8102. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW (#38)

38. COLUMBIA CROSSROADS

It's a bit like a bargain, this life:

'Now! Two days only! Take

advantage of these special

offers!' And then you move

a pencil, you take a step, and

it's over. I never knew much

what people were thinking,

country people I mean, when

I lived among them. They'd

look at me, drawn strangely

to them, evidently, and just

peer. Big city boy! Crazed,

wild hippie! Out there, there

seemed no original thinking

at all. It was whatever the

media drummed into their

heads  -  that's what they

went by. It was annoying, and

very quickly. I arrived there,

for instance, with a 1962

Volkswagen Beetle, the

Wolfsburg-built one, the

one with the  -  that year's

manufacture  -  the little

Wolfsburg badge built into

the chrome strip running

down the front. It made for

something different, that badge,

broke up the design line just a

little, and added a dash of color.

None of it meant anything to

these folks. It was as if they'd

never ever before seen a real

Volkswagen, the most pedestrian

and boring car there was, and

of which there were probably

a hundred thousand on any

street around where I'd lived.

Yet, all they ever referred to it

as was 'Look! A Herbie!' or,

'He's got a punch buggy.'

Something like that  -  media

names of cartoon VW-like cars

or whatever. I never really knew.

It was just pretty idiotic. Did I go

around saying, about their daughters,

'Look, a Barbie.' No. Not even 'Look,

there's a Ken!' All shamefully stupid,

but multiply that by a thousand

and you get an idea of the extended

and plain uselessness of much of

that thinking.  I'd not realized it

was so widespread  -  this was an

entire countryside of these sorts

of people, perambulating around

with all their dense opinions and

shadowy imaginings. For one, I

was nothing like the portrayal of

me they were running with. I was

never any sort of real hippie. I was

way too smart for that. And I then

figured they should have known that.

So, to placate these vicious hordes,

and to avoid a lynching perhaps, I

allowed myself to be taken under

wing by by neighboring farmer-guy,

a really goosey, loose-limbed Irish-

Dutch guy named Warren Gustin.

He took me in, I worked farm

chores for and with him  -  about

35 cows, twice a day, milking, manure-

spreading, tractors, mechanical stuff,

haying, planting corn, harvesting.

He had a family, about 5 kids, a wife,

a decent enough really old house and

a brand-new barn. His youngest kid,

Danny, about 6, had -  a little before I

arrived there, been fooling with matches

and set Warren's old, in-use barn on fire.

It burned to the ground. The locals,

from 15 miles around I'd bet, had what

was termed a 'barn bee'  -  meaning

that for any number of weekends

or days it took, they built him up

another, brand-new barn. I'd

arrived there at nearly the very

end of that, and, since they were

to be neighbors, pitched right in

with the final stages of finishing

up the new barn  -  shingles, roofing,

etc. No real clue what I was doing,

but I went to it anyway. It was a

way to break the ice, show that

myself and my own wife and kid

were real people and not just some

bizarre freaks not to be trusted or

dealt with. It allowed me to size

up the others  -  the wise-guys,

the cranks, the tough-boys, and

to see who I'd be really having to

convince or deal with over things.

It was, after all, to be my (our)

futures there to contend with.  I

soon learned who among them

was fair and who was foul.

Keeping it all to myself

then, too. Most of the men

were maybe ten or fifteen years

older than me, just hitting forty

perhaps, forty three. Or they were

the very old  -  crotchety, old and

wizened old farmer-men, tough as

nails, coarse and old-style to the

core. Some of the families, in the

big, old farmhouses, were

multi-generational, so you'd get

all the age levels together. The old

guys were the best. You have to

remember that back then, in the

years I'm talking about, these were

Depression-era guys, farmers, who

had lived through dire poverty and

the lack of most everything. The

only thing that had saved them and

their families, if you listened, was the

Government-assistance work that

tided them over. They'd go on like it

was yesterday when the WPA put

them to work "right here, running

electrification wires and some of

the poles to each house so that we'd

all have lights and power. We'd

get something like 6 bucks a

week from it and doing our own

chores, eggs and milk and such.

These roads them days was all dirt.

The Government sent trucks in, put

us all to work  -  we'd be walking

along with shovels and picks, and

two or three dump-trucks with us,

filled with pack dirt and hot tar and

we'd take the tar cans and spread the

liquid tar over the new dirt and stone.

Not so bad a job of paving as you'd

think  -  and it made the difference.

Now the milk and eggs boys could

get their trucks up off the mud and

outta' the trouble, and even the horses

and buggies went better. Why hell,

we all did." That was just the way

they talked on and the tales they

told. It was all good stuff  -  like

they really never did have any

bad experiences, leastways not to

tell about to me. I always figured

they were just as much probably

sizing me up as I was them, seeing

to what I reacted or listened to, or

said back.

-

My wife got on good with all the

ladies. Really simple stuff  -  church

stuff, bake sales, what they called

'Ladies Aid Society' meetings and

meals. They'd throw these big

lunches for the working-bee guys.

Having an infant kid helped too,

ladies all love that mothering stuff.

She even was presented with the

'Youngest Mother of the Year' award,

actually two years, maybe even three,

in a row. It was big stuff. She was

18, then 19, and the rest. Not that

the young kids around there weren't

fornicating  - believe you me. They

rooted around like sows and hogs,

but I guess they never got pregnant

young, or maybe the church didn't

recognize them, or ostracizing just

kept them away. Never knew, never

cared. The award was like a floral

bouquet and a sash and stuff. Really

hokey. Even funnier, no one ever

asked about the Daddy here, young

or old. Which in this case happened

to be me, but I never got no flowers.

-

I use to get a kick out of the wives of

this bunch  -  ladies, farm-ladies, all

bright and ripe, like butter commercials

themselves  -  bubbly, fleshy, almost

sensual to the eye. It was something,

And of course, just looking, you knew

what they were thinking sometimes

too  -  it got funny, and it got strange.

An outsider, a young-man, newcomer,

oh! Whooie! Religious or not, that

thrumming patter of sex was always

present, and everybody knew it, just

never confessed to it, I guess. There

weren't any Catholic Confessionalists

around anyway, these were raw and

simple Baptist folk, and the local

Baptist preacher was this little

pathetic guy named Wallace McKnight.

No one would be confessing anything

much to him anyway. I remember

one time, at one of the thrown

luncheon spreads (they'd come with

them right to the worksite, on

big long tables), one of the ladies  -

her last name was Guthrie, nice,

wilder type than the rest, sort of  -

she caused a ruckus that never

healed. A few of the ladies never

again spoke to her, in my time

there. Somebody had brought a

large tray of pastries, cruellers or

whatever they're called, and one

of the ladies said something about

them, that they were too large, and

too hard. Something like that  -

anyway this Guthrie lady, having

my eye the whole time, says 'Oh

Wee! Long and hard! Just the way

I like 'em best!' It was like the

whole place had just fallen off

a cliff. Ladies glared. No one

spoke. Reverend McKnight,

present as usual, always giving

benedictions about this or that. I

do swear I think he swallowed his

prayer and quite near gagged.

Warren himself told me later that

his wife, Barbara, had sworn to

him she'd never speak another

word to that Betty Guthrie woman

again in her entire life. Me? I

witnessed all this and was just

cracking up inside.

-

I worked for Warren, sidework,

for long more than a year, working

for 'milk and meat'. Meaning, no pay,

in money. Just whatever milk, dairy

and foodstuffs I'd need for my own

family use, he'd supply. Modestly I

mean, and within reason. It worked.

I'd be up at 5:30 am, walk out to get

the cows, set 'em all in for milking,

we'd do that, clean the chain drop,

spread manure, tractor stuff, etc.

Then, by eight or so, I'd jump in

the school bus I'd gotten a job

driving. Something like 20 bucks

a day, I really forget  -  winding

dirt roadways up jagged hills, old

dumpy trailers in the woods, end the

big-deal homes around too. Anywhere

there were kids around; they'd wait,

I'd drag by and get them and bring

'em all of to school, and then reverse

the whole process about about three

pm. Plus, for forty-two hundred bucks

a year, I'd been contracted to clean and

take care of the local schoolhouse  -  K

to 6, just another bunch of ratty, messy

farm kids. It all sucked, but it was a

living.

-

One day, as I started to say, early on, 

I just let Warren convince me to let 

him take me to one of those local 

yokels around  -  there were a few 

of them  -  for a total, real guy's

haircut and clean-up. I hated it, but I

went. It was a sort of trade-off for him

letting me go, with his car, to Towanda 

for my school-bus driving license test. My

own car was pretty marginal, and we 

didn't want that to tip the scales against

me in any way, nor my appearance It

all worked, and I got the needed license.

Pennsylvania has this system where

people can be Justices of the Peace.

Like Town Clerks and stuff  -  they 

notarize things, witness wills and such,

process motor vehicle stuff, accept

tax payments. Sell insurance, marry 

people, etc. Pretty much once you 

can hang that sign out front of your 

house, all is cool. Warren's buddy 

here was one of these, way big-time, 

crazy man. He had an office built onto

the side of his house for the JP stuff 

(Justice of the Peace), and in addition, 

he sold Amway Products, nearly

shoving them down your throat, had

like a hundred dead animals heads

on his sitting-room and 'den' walls,

and was, in addition, a barber, with 

a little barber-shop thing going on

on his porch. Which is where I ended 

up  - maybe four other guys, and Warren,

and me. Just sitting around, it seemed

endlessly, waiting for haircuts. This 

guy cut and talked; snipped and talked; 

cut a little more and talked. Picked his

crotch and talked; I mean it was all

pretty horrible. Five guys worth of

horrible. And of course, they'd seen 

me coming in. Thank God Warren 

fronted for me : 'What the gangbusters

ya got there now, Warren? Does that

get a name?' Blah, blah, yet again.

'Yeah, the name's Gary, I'm am idiot 

and an asshole; you can abuse me 

and call me names, make fun of me 

all you want, because I'm here to take 

it. Oh, and by the way, your wife

thought I was great, and way better

than that guy sitting next to you.' 

No, I didn't say that, but I should 

have. They all deserved it.