11,262. RUDIMENTS, pt. 481

RUDIMENTS, pt. 481

(the parmenter spread)

Once I lived in the arms of a

nation  -  hills and rivers and

roads. Plentiful and rich, the

world seemed sure of itself and

always moving on. My spirit

was transparent, my mind a

solid rock.

-

I saw treetops singing and

lakes a'fire. Cabins filled

with mud. The land had

changed, maybe, but I

never would. I said that

to myself anyway. There

wasn't much else to do

about any of it, since it

was all feelings anyway.

I'd come from a place -

heck, places  -  where

you'd turn on the faucet

and water came out. That

didn't always happen in

my new situation. I'd sit

inside, think of the hundred

years previous  -  horses,

plow-horses, wagons and

carriages. I'd envisage the

people who may have lived

in the house  -  any number

of them were buried right

up the hill, in the small,

fenced, almost neglected,

graveyard. The names were

all there, and all their 1888's

and 1904's and 1870's.

Everything was silent,

but sure. The curious

little markings on the

gravestones enticed  - 

Civil War regiments,

battalion and regiment

numbers, and all that.

It was as strange to me

as some of the names

people used to have  - 

Jubal, and Thaddeus,

Enoch, and the rest.

(That graveyard has

since been re-opened,

the old gates taken away,

and it's been expanded too,

into the place now where

I see all the names of

those I lived amongst in

those years. Very strange

feeling). I'd got my place,

through Willard Brown,

(yes, he's in there now),

who bought all the farm

acreage of what once had

been the Parmenter spread.

I got the house and some

12 acres around it, and he

got about 90 new acres of

farmland. The locals would

tell me the names of folks

who'd come out of the house

in the last 70 years or so,

Parmenters, Kobels, and

others. Lots of intrique,

strange liaisons, (Kobel

was evidently quite a local

Romeo, hated by many. One

day there was a knock on my

door, and it was a Parmenter

kid, about 30. He was visiting,

from Ohio, and wished to

see the place. He said his

father (Denton) was still

alive but they had pulled up

stakes and moved out to Ohio.

Ohio? I said? He said yes,

his father had grown sick of

the congestion and growth

of the area (?), and went out

to Ohio, where it was still

wild and untrammeled. This

was, remember, 1972. The

reasons I ended up there,

oddly enough, were the same

reasons he had fled the place.

Congestion? Growth? Crowded?

I invited him someday to see

Middlesex County, NJ. Another

time, two older folks, in their

50's maybe, stopped by with a

dog in their car. They got out

and asked to walk around  - 

since their dog needed a

stop anyway. I said sure, and

we talked a little  -  evidently,

as a kid, he'd spent a few years

here as a foster child; he said.

Hadn't been back in years.

He pointed out to me the little

doorway and room above the

double garage doors. I always

wondered why it had its own

entrance, and a little lamp-light

and all. It had been a tax-office

when he lived there and the guy,

I guess Parmenter, had been the

tax collector. People were always

coming by, to that office, to

pay their taxes, back then. I

thought that was cool enough.

Explained the light. There was

nothing in that long room now,

except two pianos  - the one I'd

moved into there, and the old,

broken down one that had been

there when I arrived.

-

Another cool thing was the

language  -  whenever people

would start talking about this

Kobel guy, whoever he was,

sleeping around with wives

and things  -  no one ever

said that he was having 'sex.'

The word they used, always,

was 'scratchin'. As in, 'Helen

Vagary? Yeah, Kobel was

scratchin' her, and everyone

knew it but nobody said.'

-

Funny thing about words,

too, I found. Washington

Irving, the writer, the

Legend of Sleepy Hollow

guy, he was the first person

to use the word 'doughnuts.'

In his Diedrich Knickerbocker

stories of old New York.

It was only us, and common

usage, and later the chain

of 'Dunkin Donuts,' that

screwed that one up. The

word became nothing. An

advertising eunuch. What's 

a 'Donut?' Oh, anyway, it's

all nothing, but that's what

that whole 'scratchin' thing

made me think about.

-

Funny thing, all the time I

was up there, I never used

the Troy Library. Actually, I

never really knew, even now,

if they had one, though I

guess they did. I had plenty

enough of my own books,

which I'd brought with me

in crates, and they suited

me for that time. I also had

a few subscriptions  -  to

Artforum, and Art In America, 

and another, newer magazine 

out then, called 'Avalanche'  

-  art and art essays and some

photography. The rural mailman

delivery guy, Harold Greenough,

he used to look at me a little

funny whenever he delivered

those items. So what the hell,

I got a subscription to this

cool, large monthly called

'Pennsylvania Farmer.' It was

an over-sized magazine, maybe

100 pages each month, with

all sorts of cool stuff   - things

I got to really enjoy  -  about

farming, tractors repairs,

tips, veterinary stuff, cows,

feeds, scientific corn-crop

things, Pioneer seeds, water

articles, different things about

grasses and alfalfa and hay

and silos and silage. It just

went on. Man, I really ended

up liking it all. I have no idea

whatever happened to those

magazines. That was all 

about five moves ago, so

I guess they're all gone.

-

Two final things for this 

chapter : Remember that

'my mind is a solid rock'

thing, from the beginning.

First  -  that mailman guy,

Greenough, his son killed

himself during this time.

High school senior, or

maybe a year after high

school. He blew his brains 

out. OK, got all that, but 

why? The answer that went

around  -  stupid as all get

out, but maybe true, back

then  -  his girlfriend, it

was said, would never

'put out.' She'd get him

to the brink a lot, but 

never gave in. Finally it

drove the poor kid crazy 

mad  -  'cause he couldn't

scratch her  -  and he shot

himself. I never believed 

a word of that story, but

who's to say. And the other

was, about that water that

sometimes would run dry  -

the water supply for the 

house was from a spring, 

constant and always flowing,

though sometimes a lot less

that other times, at the rear

of the yard. It came out of

solid rock, the same big

slab the house was anchored

on. The water ran into a

cinder block sort of holding

basin, underground, and from

there got piped and pumped,

as needed, into the house, by

a system of two Gould pumps.

It always worked good, yes,

except for dry spells, when,

if we got ahead of the water,

drawing too much, there'd

just be none, for 12 hours

or so, until that reservoir

thing filled up again. You

don't miss your water,

'til your well runs dry.
-
I used to think about the place
being the 'Parmenter spread.'
It was always funny how people
said that. Considering that Kobel
guy  -  and all I'd heard about
Drew Kobel  -  they might just as
well have called it, ladies, the
'Kobel spread.'  That would
have been more fitting.