RUDIMENTS, pt. 477
(and asti-spumante to you)
One time, up in
Pennsylvania, while
I was running that
schoolhouse job, I
was getting warm by
hanging out a bit in the
faculty room. The few
teachers were about,
and their little chatter.
No one really cared that
I was there, and this 5th
grade teacher guy named
Mr. Reilly, maybe ten
years older than I was,
and I were having a
conversation. He was
maybe the only one
person there who'd
actually taken a liking
to me, as a personal-equal
instead of the chore-boy,
let's say. We'd occasionally
talk about books, or even
new cars sometimes. His
claim was (and I'd never
run across this before) that
he possessed, he said, a
photographic memory -
one that had enabled
him to coast through his
schooling and his college,
without an effort - because,
as he put it, one solid look
at information and he had
perfect recall, line by line,
and thus never had to 'study'
as others did. He was able
to just call all this stuff
back up as needed. He'd
always go on about how
this natural skill, gifted to
him, was mere frightening
than anything else, for
good or bad, and he wasn't
yet sure how to utilize it,
but that even as a 5th grade
teacher it came in mighty
handy for him. It all
piqued my curiosity,
and I'd find myself
seeing if it worked
for me; but I found
it really never did.
Perhaps in the tiniest,
small, portions, but
nothing at all like
what he'd always be
describing. I'd josh back
at him, in humor, saying,
'Fifth-grade teacher?
Why bother? You're
wasting it all; you ought
to be a spy, peering at
secret papers, gleaning
information, and running
off. Getting hugely paid
for your services, and
then even being a
double-agent.' Ha-ha,
it all went; we laughed,
but I was never sure
how he was really
taking my joshing.
-
The reason I was in the
faculty room was because
they kept it warm, and the
rest of the place, and the
outdoors, was always
pretty cold, in the Winter
anyway. When I took that
job they'd never really told
me the bummer end of it all,
nor why no one else wanted
it. I lived only a shortcut-
walkable distance to the
main road and to the school
off from there over at the
crossroads (it was, after all
Columbia Crossroads, PA),
so I guess they figured I'd
be the perfect sucker. The
thing was, the school was
water-pressure heated,
with two large coal
furnaces, with self-feed
augers to push the pea-coal
through, meaning at least
I didn't need to be there
shoveling it in. There was
a bulk-feed gigantic coal
bin that got filled by truck
every two weeks or so. The
whole deal, for the 7 months
of cold weather needing
heat, was that the water
pressure had to be kept up,
meaning the coal had to be
tended and ashes removed
(by shovel) so the fire could
bank and burn and produce
maximum heat (the kids and
teachers, and parents, were
sticklers that the school was
kept warm). What that
meant to me, more or less,
and much more during the
really cold snaps (10 below
and so) was round-the-clock
tending. I eventually got it
down to a system of maybe
every four hours, but it
was a real pain in the butt
too. I'd go there through
the night, take the truck,
one or the other of the dogs,
bring a book, whatever. I
tried to make it all work,
and more than once or
twice just stayed there. I
managed, keeping the
water pressure gauges
reading for good pressure,
having a good swarm of
steady heat. I switched
off furnaces every two
weeks or so to let the
one rest. It was a lot like
Hell - coal and ash
everywhere, and
wheelbarrow loads
of coal ash to
eventually be trucked
out to the local dump.
That dump was down
the hill some, about
another mile off. Each
Time now, when I return
there, checking things
out, squaring my
memories with reality,
I'm always surprised : that
old dump site is now grown
over and, having been covered
with a fill dirt - all the metal
and ash, washers, dryers,
tricycles and car parts - is
now a green and grassy,
but a bit choppy, meadow
and trees. That's surprise
one. Surprise two is the
old school itself - now
in complete use as a
junkyard - the entire
length of the school
interior used as parts bins,
shelves, office space and
a customer counter, and
all the grounds and land
around now filled with
junked autos within a
large fenced area. I don't
know how it happened,
but it did. The kids now
K-6, elementary, all go to
that East Troy Montessori
School thing I mentioned
last chapter. It's a regular
school format now. I guess
they put up some walls.
-
I decided, while living there
and doing all that, to install
for myself, at home, a Franklin
Stove, for heat, up in the
living quarters (since I could
get the coal for free. I'd bring
home a pail-full of pea coal
as I went along). I thereby
heated the house, comfortably,
for free, less the expense of
the Franklin Stove from
'Kennedy's Country Store'
over in East Smithfield
for about a hundred and
twenty-five bucks. I vented
the stove and cut into
the chimney to have the
gases exit, and I lined the
interior wall with asbestos
sheets. It was neat. Some
days that stove would
glow red-hot. Our biggest
fear was that the toddler
would stumble into it.
-
Anyway, the point of all
this tale - which point I
ought to be getting to -
was the teachers. They
were mostly all young, new
starting a teaching career,
6 or 8 of them, and a school
principle, and it seemed
they were each living nearby,
within 15 or 20 miles anyway :
Country sorts of people who
mostly all had come out of
Mansfield State College,
(back then), some 50 or so
miles away. I didn't know if
this was a plum assignment
for them or a dog of a place,
but, whatever, it was a job
teaching and they were there.
One teacher stood out. She
wasn't like the rest at all.
She was pure, straight,
dark and nasty New York
City. Taller than anyone
else there, rigid in structure
and outlook, long, black
mane of hair. Her name
was Donna Grow. Kind
of a mystery girl. She was
OK, talked and smiled, we
got on. It was simply odd,
whatever she was doing
there. Surprise of surprise,
one day the big hush was
over. I forget the names
exactly, but some mob
guy in NYC had gotten
rubbed out - Gigante, or
Cavalcante, or Gregorio,
some last name like that.
Turned out, she was one
of them, that was her
father or something, and
her name wasn't Donna
Grow, but more like
Donna Gigante, or
Genovese, or Cavalcante,
or whatever the dead
guy's name was. I never
knew if they'd all known
beforehand, or if she
told them, or what, but
a day after the newspaper
news broke, she was gone,
cover blown, I guess, and
never heard from again,
least-ways by me. End
of that story.
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