RUDIMENTS, pt. 511
(contingencies have their place too)
I always reckoned I could go
to Walla Walla, but this was
all far too interesting to leave.
That was my answer too, to
a friend who once told me
he'd thought I'd be dead by
my own hand by now. Imagine
that! I said back, 'No, no, I
want to see how this thing
ends up.' Not that there's
anything special about
any of this - it's pretty
boring outside of the things
I create myself. But, sticking
around has its benefits. One
time, way up in the high hills
over Rutland, Vermont, there
was this midnight train, a
freight, slowly brooding its
way across the valley-bottom,
probably 150 cars, creeping.
It was a chilled and dark night,
with a big, fat moon overhead.
Moonlight in the deep country
just has to be seen - I can't
even go about the attempt of
describing it here - but it's
important and deep. Spiritual,
even as all time withers and
the arc of the world sort of
slows and lumbers. Like
the train. We shut the car,
and got out, walking towards
the track so as to witness
the crossing. In a half minute
or so, very surprisingly and
almost as if out of the deep
fog of time itself, this old
railroad guy, swinging a
RR lantern, comes our way.
He was there to watch the
crossing, watch for cars,
etc. Once our eyes, and
our realizations, had
adjusted, we were equally
startled by the sound that
came forth - with the train
rolling by, dark of deep night,
moonlight drifting down,
his voice was some weird,
metallic noise. He was
wearing one of those
1970's voice things at
his neck, and each time
he went to speak he was
pressing this button on
his neck - or doing
something with his
hand at his neck
anyway to generate
a sort of sound from his
vibrating vocal chords
but no voice box. Or I
think that's what it was.
Some nurse who was a
friend of one of my
Rutland buddies wife
tried explaining to me
what I'd seen. It was,
for me, too eerie for
any of her dumb, normal
explanations anyway.
I liked it, and kept it,
as the weird, dark-night,
mountain-mystery it was.
Like life, sometimes you
just have to keep the better
mystery intact - the heck
with precise explanations;
they never add up anyway.
-
You remember that guy
from the previous chapter
with the extended-stay DC
story - well, the next day
there was another stirring
experience. In the same
location too. I like to sit
there, a few times a week,
for dog purposes, yes, but
it's often nice in mid-day
to just be there alone, let
the dog romp some, and
take care of itself, while
I muse or read - until,
inevitably - someone
else shows up with their
dog. That's great for the
dogs, yet, sometimes, for
me, I prefer the solitude.
However, it always turns
to conversation of some
sort. This is also the perfect
landing-approach, low
altitude flight pattern
zone for Newark Airport
approaches, and at various
times of the day (9am,
noon, 1:45, 5:30, give
or take, there is a great
great flutter of low
approaches right over
our heads and - I've
timed it - they're about
3 minutes apart, less than
a 1000 feet, I'd figure
(it's much lower at the
park in Elizabeth, where
the same thing occur). I
always engine seeing the
different engine designations,
the various sorts of jets,
and the numerous, different
markings - United, Fed Ex
and one or two others with
great occurrence. UPS too
has classically logo'd and
instantly identifiable jets.
It's very enjoyable - colored
fuselages (one outfit has
bright yellow). I remember,
in the late 1960's when
Braniff was the first to fly
art-painted planes, having
hired Alexander Calder to
design some fuselages for
them. All part of the good
times of air-fight, then.
-
Anyway, this day a car pulls
up, and I notice New York
plates - not that odd, though
different. Staten Islanders
often come over the Outerbridge
for this dogpark. They get
discount travel rates (not
the usual 14 dollars) at the
bridge, because of their
residency ID - I know
because I've asked : 'It
costs you 14 dollars for
this, each time you walk
your dog?' The answer was
a secretive 'No, more like
4, as a resident of Staten
Island.' Which is a good
thing; otherwise they'd
go broke. Out of that
car, with a dog, (named
'Nova') steps a tall, African,
black girl, about 6 feet tall,
in a luxurious an fancy
sweat-suit, or whatever
that softly-fizzy lounge
apparel is, top and bottom,
that looks composed and
classy. She looked like
Nigerian nobility, let's say.
Her voice was Alto, a
quite high voice. She was
well-appointed, regal, and
very smooth-skinned. Nova
was OK, 6 months old.
-
It was easy, we did the
obligatory hellos, etc. She
had seen my looking at
planes, and said she was
on her way to JFK Airport
to pick up her husband,
coming in from Riga,
Latvia. (They were now
New Jersey residents; she
had just not yet changed
plates). Nova was cool;
one of those dogs with
those white/crystal blue
eyes; she said it was a
pure breed American
Bull Terrier (not Pit),
from a breeder in
Connecticut - and
though the dog was her
husbands selection and
idea, he'd not yet seen
the dog; having been
away for a couple of
months and getting a
holiday break for a few
weeks. That kind of all
confused me - Latvia
being a white, almost
Nordic clime, she being
African, etc. I inquisitively
asked what it was her
husband DID in Latvia
to have this sort of
schedule - IF she did
not ind my asking. She
did not mind - and told
me he was a Euro-League
professional basketball
player, playing on the
Latvian National team.
He traveled Europe and
the Baltics for 6 or so
months at a time, various
cities and venues, as a
pro-team member. Pretty
cool. I never got to the
bottom of his race or
nationality, and it certainly
didn't matter - but I
pictured, yes, a 7-foot
Nigerian basketball star,
soon to be holding his
new little puppy named
Nova, and - of course -
re-greeting his wife once
again. Thank you, Sewaren.
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