10,760. RUDIMENTS, pt. 295

RUDIMENTS, pt. 295

Making Cars

I think living next to the prison

and the prison farm, as I did,

had to mess with my head.

I would say 'your' head, in that

'most-general fashion, but what

I'm meaning is me. When I

think back  -  I realize it was

post-WWII and all these

newly home-based, and

disjointed soldiers and families

needed places to live, homes to

finally buy, but who in the world

would have thought to build a

hundred homes or whatever it

was, along the railroad tracks

and next to the open-field prison

and down the street from a lumber

yard, junkyards, an itinerant

trailer park, and Route One.

How do you even describe that

in a sales brochure? "The truly

bucolic charm of this location

comes from the agrarian nature of
the farm fields around you, filled

as they are by happy prisoners at

work for the day from the nearby

maximum-security prison, from atop

the walls of which, and guarded

on all corners by riflemen and

sharpshooters looking out for

the protection of your and your

most-dear kin and family, stand

ready sentinels of your safety. The

wonderfully homey rumble of

trains rolling by will give you that

sense of peacefulness and fulfillment,

at the end of each day, that comes

from the feeling of a solid day's

work done. The nearby gurgling

sounds of water and creek, over

metal and discarded steel will

simply take you away  -  if you

close your eyes and sit back  -

to the wonderful years of your own

early days  -  grandparents around

the family settlement, woods, streams,

junkyards, and a pesticide factory

atop the nearby hill. And, remember,

you'll always have a driveway of

your own to park in  -  no more

pesky scouting around for places

to leave your family car." In all

other aspects though, it was good

stuff. Something not easily replicated

in today's world; like strike-anywhere

matches ('Ohio Blue Tip') the place

was incendiary. As little kids, my

friends and I would do the most

outlandish things. One time we

had Easter Week off, from school.

(I think they still do that but they can't

call it Easter Week off anymore; so

they call it Spring Break or something -

like a 4th grader's gonn'a run out

and drink and booze and romance

a one-nighter hook-up. Even today's

terms for things are cautiously

screwed up. Stupid school adults

begin thinking FOR the kids, but

in adult terms)  -  and we got into

the prison train siding, off in the

woods, where there were one or two

boxcars loaded up with baking flour,

for the prison kitchen in fifty or a

hundred pound bags, whatever.

Using pen knives (let me interject

here, I really DON'T know what

we were thinking, I fully apologize,

and both me and my butt are glad

we never got caught. I hear doing

time there can be painful even

for kids), we managed to put slits

in as many of the sacks as we

could reach. There was white

powder (flour) flowing everywhere.

Guards not being present, we

dutifully high-tailed it. Just one

example then, of my bucolic

existence. Irony abounds

-

I guess a person just sort of absorbs

their surroundings and it becomes

normal and par for them. I know

I never really thought twice over it.

Garter snakes on the rocks, filthy

old creeks with tires and junk in

them. Woods at the ends of the

streets and in the corner wastelands

in between. The kind of places that

were too irregular, or wet, or

angular, that the developer couldn't

sensibly build to or upon. Those

places were gold, yes, but they

were layman's spots for us. We

had the real thing  -  acres of

commingled land, just sitting there.

Tracks, rail sidings, junkyards,

fields, and farmlands. Right out

back. Joy was legion, at that level

and in those terms. When you think

about it anyway, what does a 'developer'

know about anything? Straitlaced

old suit and tie goons looking to

make a dollar on wreckage. All

they do is come in, figure out 'area'

and the geometry of how and what

they can muck up, cut, build, and

saddle with the cheapest homes

they can get away with. Walking

away with money, maybe, yes,

but the joke's on them too, because

what it allows is a 'generation of

vipers' to arise and wreak havoc.

Which I think has suitably

occurred in this case too. We

pretty much respected nothing,

but then again what was there

to respect? Piles of junk cars

one atop the other; and at the

other end of the street, piles of

lumber, open lumber yards, access

to and from both the yards and

the train station right from the

tracks. Everything was super-simple.

All beyond that was open fields,

the farm-fields of the prison, its

wall, its towers. As I said, the

other end was trailer park, junkyards,

and Route One, accessible over and

under by road or by a quick dash.

Everything still bore the earmarks

of what had previously been there,

along the travelers' highway  -  cheap

motels, overnight camping sites for

trailers and cars, vegetable markets,

and the occasional pavilion or

siding for picnic or rest. Trucks

barraged along, but slowly, not

like trucks today. Things were

tidier and more simple. Every sort

of twisted oddball came out of the

trailer park  -  some stayed, others

just went along their way. All of

that was changing, and we witnessed

it all, throughout the pointy-bra

1950's. Our mothers and fathers

and neighbors were all a bit

strange, and as kids we sure

wondered what went on with

them at night : Gouging into

each other in mad streaks, new

brothers and sisters dropping

everywhere, baby carriages, car

seats, tiny little kid-pools in the

yards for Summer-day water

wading. Each house, it seemed,

or almost, had one operative

nut-case whom we'd eventually

get to know. One or two childless

couples always seemed to stay

cranky, like the Grenadas, on

our street  -  taking the balls that

landed in their yard, not returning

them, complaining aloud for us

to go away from the street in

front of their house, stop playing

football, the noise, the bikes.

Some people died, others came

and went. Reality for us didn't

much matter  -  because it

wasn't that much out front,

it was in the rear  -  where

the yards ended and the land

stretched. That was reality.

All those other people,

selling storm doors and

windows, siding, insurance

guys, even the ice cream

truck guy and the mosquito-spray

people, they hadn't much of

a clue as to what we really

involved here.