8802. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 222

222. IN THE SANDY WOODS

Out back of the seminary,

along a warren of sandy roads,

pretty much all to nowhere,

there stood a few cabins and

actual places, deep in the pine

woods, where people lived.

Strange, South Jersey families

at that point  -  I never knew

what their kids did, schooling

and the rest. In fact, except for

the times I did see them, I

never saw them, if you can

understand what I mean. The

woods hid things. I always

used to think it had to do

with smell  -  not them, I

mean the smell of the land

and soil (sand). There was

just some enticing and

seemingly important, or

different anyway, aroma

that the seasons and the

mornings, or the rain or

the Autumn, brought up,

drew out from the soil. It

was captivating  -  and it

wasn't really 'soil'. I don't

know what 'sand' is, even

though I've read it's 'silica',

can be burned into making

'glass' and silicates. No

matter, none of that made

any sense to me. This was

not that. It was that 'other'.
Something unmistakable.
All that crap is science and

techno-talk. This was,

instead, the world

primeval. This was

the quiet beginnings

of time and awareness.

It was a very fortunate

thing, for me, I felt, to

be there. Because I

soon realized I could

'read' that. I could

sense and understand

that old slate of time,

as it presented its

ancient self before

me. When everything

else was beginning to

look hopeless, there,

it gave me a new impetus

to stay, and withstand,

and put up with, the

other junk going down.

I was still forming;

wasn't done yet.

-

We had seasonal workers

there too - some of the farm

fields around us had been

leased to Campbell Soup

Co., over in nearby Camden  -

fields of peppers, mostly,

but other things too.

Anyway, when harvesting

 time came they'd send

flatbed trucks of workers,

pickers and bushel baskets,

and these people, all day,

would be walking the fields.

Everything was hand-picked,

no power implements. It

was very old-school, quiet,

and spiritual too. Like the

old south, these black people

would do call-and-response

talking, chanting, singing,

and shouting. prayer and

not. A remarkable sight

and sound. Old sharecropper

women, it always looked

like, with head-wraps and

big loose plantation dresses

or whatever. They be in the

fields declaiming about

something, or singing. Or

just quiet. A few of the

field-foremen types

would be standing along

the edges, chewing straw

or just standing out. No

weapons or anything that

I ever saw, but it was

'authority' nonetheless.

The field-hands heeded

it  -  brawny black guys,

younger women, and the

old  -  the uncertain

certainty of being

watched and controlled.

It all used to fascinate

me. Some days, from

the second floor classrooms

in the main, education

building, I'd  be able to

see and watch, from

where  I sat. Very akin

to daydreaming, I'd let

it all take me away.

-

I think that when you're a

kid things happen to you

differently. There's more

of an 'elastic' sense to all

things  -  time and ideas

can be stretched, one can

formulate what going to

occur by reading omens.

I used to be able to tell

which way a decision

would go  -  'for' or

'against'  -  just by

picturing the result.

Whether or not I was

foretelling or predicting

it, I never knew. Yet, it

often happened I'd turn

out to have been correct.

(Of course there' were

only  two alternatives

presented, always a 'yes'

against a 'no', so failure

against success was a

1 out of 2 proposition.

Very good odds). When

young, everything somehow

seems more alive or more

electric, with possibility

or with the 'magic' of

chance and possibility.

As the grim years pound

along, it all gets more

and more dreary, over

time. I'd guess that a

person just stops

demanding a result

and instead just begins

'accepting' results. No

push back, no fighting

ahead.

-

Those old cabins and

cinderblock houses 

out in the sandy stretches 

(I'd never seen 'cinderblock' 

homes before. They are 

just what they are called. 

Square, right angles only, 

squat, and almost boring 

to look at. Made only of

stacked/mortar'd cinder-

blocks, and windows with 

frames, of course. There 

was never much activity, 

and much more mystery). 

Broken cars, something 

like a 'driveway', if it had 

to be called such. Small

wooden buildings and 

things around too, made 

from old lumber, leaning, 

pallets, stacked. Here and

there a couch or some chairs, 

a campfire spot, always 

blackened and fresh with

recent burning. Usually a

dog or two, some chickens.

One time, my friend Leo

Benjamin and I, coming 

upon one of these, did 

make contact with the 

sweetest, most definitely 

mysterious girl, of about 

maybe 13 or 14 herself.

I was completely taken 

by storm, though I could 

hardly speak a word. It

was all about Leo anyway,

he was the talker-guy. I

just dreamed. I don't know

what they ever had or got

going, but Leo was gone

no matter, by the next 

semester. If it had anything

to do with this situation,

and if it ever had 'advanced',

I never knew. But I can still

see that place and scene, and

the girl, It's like a forever in

an instant.

-
It's very difficult to 'proclaim'
anything  - but in a Christian sense
on is supposed to 'proclaim' at all
times. I felt blessed and worthy.
I saw life in a slightly different
light, even though it was stranger
and more difficult. Those sandy
hills, those cinderblock houses,
a lot of that stuff was all the 
same, just repeated. The kind
of old, archetypal  scene you
imagine - a cantankerous guy
standing off in his yard, 'cussing'
and hanging onto his shotgun
or 'thirty ought six', which was
like a really large-bore serious
country boy rifle. Wouldn't want
to mess. Yes, the Pine Barrens
were sure a point off from normal.
I always felt that if I'd had to

really tell anybody the sort of

life I was leading, back then, 

1963 or so, they would have

been totally amazed. As I 

look back, even now, in the

writing of these things, it's

almost other-worldly for 

me to glimpse back into a

deep and mystical past along

paths and by-ways I actually

walked, talked, and partook. 

Yet, I tell you, this is so.