#18 – The temporality of setting
On a recent trip to California and visceral lessons from John Steinbeck
Hey everyone!
What a treat it is to have the energy to sit down, write, and willingly spend more time on my MacBook lol.
This photoessay is inspired by a recent trip to California, John Steinbeck’s novela Of Mice and Men, and a cherished memory from my favourite elementary school teacher.
Blessings e beijos do Rio,
Jodi
When I was in the 6th grade, my civil engineer-turned-teacher read Of Mice and Men aloud to the class. As afternoon sun seeped through thick public school windows, spotlighting his professorial position, he spoke with a southern drawl. He made Lennie and George really sound like Lennie and George.
Craving something reliably Good, a couple of weeks ago I picked it up to read for myself. Of all the things one might wax poetic about (exquisite foreshadowing! perfectly balanced dialogue!), it’s Steinbeck’s descriptive settings that take the cake for me. Starting on page 1, his penchant for place is enchanting.
We feel involved:
“A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool. On one side of the river the golden foothill slopes curve up to the strong and rocky Gabilan mountains, but on the valley side the water is lined with trees - willows fresh and green with every spring, carrying in their lower leaf junctures the debris of the winter’s flooding; and sycamores with mottled, white, recumbent limbs and branches that arch over the pool…”
- John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men, p. 1
Throughout the story, the gravity of place adds touching nuance to the characters’ trials and tribulations. We know where they are. We know where they’re coming from:
“It was Sunday afternoon. The resting horses nibbled the remaining wisps of hay, and they stamped their feet and they bit the wood of the mangers and rattled the halter chains. The afternoon sun sliced in through the cracks of the barn walls and lay in bright lines on the hay. There was the buzz of flies in the air, the lazy afternoon humming.”
- John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men, p. 69
Absorbing the words on the page for the very first time taught me just how much setting situates meaning, and what an exceptional example this story is.
Of Mice and Men takes place in Salinas, California. As a matter of coincidence, I picked the novela just after returning from the Golden state. Having never been to San Francisco and the surrounding area, little things felt pronounced and significant.
The clicks of unfamiliar doors closing.
The unpredictable cadence of car horns and foot traffic and dog barks.
Confusing shower pressure.
I especially loved the trip my girlfriends and I took to world-renowned Napa Valley wine region. As our host prepared a picnic for us at an 8-generation cattle ranch turned winery, the three of us couldn't stop marvelling at the scenery.
Flirty undulating hills.
Rows and rows of stubby trees sprouting teeny green balls that will one day be luscious grapes.
The dramatic symphony of a classic red and white checkered picnic tablecloth flapping in the wind.
Mentally cataloguing these elements reminded me of a practice a psychotherapist taught me: grounding. I thought of sessions in her home office, where she’d catch my attention and encourage me to name objects in the room.
Pencil.
Stress ball.
Water glass.
The more items I named, the calmer I felt. This experience taught me that setting has more than illustrative power. Setting defines time.
With all this humming in my mind, it’s no surprise that what stood out to me most about John Steinbeck’s genius in this novel is his penchant for describing people and places. Attuning ourselves to setting is one way we can feel peace.
Where we are can remind us who we are.
“Curley's wife lay with a half-covering of yellow hay. And the meanness and the plannings and the discontent and the ache for attention were all gone from her face. She was very pretty and simple, and her face was sweet and young. Now her rouged cheeks and her reddened lips made her seem alive and sleeping very lightly. The curls, tiny little sausages, were spread on the hay behind her head, and her lips were parted.
As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment.
Then gradually time awakened again and moved sluggishly on. The horses stamped on the other side of the feeding racks and the halter chains clinked. Outside, the men's voices became louder and clearer.” - John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men, p. 77