A winter hobby: Studying

Winter is a blank canvas that we, the inhabitants of the Catskills, must fill. This season is even white, like a canvas.

My friend Janet surprised me the other day by announcing: “Every winter, I choose a new subject of study.”

“How does that work?” I asked.

“A few years ago, I decided that in the long, cold, snowy winters I would take up the study of something I was interested in, and maybe knew a little bit about,” Janet replied. “And I would try to find at least one other person who wanted to be my study partner – read stuff, and talk about it. That never worked, because the other person always drops out, but I keep going.”

Two of her recent subjects were Taoism (in particular the Tao Te Ching of Lao Tzu) and the Tarot. This year Janet is investigating labyrinths.

There is a logic to Janet’s theory. Winter is a time when much of nature – even snakes and bears – retract, retreat. Deciduous trees forget photosynthesis, and shrink down to their roots.

Perhaps oak trees are studying in the dim winter light.

Someone once told me Orthodox Jews believe that in heaven great sages study forever. If it works in heaven, why not in February?

Janet convinced me, but what should I study?

Varieties of humor

As I write this, it’s still very late fall, and I can tell you what I’ve been cogitating on lately: comedy. At the Woodstock Library, I found myself drawn to The Myron Cohen Joke Book, which I just finished – all 408 pages of it.

I vaguely remember Mr. Cohen from my childhood. He appeared on the Ed Sullivan show 23 times. Myron was, in a sense, the most Jewish of all Jewish comedians. He was born in what’s now Hrodna in Belarus, came to our nation as a child, worked as a silk salesman in the garment district, and gradually metamorphosed into a comic.

Unlike Rodney Dangerfield, who was born with the same surname, Myron bravely brandished the name of his birth. The Cohens were the priestly tribe of the Jewish people, so it is, in fact, a name to be proud of.

If I had to choose a theme of Cohen’s humor, it would be “you can’t win.” For example:

Diner: You call this creamed lobster your special? I can find neither cream nor lobster in it.

Waiter: Yes, sir. That’s what makes it special.

One of my longterm goals is to read Larry Wilde’s Complete Book of Ethnic Humor. I know this type of joke is considered unacceptable nowadays, but I thought of a way I could put one in a newspaper:

Mr. Smith [name changed] ordered lasagna for dinner in an Italian restaurant. “Okay,” said the waiter, “do you prefer red or white wine?”

“It make no difference,” replied he. “I be colorblind!”

I’m not reading jokes in order to personally get funnier. I figure I’m about as amusing as I’m ever going to be. I’m trying to understand the mechanics of humor, that mysterious transition from “setup” to “punchline.”

Why do people laugh at a joke? What does comedy accomplish?

And how does it differ from a poem? Let’s look at a poem that’s similar in length to the last joke:

Torn from his offspring in the eve of life,

Torn from the embraces of his tender wife,

Sole, and all comfortless, he wastes away

Old age, untimely posting ere his day.

Certainly the syntax of the joke it is easier to follow than Pope’s quatrain. But here’s an interesting similarity: both excerpts rhyme! And both texts describe tragic situations: exile and colorblindness.

I could choose another subject for winter study, perhaps an area I have no interest in, to develop whole new parts of my mind. Admittedly, I attempted this plan at Cornell University and flunked out, but the virtue of winter hobbying is that there are no grades.

Varieties of study

Lately, when I have to sign my name on an electronic screen, I very laboriously write it out. Examining my handiwork, I realize I’m not completely satisfied with my cursive writing, which has not changed appreciably since I was ten years old. How about a season of handwriting practice?

I have some extra empty journals lying around. I can fill them full of handwriting exercises.

But what should I write? Inspiring quotations? A novel?

Imagine, if, by April, my script is flawless! (Plus I’ll have a brand-new novella.)

Which brings me to another point. The key is not to be intimidated by the word “study,” which implies long hours in the library. Education is different for each person. One student might compose a 1300-word exegesis; another might write five keywords on a brown paper bag. Who can say which one learns more?

Chess versus baseball

The other day I was in Washington Square Park, and I passed the chess boards, where professional chess players stand, calling: “Game of chess? Game of chess?“ to passersby. (They will play a game with anyone, for a donation.)

Chess! The perfect winter sport, if one defines “sport” broadly! To sit by a roaring fire – or even a whispering fire – contemplating a chessboard has to be the most salutary wintry pastime. And it’s a mutual contemplation, two persons forging a bond of educated silence.

Do I have friends I can play chess with? I can’t think of any. Maybe I should place a notice on the Shandaken page of Facebook?

I don’t think I’ll ever be very good in this ancient game. My two weaknesses as a chess player are that I have no strategy, and that I’m extremely impulsive. These are major deficiencies. But by springtime, all this could change!

I’ve become a big baseball fan in the last few years. Most everyone complains about how boring baseball is, but that’s what I enjoy: the stillness, the waiting, the mesmerizing lulls. But there’s also a tension between the batter and pitcher, a subtle aggression.

Chess has both elements, the quietude and the unspoken war. The white side and the black side are silently guessing each other’s strategy, like pitcher and bat-wielder. Chess is winter baseball.