RUDIMENTS, pt. 378
(avenel antiques)
Once underway, I sailed pretty
good. There used to be a place
in Piedmont, NY, it was perhaps
the first town over the border up by
Cresskill, Closter, or whatever that
that is; a converted church, made
into a luscious antiques store. Back
then, 1966 or so, antiques was
an entire other line of undertaking
than what passes for that today.
Most everything today has already
been handled once by buyers
or brokers - the devious kinds
of twerps who trade in this line
of stuff (as usual), turning most
anything worthwhile into a mere
factor of dollars and cents and
'how much can I get back on this
after a re-sell?' It's typical now,
of that schooled merchant-class of
people, especially up there. The
place was grand and eccentric,
and still fairly 'hippie' too. That's
a lousy word to use, but you had
to live through the period to
understand the usage. It really
did mean something - an outlook,
a way of life. Something that was
changing, everywhere, all around
us. It had to be called something,
I guess, and that was it. This little,
old, white clapboard country
church, with its step-up layout
and wonderful early 19th century
feel would be impossible to find
today - even the ones that come
close are false and pretentious,
way too aware of themselves, and,
most certainly, the people running
it or those inside it would also
totally ruin the effect. The modernity
of those passing themselves off now
as 'authentic' people is a fallacious
mess. Phone heads. By contrast
this entire scene was a slow, easy,
and an open technicolor splash.
Something you dabbled at once,
and it took you in - but only if
you had the right wavelength,
the right feelers. Otherwise it
kept itself closed off to you -
and too bad for that.
-
Just approaching the place brought
you to another air, another plane.
Things were simple, in ways that
were complicated to explain. You
just knew it, just by what people
drove in to get there. Tiny, classic
Morgans, or Bristols; a Vauxhaul,
and the ubiquitous 'hippie' vehicles
of the day. Renault Dauphins, VW
microbuses. Man it was living, and
park your Humber SuperSnipe
over here. How is it they used to
say, 'everything old is new again.'
I don't think this could ever be.
-
It was just fortuitous circumstances.
Up the Hudson, looking out, to the
right the towers of the great city,
way down-banks, across the way,
depending on how high you were
up along the river, the old GM
plant by Yonkers, or the Spuyten
Devil train crossing, and the
rocky top of Manhattan Island,
around which the Day Line and
Circle Line cruises would slowly
pass, showing people the high
jumping-rocks with the Columbia
Univ. logo painted on them, from
which rocks the frat boys and
daredevils used to jump into the
waters far below. And the trains,
which ran here, from island to
mainland again on their threading
way northward. The Hudson Line,
or the Harlem Line, your choice.
It was quite the location.
-
I had never seen anything like
this before. In Avenel, or
Woodbridge for that matter, I
had never seen or heard of an
antiques store - the oldest thing
around here was probably some
crank's old lawnmower, or maybe
one of those old toaster things,
before toasters, whereon you
stood the bread up on this
metal frame, over a stove
burner. They were cool, and
by 1955 already as outmoded
as coal. No one here kept or
treasured or valued anything
like that, certainly not in the
manner of 'antique.' That was
another world and another
economic class, almost New
Englandy or Connecticut at
least, where people were
aware of things, and valued
things - and condescended,
yes, to sell the crap from old
Henderson's farm when it
was broken up. It takes a
certain kind of place and
person to do all that; an
equivalent feel to being
erudite, and almost overly
precious too. All gone now.
All. Later on somehow both
my family and my wife's family
ended up with adult people -
much to my surprise - who
moved to such communities
of' the prized, antique world,
in New Jersey. One place
was Cape May, and the other
was Port Republic. They were
both, in the 1970's and early 80's,
pretty cool places for something
of this sort of thing; but I
never got there much and
was never much onto the
far-off scene.
-
I was always drawn north,
for some reason, north of New
York City; the city becoming my
southern baseline. South never
interested me, after my seminary
years in Blackwood. Except
for Philadelphia itself, it seemed
nothing as much as a sandy
bungle of Abner Yokums
everywhere. (L'il Abner was
a cartoon character of the era,
back then - comic strip stuff,
Tennessee back-country and
moonshine stupidity. Pure goof).
I think everybody worth anything
eventually establishes a personal
compass, for themselves, by
which they orient and steer the
directions and affairs of their
own personal beings. That was
mine. North to Alaska! In this
case Alaska being New York
State and Vermont. Things were
brewing, and I could feel them;
it was all in the air, even though
Woodstock and all the crass
marketing end of things hadn't
yet happened. One thing I found,
from this, and from Yonderhill -
I guess I didn't make mention,
but that was the name of the little
old converted church, as antique
store. They called the place
'Yonderhill.' Which was a little
hokey, but nice too, and they
had it engraved in wood, too,
up above the entry door. It was
pretty nice. The place is still
there, I think with the same
name and doing the same
business - but it's lost that
touch that once drew me in.
Or maybe I myself have just
changed that much.
-
Anyway, Avenel had no
equivalent to it, or of any
antique operation to it at all,
and what it ended up teaching
me, this Yonderhill place, was
that there's another 'place' where
things exist; that everything has
a history (even Avenel, I guess,
as tawdry an dry as it was). It's
a place that doesn't really exist.
A sort of personal 'Yonderhill.'
You have to make it, construct
it, through information and
seeking out and imagination
too. Sort of a 'research' of the
heart and mind - that's what
makes an individual; someone
who stands out and is whole
and right and reasonable
within all facets of every
thing. Such a person really
ought be listened to, and
treasured. These source-finds
are everywhere, but it's a
special kind of person who
knows how to tap them and
bring something back from
that dark mill of the mind.
To uplift and exalt. To give
meaning to a struggling
lifetime and quest..
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