8137. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #46

46. FROGS

Anyplace else, maybe I could 

have been happy forever. This 

was fairly close to the best. I 

had no TV. The few times I had

to get one out of the closet  - 

(what they used to call a 

'portable TV'.  Sure sounds 

funny now, when you can have 

the whole entire world with 

you anywhere, on your wrist

or in your hand as a phone or a

tablet. This 'portable' was a little 

10 or 15 inch screen-size we

kept in the closet)  - were the 

times when my parents or family

came to visit, or stay for a Summer

week or something. I well remember

one time they kept me on edge the

entire time with their intrusion of

television  -  all that laughter and

noise  -  in my own living space. 

One of those nights they anxiously 

awaited the Country Music Awards 

or something, a show broadcast from 

somewhere in Nashville. All those 

sickening music people doing their 

stupid stuff. I just left the house for 

a few hours, simply unable to put 

up with it. None of it just ever 

meshed well with me; I just

never understood what

people were doing.

-

We had a few very basic grocery

markets up there, in the most 

preliminary stages of 'supermarket'

formatting. Weird names too, like

'Super Duper', and 'Piggly Wiggly',

or something like that. Inside, they

were small, with narrow aisles, 

and a really simple check-out 

system. Not much room for 

anything excess, but people loved 

them anyway, as if they'd really

and finally entered the modern 

era. I remember a few of the times

there really well  -  we'd go in

whenever we had the necessary 

15 bucks or whatever it took to 

get stuff needed, like soap and

toilet paper and cleansers and

the usual dumb stuff. Money 

wasn't exactly just lying around.

It was like that for lots of people,

not just us. One time I remember

seeing a Time Magazine in the 

rack, with this guy James Taylor

on the cover  -  long, black hair, 

a mustache, etc. Nothing like

he is today  -  but he was just

breaking then, and had hit the

big time, for a few years anyway.

I saw that and it was as if I then

realized the 'modern' world had

moved on, continued along without 

me, all that New York City and 

all its music-business stuff. 

Another time, when I got to 

check-out, there behind the 

counter was the blond girl 

graduated now and gone on to

a little job, I guess, who, when

she was a Senior in high school

used to get off my school bus, at 

the Troy Hotel stop, that area, and,

instead of going on to school went

into that hotel  -  where all the 

hunters and seasonal hunt-club

guys would be staying, and do a 

'day's work' in there, instead of

going to school. Paid in cash. I

knew all this, and she didn't keep 

it from me; just said instead it was

more important she could bring

some cash money home to help 

out rather than just waste a day

away in that school. I knew  -

didn't want to, but did. And I

never did a thing about it. I 

played the driver, that was all, 

and  -  in that context  -  left all

the value-judging and caterwauling 

to others, if they cared. Maybe I 

was wrong, but maybe I wasn't. 

The funny thing was, too, how 

none of the other kids ever said 

anything either, her girlfriends 

and classmates. Or maybe they 

did and just no one cared. But 

there was enough enough

self-righteousness and religious

pride around there that someone,

I figured, would have made noise.

And probably had my job over 

it too. In the Super Duper, I just 

said hi and gave her my very 

best. One thing I do, still to this

day, remember about her, and I

never could quite figure it out.

She wore pants, and whatever

she wore, I guess they were 

always a bit too tight, but 

they weren't tight, more just 

ill-fitting or cheaply cut, so 

that they rode her ass-cheeks, 

in a really crummy fashion, 

like they were always getting

crunched up into her butt.

-

One strange experience I had 

there was with the attorney at 

our closing. I do forget his name

right now, but well remember 

his office location  -  across from

the Ben Franklin store in Troy, 

and, actually, next to the Troy 

Hotel (that fine, old structure is

gone now, and it's a parking lot

next to the Troy Bank). He was

a skinny, I mean really skinny,

guy, maybe 35 or 38; just a local

lawyer for property transactions,

deeds, transfers and wills. What

struck me about him was how he

hunched over and most-carefully

read everything, each document,

as if every word and comma was

of complete importance. He had 

a tray-full of sharpened pencils

atop his desk, and as he read, 

everything and each, he led 

along with that pencil point. 

His hand had an ever-so-faint

shake to it. I would just watch,

mesmerized. He'd say nothing, 

just a drag-along mutter as he 

read. His heavy suits, worsted

or whatever that is, were too

loose and flowing on his thin

body, and he seemed always

to be about a half-day late for

a shave. More than a stubble, 

but not much. As if, by three

pm each day, he should have 

shaved again already. He 

talked, when necessary, in 

a thin, nervous voice. It was 

really all almost eerie. Since

we didn't know anyone up there,

and were working from afar at

first anyway, he was a property

attorney that the bank hooked us

up with. He did everything, over 

maybe a month and a half, and 

then called us in for the closing.

It was early November by then.

I remember having a dream, 

beforehand, about the place, 

something deep and resounding,

in which it was mentioned that,

up there, it was now the 'rainy,

mountain season.' Dream talk.

But damn if, all the way up 

and when we got there, it a

wasn't teeming rain for three 

days, and the cold, damp 

was about  40 degrees tops.

-

One time, it was Spring, and 

we were driving Route 6 by

Wyalusing Rocks, Marie 

Antoinette Lookout, and, just

about by the Camptown 

Racetrack sign, from which

Stephen Foster had written

that song. It was a bit moist 

and rainy out and the roadway

on out right side was higher 

up than the roadway on our 

left side, all part of a deep,

downward slant to the land 

there. It was, evidently, 

walk-up time, or Spring

migration time, or mating

time, or something, for the 

frogs. They were, literally by 

the hundreds, leaping down

from on the right, onto the

roadway, and just getting 

splatted by cars. All over 

the road. It was gross, and

sad, and horrible. I guess it 

was slippery too, but no one 

lost control. It was one of the 
stranger, natural, sights I've

ever seen, ever. It kept me rattled
 myself, for a bit of time. I tried to
wonder, or envisage, some grander 
and larger picture of things, things 
of that natural world, that I figured 
I must be missing out on. Why could 
God, and Nature, or whatever, (and
even 'would' instead of 'could'  - there's
no 'why could' about God, I figure),
allow such a confusing overlap, a
confluence of conflicting events like 
that, to take out so may frogs? In 
this case, frogs completely unaware
and innocent of their ways and means,
being decimated for following their 
time-worn and instinctual drives,
which took them over the deadly
roadways of Man.