8719. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #199

199. WOOD

'Advice for the lovelorn' :

one step at a time, don't

go overboard, treat each

item separately and be

sure to clearly finish each.

Those were the tidbits

I'd see. No, it wasn't

called 'lovelorn,' but I

forget otherwise  -  I

started getting this

really dumb magazine,

a large, over-sized,

monthly. Delivered. It

was called 'Pennsylvania

Farmer' and it was just

what it said  -  including

those hokey advice things

I opened with. That's

where I learned all about

silos. They had all these

really cool monthly, in-depth

articles, about real farm

stuff. For me it became

like an instant vocational

education, a textbook of

sorts for an accelerated

course in dairy/agriculture.

There was even a monthly

agri-themed crossword

puzzle. Tractor articles,

restoration, old tools,

cow medical stuff, corn,

additives for gasoline

and fuel, the entire

crazy gamut. And the

best things were the

ads. Quaint, Bizarre. I

must say, I did actually

wait for that magazine

each month to arrive.

And I do wish I had

saved them all. As duly

eccentric as that tale I

told way, way back here,

in an earliest chapter,

about moving into the

house and barn and

finding, in the barn

apartment bathroom,

all those 'Arizona

Highways' magazines.

They were even more

bizarre because they 

had to do with nothing 

at all 'germane' to the 

situation. Wish I'd 

saved them too.

-

There was a book I fell

in love with too. By some

fellow named Eric Sloane,

it was called, 'Reverence

For Wood.' It was an older

book, even back then,  - or, it 
always just seemed old. I was
actually surprised when I did
learn how recent it was. It

had been around and had its

own little cult following. It

would be very hard to say

exactly what it is about it;

it's like an 'ode' to wood.

And I don't remember

from when it dates, maybe

1960 or so. It's the sort of

book you don't much see  -

no detours, no glamour, it's

just about one thing  -  old

wood, and wood, and how

it ages and forms into things.

A varied 'history' of the very

thought of wood and its uses.

The sort of book that really

takes a lot of patience to stay

with, to absorb. But worth it.

It's as good and as engaging

as 'Desert Solitaire', by

Edward Abbey, from 1968.

Each of those books was

to me totally engaging,

enormous in both intensity

and scope. They were

definitely NOT the sort

of thing you'd figure as

'intellectual' reading. In

fact, neither of them are

the sorts of books that

people would put up

with today. They are

'thought' books; they

do one thing, and they

stay with it, remaining

planted on their subjects

and material, and

nothing else. They

are, each, vast, single

meditations on their

subject matters. Only.

If I had a pre-requisite

for friendship today,

I'd say 'read these 

books', and report 

back. Yet, out there in

farmer-land I couldn't

see any one reading 

either of these. You see, 

there was in every attribute

of things done, of things

gone about, a certain 

element of the frivolous,

or at least an element of 

lack of anything veering

from the utilitarian and 

most reasonable. I never 

saw an intellectual farmer, 

or a farmer that thought. 

The homes and center 

rooms were devoid of 

books, and if there

were any they were 

of the utilitarian or 

accounting variety, 

the 'how-to's and 

the procedural. 

Nothing ever about 

awareness. That

used to bother me.

I'd think to myself, 

even out there in a fairly

wonderful Eden of a place,

how could anyone go on

with a life without any 

self-examination or

any collection of the

vital and interesting 

information that goes

into a valued life? It 

never made any sense 

to me. Why do people 

want to live as dumb 

as the pigs in their

sty? I would figure 

even a most basic layer 

of self-respect would 

bring forth some interest,

in anything  -  even if just

to be able to talk with

your own kids as a semi-

wise Dad and individual

and not some dumb drone.

-

The other funny thing was 

how Cornell University 

made pride out of being 

a 'Land-Grant' College. 

Which meant, sort of, 

that some long time ago, 

after the Civil War or 

something, these

particular colleges 

were given rural 

acreages for free, 

'granted' the land to 

establish their places of

learning, for rural folk 

and farm folk and the 

like to implement an

education and to learn 

things. In Cornell's

place, they even made 

a great institution, beautiful

to see, perfectly situated and

well cared-for, and a grand, 

major place of learning and

intellectual currency  -  for

'students' imported in from

all around the world. Not too

many local hick farmers 

walking in that place. What

happened? How did the

relationship between the

learning and the 'place', the

geography, get so skewed?

Students from all over the 

globe, but the wrong sort 

of people too, not those for

whom the place was meant

originally to be for. Now it 

had gotten all theoretical,

Chinese, Indian, Euros, all

of a curious intellectual bent of
their own, with characteristics 

all different than the origins

were meant for. Strange. In
the 'American' vein, I think it
was as education slowly turned
into a viable American 
growth industry.

-

It was all and everywhere a

battle of some sort : it you

weren't fighting flies and

mosquitoes, like a cow 

constantly flicking its 

tail to ward off the bugs,

then you were fighting

the sensation of falling  -  

turning yourself into a 

real dullard. The utility 

guy, the drudge with the

pail, and the shovel, and

the cow. How could I

ever talk to any of these

guys, in truth, about what

I felt and lived and knew

and thought? Impossible, 

like an alien world, a real

Mars with nothing but

dead earth soil 

to deal with.