RUDIMENTS, pt. 143
Making Cars
Learning to write was never difficult
for me. Even if some of you would
disagree (it won't matter a whit to me)
I stayed with that impulse, and as the
years passed, amazingly the pile of
things I've by now amassed is pretty
incredible. It would take another
full-time person to sort and organize.
Maybe I'll get another lifetime in
which to do it. In addition, I've
always liked making jokes and puns
and things, and that's come in handy
too; as openers, sometimes. You'd be
amazed how often it occurs that the
way 'in' to something here, the 'opener'
is the most difficult part. Once that
finer sluice-pipe opens, and the
material begins, I'm usually OK.
But, often enough, some sort of
humoresque, for that purpose, comes
in handy. I had a good one set up for
today, and darn it all, I've racked my
brain for an hour and can't get it back.
It had to do with a guy's name, some
old Pilgrim guy or something, and it
was a play on his talkativeness or not,
in light of his name indicating a
talkativeness but my not being able
to get a word out of him. Go figure -
maybe it'll come to me. It was
something akin to, say, Myles
Standish - Yes! Jeepers, that was
it. I was going to be calling him
Myles Standoffish. Ha!
-
I'm not a big holiday man. Let me
re-phrase that. I detest the holidays,
starting with Halloween, which has
somehow become the slow opener at
the start of November, for the rest of
this dreck to get started. I mean, 'Black
Friday?' How racist is that? How do
they get away with that, I wonder? I
remember, back in the early 80's or
about then, some senator or someone
getting in hot water for innocently
and sincerely using the word 'niggardly.'
You can look the word up; it has nothing
to do with nigger, or blacks, or anything.
But people - in their settled ignorance
of words - nailed this guy good. Just
imagine what would happen today.
It ends up that 'niggardly' means,
'miserly,' or 'stingy,' but somehow
it all got twisted up. Odd. When I first
moved to Avenel (was moved there),
I was 4, and I had a sister who was
a year and a bit behind me. (Close
in age. Kind of like 'suspiciously' close,
I guess they mean, like dad was always
ready with the pump-gun. 'Irish Twins,'
someone called it recently). With my
parents, that made 4. It was like an
entirely new outing for me, at age
mid-4, seeing all that transpired. New
things at every turn, which was kind
of cool - trees coming down, woods
getting sliced and leveled; there were
piles of debris, brush and lumber, and
dirt hills everywhere. The whole
project, of some, maybe, 160 homes,
on 4 different streets, had not been
completed yet. There was noise,
the racket of construction, trucks, etc.
We'd moved in early, and others were
just coming in. Moving vans and things.
So my first impression were as of an
almost 'wartime' scene. It was exciting,
but odd. After a time, as I recall, when
things got a bit more settled, the more
routine occasions started popping up.
There was a 'breadman' - Bond Bread
I think it was - and he made the regular
rounds to the families who subscribed to
his deliveries. That guy would talk forever
and just stop and talk to anyone, housewife,
sailor, or little kid. Everybody's friend.
And then a milkman started, and lots
of people got those gray-metal, insulated,
milk boxes. And then some guy came
around installing storm doors and storm
windows too, on lots of the houses. Ours
included. He went by the name 'Whitey.'
on the side of his truck and panels, and
he never much said a word. My parents
told me he was sort of 'shell-shocked,' as
they put it, and to not make loud noises
or shout around him. I never quite got
the gist of that, but I stayed far off. He
sure seemed a determined guy, right
to his task. He was still living his war.
-
What I did think about was how it must
have seemed for any of these guys to
suddenly have something like 400+
new people to service as customers. It
had to seem like a golden opportunity.
In later years, in New York, I'd be
walking along some street or section,
(they like to give things names there, by
sections - Chelsea, Soho, Tribeca) and
I'd think of that from the Inman Avenue
days. Just like there really was never
anything 'village'-like or small-town
about Avenel, even though I'd hear
people saying how they loved it there
because it was so small-townish, in the
same way there was nothing like that
about NYC either. The pretenders to
that conceit would say it was really
nothing more than a collection of
neighborhoods as small-towns, it
was (of course) nothing of the sort.
As I said, it was a conceit. It meant
to say how you could perhaps live
your life, if you so chose, on the
same ten or so blocks forever and
have a means of getting your bread
and milk and mail and tailoring
done, on a regular, steady routine.
If that's what defined 'small-town,'
seeing the same barber and the same
fruit-man each day, I guess the
definition could be stretched to work.
New York is, by all other means, of
course, the complete antithesis of
that. But, then again, so was Avenel,
so what's the difference.
-
Nothing was ever tailor-made for
one person. There are so many
overlapping tendencies that go
into a life that most meaningful
references do break down. All I
ever found was that most of my
own references were my own,
basically one-off and different
from anyone else's. As a little kid.
all that excitement of moving and the
construction and the battlements
against nature and all which were
going on as all those homes were
getting built was exciting and right.
Now, I'd be outraged. It would be
abhorrent to me. I'd never see the
sense in what once 'worked' for me.
Or at least got me here. Seemingly,
I guess, I can't now just go begrudging
others for undergoing that same chance.
I can't just go hating everyone I see
in a newly built house which has just
replaced woods and a stream. I like
to think everyone starts from their
own zero and even if I'm well past
mine they've got their zero.
-
Once I was able to get around, move
about, I saw things a little differently.
I had cousins and such who had
completely different experiences;
they'd move about into grand, older
homes in places like Lyndhurst and
Rutherford. Almost manor-type, tall
homes, with things made of fine wood
and panes of glass and doors separating
portions of the house, large rooms,
arches and dining areas. It would all
seem so greatly different to me. Dark
moldings and panels of knotty pine;
steps up and steps down, while inside
the house; tall ceilings and added-on
special rooms; garages, and an actual
topography that went with the house.
All in all grand places, compared
to the card-stock, thrown-up box
I had moved too. We were cast-offs
from a ratty highway, a side road
of gravel and dirt, almost, it sometimes
seemed, a shortcut to Hell, something
people took to get there quicker. I
certainly couldn't cry over spilled
milk. So I didn't. It would just come
again the next day anyway. In this
'small' town, you didn't have to go
out for anything. They brought it
right to your door.
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