Sunday, September 24, 2017

9976. RUDIMENTS, pt. 84

RUDIMENTS, pt. 84
Making Cars
There are a few things that still jump
out at me as really aberrational. I was
in the middle of nowhere, working in 
an environment unknown to me, at first:
chickens to cows to pigs and sheep. We
walked around doing 'chores'  -  which
is what farmers call the constant, and
steady, routine of twice a day milling 
and everything else with it, that goes 
with dairy farming. It was never easy, 
and never anything that let a person 
just coast or skate along. The herd takes
constant attention, milk, manure, hay,
feed, drainage, cleaning, spreading the
manure onto the fields, planting those
fields later, tending to growth, turning
it into silage and feed, and then harvesting
the crop, whichever crop it was for that 
time period. And the farmer had his pick:
Spring wheat in one field would mean an
early harvest, and hopefully an early
payoff. Corn went until late September.
Some planted outside rows of potatoes,
other root vegetables, etc. A brilliant, 
green field of oats was another early-in 
crop; and it just went on. Besides that, the
machinery needed constant work  -  without
it you got nothing done. Oil changes, filters,
adjustments, replacement parts, all of that.
All work. The seed company representatives 
were always coming around 'Pioneer Company,'
and the others, pushing their brands of the
science-controlled genetic seeds they sold. 
I never saw much difference, but some did.
You wanted yield; hardiness; fast maturation;
strong stalks; good moisture. It was crazy. 
Everything seemed to count for something.
None of the 'money' ever really became 
money; it was just bank account transfers, 
bank notes and loans; but farmers had this
all figured out, and the local banks (back then)
knew the deal and money flowed. Seasonal
infusions, $16,000, maybe $20,000, which
would keep them going  -  seed, fuel, hired
hands, and the rest  -  until harvests began,
and the money started coming back in. Mostly
to the bank, but they'd get a 'draw' for the
usual paycheck kind of stuff. $200 a week
or something, for family, groceries, doctors
clothes, etc. This went on all year, season by
season, and I used to think THAT was the
real science of farming; forget the seed 
mixes. I was never a 'farmer' so I never had
to worry about it; though, as I said previous,
the bank was very liberal with me too, and
gladly floated 6-month notes for most any 
amount I asked. 6%, 7% interest on paybacks,
and they'd roll another one. It was crazy enough,
especially when you'd find yourself paying
the balance of the old one off with a part
of the new one. I never knew if these banker
guys knew any of this. They weren't the
sharpest pencils in the box sometimes. 
They were always pretty ugly, I thought, 
too, and really poor, cheap-suit, dressers.
Just another mystery. There's be barn socials
and hay-dances and fairs and all that, and sure
enough, they'd be there. It was like a bad old
Judy Garland or Mickey Rooney movie, one
of those 'hoe-down, damn, will-the -kids-make- 
it-through-their-troubles' kind of scenes.
-
The wives to all this, they were another scene
all together. Astounding. Wicked Witch of the
West stuff right out of Oz, sometimes. My own 
wife got mixed up  only a bit with these 'ladies'
of the church sometimes. Church Socials, or
community feeds, to feed the poor, and have
a lame dance or a tea or a party. Always
emulating something really bad  -  like an
imagined version they all kept of some prim
and proper version of royalty. Except to them
the Queen was maybe Elsie the Cow. That's
as far as it went. I've always felt (this is a
personal, parenthetical, aside) sex to be a
part of life, and Life was supposed to be what
they were always celebrating and upholding.
Only a few of these ladies were in any way
half-hot, ripe, happy 39 year-olds. I had eyes. 
I'd see it, and I knew who maybe could be
a thunderbolt in bed, back at home. But you'd
never see it from the behavior here. No one
ever got loose, there never being alcohol
around these ladies. There was one stiff,
a real drudge. She was the clerical secretary
of the local school, and her husband was
the big, crusty Minister at one of the fancy
stone churches over in Troy. About 6 or 8
miles off, down the hills and out towards 
Rt. 6. His name, get this, was Chauncey 
DePew, Reverend Chauncey Depew. She
was always just Mrs DePew. Not pleasant
to look at in any way  - short, dumpy, with 
bad bangs and horrible taste in clothes. Always
cranking about something; bad mood, a real
pain. She never much took to me at all,
nor me to her. Whatever. One year, whatever
year it was when the St. Louis Arch was
brand new (in Missouri, some 'Gateway
To The West' celebration on the banks of
the Mississippi), her and Chauncey took
a car-trip vacation out see the new arch.
You would have though she was going
to Paris, to visit the Louvre. Hell, to
buy the Louvre. She got all uppity and
high-and-mighty over the upcoming trip,
and their plans, and the 'exclusivity' of
their arrangements and travel. If you want
to count a '64 Chevy as exclusive travel,
well then, go ahead. I don't think Motel
6's existed yet, but I'm sure if they did,
these two rubes had their prayer books
with them and stayed in motel 2 and a 
half and loved it because they didn't
know the difference. 
-
You have to remember the era this all 
was in. Paychecks were spitting blood 
and people were being sent to Vietnam 
on a dime a dozen bus. Out there it was
considered a point of honor to have your kid
go, and if he got killed, even better. High
dudgeon, the body comes home in flags,
the church opens up, bells ring and peal,
and the poor sucker gets immortalized :
a photograph, in uniform, tacked onto a
colored construction paper in the local
lame high school glass-fronted bulletin
case. I never knew why did they that stuff.
It was a real tragedy to me. Talk about
graduating. I always told the kids to stay
back as much as they could. Nowadays,
everyone looks back on all this with the
proper music, (rock sound track, no less)
and the same talking heads who screwed
up the whole mess, and probably killed
your kid, get lauded for being reasonable 
and prescient while they fast-talk to cover
their mistakes before they die of their own 
old age. That what time does, you jerk, I 
always want to say, it passes and you die off. 
I hope you meet Corporal Wendell Jennings 
on your way to Hell, while he's waving you 
off from the other direction. Put that on 
your bulletin board.
-
My own war-fighting days were over then.
I had my 4F and screw 'em all. I'd fought 
my battles, left my ruins and people, met 
my own dead and dying. In the woods here, 
I was as good as disappeared, and thank you.
Those country-bumpkin kids around me, I
wanted to save them, keep them alive. But
it was a lost cause : Cambodia. Laos. Nixon.
Carpet bombing. The 'Christmas Offensive'.
These kids loved it all, they ate up all that,
and just went away. Blood is a good fertilizer.
Like a dead fish with the Indians, planted
with the corn. I guess.

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