THE LONGREFEUR
The land I live in is made of strength and
cohesion. Yet it cannot be seen, not sighted.
There is a silent pause, like in those hilly
roads up here in these mountains. One thing
falls, and all else follows. Let me walk you
along Xenia Road : cabins and small homes,
and a long, rambling way.
-
The man with the carbine is called
Uncle Mike. He's been here since 1943.
Right where he was born, that's where he
stayed. His only privilege left is in these
woods, and everyone lets him be because
he holds all the stories. Do you see that
black Buick, lumping in the yard there?
That was once his father's car, and in it
he ran cash between two valleys.
-
Hard-earned cash, not dirty money. I'm
not meaning that. He logged and lumbered,
when he had to, and other times he sawed
and built. Back then, down this end of the
road, there wasn't much here - some rich
Jewish guys from New York City, when these
parts still held the overflow Catskill's crowd:
all those campers and vacationers, when
something akin to Grossinger's was every
seventh mile, with a small temple and a rabbi
too. As it all began to wither, all those rock-roll
hippies blew in, turning colors just like trees.
-
Everything passed, like everything does :
all those playboys, hippies, and magic
creatures are gone. And all the resorts
are too. That only leaves me, and this
Uncle Mike. I get by, and live all-right.
But the land still keeps it's strength
and it's cohesion too. I walk on
proud, with my head held high.
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