Christmas season. It tells the tale of a "Man" who is splitting wood during the damp days of April. A time with those all too familiar with the New England weather know that one might find themselves sweating from the heat when the suns rays break through, or shuttering from the cold when cloud cover lays thick.

In the poem, two "Tramps" emerge from the woods and discover a man splitting wood. They inform him that they should be splitting wood on his behalf for a fair wage. The "Man" owes these two nothing, as they are complete strangers.Not to mention, he is quite enjoying the spring chore. Yet he recognizes the need in these men to earn money and acquiesces for their benefit. The piece examines the selflessness we must all exhibit at times even when we are sacrificing our own enjoyment. So while there is no direct connection to Christmas, the spirit of the Christmas season is found within the themes.

And though the "Christmas Poems" continued to be printed every year until 1962, only one other time did the greeting include a poem dealt with Christmas. For a majority of those years (25 in total), Spiral Press completed the printing under the direction of Blumenthal. Blumenthal would go on to pen a book "Robert Frost and his Printers" that detailed how the famed author worked with his typesetters and illustrators. (That book is tough to come by because only 1000 were ever made.) Additionally, the Blumenthal printings were quite famous for their artwork. JJ Lankes, Thomas Nason, Leonard Baskin and Fritz Eichenberg all added their fine talents and flourishes to the pages as they delicately illustrated Frost's work.

Because of the limited quantities, it might prove difficult to collect every single Frost Christmas poem. For one, the quantities continued to vary wildly. For example, the 1944 printing of "Two Leading Lights" only had 52 copies made and the 1947 printing of "The Falls' was a mere 60 copies. Conversely, some years the numbers swelled with 9,155 copies of the 1958 greeting "Away" going into circulation. And the final year of 1962 reached an impressive 17,055 copies of "The Prophets Really Prophesyas Mystics / The Commentators Merely By Statistics." Additionally, the larger printings had personalization on the greetings. So, not only would a true collector want to retain the yearly greeting, but also a copy from each of the variant senders. The 1958 edition alone contained 22 in total.

The year is 1962…

And the story of the selection final "Christmas Poem" seems to be far from an accident. In fact, it seemed to be a commentary on global politics for the benefit of future generations.

At 88, Robert Frost's health was declining rapidly. After battling a ferocious bout of pneumonia in February,Frost actually made a miraculous comeback, even accepting an invitation to Russia on behalf of President Kennedy as part of a cultural exchange. However, the travel placed great strain on the poet. After being obsessed with gaining an audience with Khrushchev, he found himself with 101 degree F fever on the fated day they were supposed to meet. Khrushchev was playing his own political game and sent his personal physicians to care for Frost. He even made the trek to Frost and sat with the author bedside where they had a 90­minute chat.

It was on this day the author rose to the occasion in front of the Premier. Vibrant, filled with vigor, he wanted to represent Kennedy (who was a personal friend) and the country at large with the upmost patriotism.

With Khrushchev, Frost spoke of " modus vivendi. " The term relates to an agreement between two conflicting parties that agrees to co-­exist peacefully. It was an idea close to Frost's heart where he felt that a mutual respect would allow their two countries to find peace and thus keep the citizens of each superpower safe. He even autographed book to Khrushchev as a gift.

Little did the weakened Frost realize that Khrushchev was playing his own game; trying to gauge Kennedy's stance on Cuba. Trying to determine just how much might the United States might levy if pushed to the brink. And while the meeting maintained a rosy appeal, the truth was missiles were already being moved into position just 90 miles from the American border.

Upon the conclusion of the trip, Frost, however, was extremely satisfied. Feeling as if he communicated the "big idea" that might just quell the superpower from taking irrational action.

Sadly though upon returning to American soil, a dog­tired Frost made an off the cuff comment to the press that Khrushchev felt "we were too liberal to fight." It was a comment that was never uttered by the foreign leader and one which would caused quite a stir in America. Any progress that Frost believed him made with the Russian leader, quickly eroded. So much so, that Kennedy was forced to distance himself form the ailing author. Though other members of the Kennedy family reached out and even visited Frost in the hospital before his death, the President did not. Though, after his death, Kennedy did dedicate the Frost library in 1963, saying to Frost's secretary Kay Morrison "We didn't know he was so ill." A small consolation for what was clearly a necessary political maneuver to keep Khrushchev and Castro at bay.

So how does Frost's trip to Russia and his last election of "The Prophets Really Prophesy as Mystics/ The Commentators Merely By Statistics" as a "Christmas Poem" relate? Reading it might offer some insight:

"The Prophets Really Prophesy as Mystics

The Commentators Merely By Statistics

With what unbroken spirit naïve science

Keeps hurling our Promethean defiance

From this atomic ball of rotting rock

At the Divine Safe's combination lock

In our defiance we are still defied

But have not I, as prophet, prophesied:

Sick of our circling round and round the sun

Something about the trouble will be done.

Now that we've found the secret out of weight,

So we can cancel it however great,

Ah, what avail our lofty engineers

If we can't take the planet by the ears

Or by the poles or simply by the scruff

And saying simply we have had enough

Of routine and monotony on earth,

Where nothing's going on but death and birth

And man's of such limited longevity,

Now in the confidence of new-found levity

(Our gravity has been our major curse)

We'll cast off hawser for the universe"

At the time of the Christmas greeting in 1962, the US was locked in a viscous space race with Russia. Both countries had sent a man into space, with the moon the next prize more than a half-­decade away. As previously mentioned, Frost had just returned from his Russian trip that summer. Gaffe aside, Frost was recognizing that new frontiers were upon us. Both for Frost personally and for the world at large.

I can't imagine what it was like to receive his greeting in December of 1962. After having been on the brink of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Frost is leaving the free world with a message, telling us in the final phrase that we have solved one of the great obstacles in gravity, and now with a universe in front of us, it is our moment to cast off, explore and experience the great unknown. To conquer the abyss, before another superpower beats us to a new frontier, yet to be discovered.

Frost would pass away quietly on January 30, 1963.

The year is 2014…

There are many things that will capitalize my holiday season. The shopping, the planning, the rush to get everything "done." I'll be hopping a plane and returning from the sun soaked sidewalks of West Hollywood, to revel in a New England Christmas. There will be snow and family and laughter between people who I see often, but not often enough. And I will think of Frost and the little Christmas greetings he shared with the world. I've actually decided to start collecting them myself. Purchasing the 1959 offering on eBay for the sum of $12.

And while his "Christmas Poems" haven't been produced in 52 years, I think I found the poem that I would suggest for this year if I could be so bold. Here's to a very happy, holiday season.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

—Robert Frost

Note: This was written by my stepbrother, !!!error: Indecipherable SUB-paragraph formatting!!! , actor, writer, and screenwriter, as a contribution to a magazine that shuttered it's doors before the December issue could be printed, so I am posting it here with his permission because I think it is a fantastic piece and one alot of kinja might enjoy. So share at will and enjoy. Happy holidays to all.

davesaddiction @ opposite-lock.com > 505Turbeaux 12/24/2014 at 12:17

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Thanks.

RallyWrench > 505Turbeaux 12/24/2014 at 12:30

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Excellent read. It certainly makes this Californian wish for snow.

505Turbeaux > RallyWrench 12/24/2014 at 12:31

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thanks man, I will relay that!