8713. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #197

197. HURRICANE AGNES

Do you have any idea how

weird it was to tell myself  -

in the deepest middle of

distant Pennsylvania  -

that I was an artist, with

those intentions : writing,

painting. I knew I still felt

all that, but in two years

trying, nothing came. I

had boxed my way, solidly

and shut  -  which had been

my intention, yes  -  into

a container from which

only the hands-on and

the tangible could be

extracted, The 1970's had

already a vengeance  -  bad

sweaters and bad clothing

notwithstanding. The sort

of stuff you can't even look

at now, had, in the same way,

taken over my thoughts. I

had to work hard putting

all that behind me : New York

glimmer, misplaced and poorly

thought out things done, the

people and places left behind.

What might be going on there

now, at first, I had only a

glimmer. Distant and

dissipated. I didn't look

at a newspaper or a headline

for two years. It was only

slowly, with later forays to

Ithaca and Cornell, both

themselves still a steaming

cess-pot of rancor and

anger'd-violence over

art and politics, that I got

a feel for dipping a toe, and

then a foot, back into things.

It was so funny how no one,

family included, ever really

had asked about what I'd

been up to. The secret life

of Walter Mitty indeed. If

this had been 1867, and I

was some Civil War scoundrel

mustered out and escaping

into a monastically blistered

existence in my cabin in

the woods, wary of outsiders,

and watchful of everything,

I don't think it would have

felt any different. I was

miserably poor there for a

long second, and frankly,

it had all worked out well

enough that I often regretted

not having robbed a bank

while I was at it  -  since

I was hiding out anyway  -

and done it with 50 grand

of someone's payroll money

stashed in the barn.

-

I made what few friends I

needed to. Close to the cuff.

In some ways a born actor, I

simply 'became' whoever I

was with, as needed, to

perfectly meld and fit in.

Farmer. Hayseed. Yokel.

Whatever it took. I knew

it was play-acting, but it

had to work. It was really

pretty easy  -  except that

sometimes it got painful

too. Like at the supermarket  -

again  -  but not the one in

Elmira. This was the little

market in Troy, PA, where

Columbia Crossroads went

to get stuff. It was like a

densely packed six aisles;

almost a 'pretend' supermarket

for those days, but it worked.

Stuff was stacked everywhere;

cereals, juices, soups and the

rest. It always went fairly

easy. It often smelled like

farm  -  people had overalls

decked with manure, and

boots caked with farm slop.

The weird thing was, one of

the kids working there, a blond

girl, I knew from my schoolbus

driving had been doing some

extra-curricular work over at

the Troy Hotel some days,

instead of 'going to school' No

matter. I was in NO condition

to exploit the fact, nor to have

her begin blabbing about me,

so, and just because she worked

there, I either didn't shop there

or, when I did, it was all kept to

a minimum of 'Hi, Hello, How

are ya.' More trouble than

any of it could be worth. She

was like the prime exemplar of

some ideal, blond - blue eyed

Life Magazine cover innocence.

Perfect farm girl. My God, if

they ever knew. So much of the

world is surface; appearances.

Deception wide-angled and

coming around the bend.

-

I've been told the Elmira stuff

doesn't come over too well, there's

not a 'feel' for it. Well, I try. The

place was 'brown.' Let's begin

with that. A has-been brown made

from the leftovers of all those

jobs and manufacturing which 

had simply disappeared. Closed

up or fled to some other locale. 

Brown is perhaps the 'color' of

Earth. It's something an artist

will use to get across tough 

and ruddy points  -  the land,

the running of dirt paths and

rocks. It's a strong and a tough

color, with any number of

variants from umber to tan ,

but it never amounts to much.

It's a utility color. William

Blake used to squawk all

the time about Rembrandt,

how distasteful his work 

was, all that deep, dark; 

those endless browns. 'The 

color of dung', Blake would 

say. Understandable. A real

'fruitless' color. That was the

way of Elmira. Water Street, 

Walnut Street, Euclid and 

College Avenues. They each 

had their place and they 

each had a feel. But nothing

much went anywhere. They 

were dead-end places like 

people have dead-end jobs.

The language of Elmira, if

it was English, was of 

another dialect of English.

Down English. Another 

dead language just searching 

for some use. I think, in 

June '72, when Hurricane 

Agnes came through and 

just blasted the place to 

nothing, it was God's way 

of cleansing or wiping clean. 

Giving the place a bath 

for something new to arise.

There aren't that many real

ferocious hurricanes that

roll that far inland. They

usually beat up the coast, hit
the wall of land somewhere,

slamming in from east or 

southeast, and then just

dissipate headed west. This

one was different. Somehow 

it actually made it inland, and

with all its fury still howling.

even managed to climb upland.

And do its nasty work, it's 

clank and damage. That

seldom happens. It was 

remarkable. And even more 

remarkable was how it sat and

settled on Elmira and just

ripped it to shreds. There

was no real explanation.

Again, we were away that 

weekend or whatever 

days it was. Driving back

from the NYC area, first

the damn storm lifted and 

took my car's windshield 

wipers right away. That was

just as we entered PA, over 

the Water Gap Bridge. Big

mishap, but I got by, peeling

my eyes and finding a certain

speed that was ideal for 

streamlining the airflow 

so as to keep the least 

degree of water distortion in

my view. No wipers. Then we 

got over to the Susquehanna, 

somewhere, and were taken 

off the roadway, which was 

closed and flooded by that 

time, and instructed to drive this

little crap road to a Red Cross

Station that had been set up  - 

for people to wait out the storm.

Food, snacks, meals, coffee, 

TV, games, kids stuff. 

Everything but an orgy 

going on. Maybe 50 or 70

people, for as long as it took. 

We had my youngest sister 

with us too, Toni, about 12 

at the time  -  she was coming 

back to spend a week or 

two, some Summer-country

time with us, being finished 

now with school for the 

Summer. She got a real 

eyeful of fun, for sure. Water

and mud everywhere. Six feet

walls of slick, muddy water,

silt. However long it was, and

whenever the operable daylight

came and we got out of there

I can't recollect exactly. But

as we drove, slowly, along, rain

had reduced to mist and drizzle,

everything was dark and dreary 

yet, soaked. trees on their sides,

twisted over, bent and drooping.

People with chain saws cutting 

things off wires and buildings,

trying best to re-open roadways.

We did finally make it out 

towards Columbia Crossroads  

-  not knowing what to expect;

was our dirt road still there?

Was our hill still a hill? Were

the house and barn, massive 

and strong as they were, still

there, and in place? When 

we neared it all, it was dusk.

Everything was matted and

weighed down with water.

The tall grasses looked as if

helicopters or alien UFO's had

landed  -  flattened in weird

circular patterns. Yet, everything

was intact  -  no broken glass,

the house intact, waters in place,

the two ponds had not 'broken'

their banks and moved on. 

It was a God-like place, as 

I fell down in a sort of 

primitive prayer. I never 

wanted to leave there again. 

Added to all else, where 

before I was wounded 

and sore, now I felt 

wounded, beaten, and 

vulnerable. But successful 

too. That was a real gain.

-

Once, the next day or two, after

the Civil defense stuff began 

working and we'd re-stocked for

what we'd need, we made our way,

slowly, by car, to Elmira. The

 devastation along the way was

incredible  -  lowlands and riverside

stuff, just gone. Peoples' homes 

torn off their foundations. It seemed 

the poorer anyone had been, a form 

of reverse Divine justice (or

twisted humor) the worse they'd

gotten hit. Lost everything of what

little they'd had. Pets and animals.

Cars and basements. Possessions 

and clothing. The local streams

and rivers, along which they dwelt, 

had taken it upon themselves to,

with a certain fury, meander, find

different ways to flow from point

A to point B, or C or D. Everywhere,

new courses of water, trees buckled 

over, split, as if they'd been hit by God.

We got to Elmira, and it was still, 

more or less, Lake Elmira. The place

 I worked was gone, destroyed  -  all the 

machinery and printing equipment. (I 

would be without that job for well 

over a year). The fury of that storm

had ripped Elmira to another, as of

yet unknown, Kingdom Come. The

biggest, and most immediate problem

there, yes, truly, was coffins. One

or more of the old cemeteries  -  Civil 

War, 1900, those eras, had been

inundated and wiped, torn open, 

with coffins heaved, and floating 

around. Old, ancient crud, bones and

pieces, chunks of torn wood. The

dead had arisen. It was an

incredible sight, and gave an

entire new meaning to something

like 'Water Street'. The more
modern coffins, like boats, just
floating around. I couldn't figure
that out  -  realizing how I'd always
 thought coffins were also put into
concrete vaults in the ground. But,
anyway. If you judge a town by
its fast foods, Elmira was done.
Burger King, McDonalds, and the
rest, just big watery float-bowls.