11,535. RUDIMENTS, pt. 593

RUDIMENTS, pt. 593

('pretty nice, but I like your books better')

I never knew what sort of

language it was they spoke

up there  -  both Pennsylvania

and Elmira (the border meant

really nothing at all, except

maybe tax jurisdiction and

tax rates and license plates), 
but it was one that I did

understand, and each of them

was different from the other

as well. The Pennsylvania

people spoke cheerily, with

a direct and frontal assault on

even the coarsest of subjects.

They were straightforward and

up-ahead with the words they

used: death, sex. Probably nothing

a schoolmarm would go around

trying to teach, but nobody

cared about that and the

school people anyway were

a lame bunch of sots. Nobody

ever wanted to be posted to a

dump like Springfield Elementary

School anyway, for probably

120 dollars a year. It was a first,

pick-up, scratch job mostly, for

people with teaching degrees

just out of Mansfield College,

30 or so miles west, I think it

was. A school called a college;

no different than a churchyard

is called a playground. Three

standout young teachers, names

fading fast, were of some interest.

Sherry Hafer (Sheri Heifer?) was

about a 25 year old bombshell

who gave any sweater she wore a

wonderful reputation immediately.

Every other male teacher there

just wanted to spend their time

drawing lines on her body. She

played it all to the hilt, dressed

to be seen, hoping she never

needed to bend over either, to

pick something up. Or maybe

hoping she did. She drove a

brand new Mercury Cougar,

when they were still sexy. She

was a fine, young banknote, and

even I got along well with her.

The other girl, under the name

of Donna Grow, was in reality, we

found out after she 'disappeared'

when her NYC mob-dad was slain,

trouble : had family connections

in the Mafia and was essentially

out here teaching in her own

version of a witness protection

plan. After that shooting hit the

papers, she was gone in a minute,

never heard from again  -  at least

by me. The third guy was a fifth

grade teacher, name completely

forgotten, who always detained

me with his description of his

photographic memory and how

he could look at anything once,

be it book, instruction manual,

test sheet, answer sheet, whatever,

and perfectly recall it. He would

tell me how this same skill-option

was available to everyone, and

then he'd try and explain to me

the means of reaching his point

of exaltation. All I ever was

interested in was if he'd ever

seen Sheri Heifer and how

good, photographically good,

that image may have been.

Maybe I should learn then?

-

He drove a pick-up truck of

some sort, about a 10 year old

Dodge. That would make it

about a '62, and I always liked

it. He was also in the constant

presence of his briefcase, a real

professional job, attache case

and all. I'd not before seen a

teacher, especially a backwoodsy

fifth grade one, do that. Who

knew whatever was in it. One

time I brought him over to my

place, maybe 2 miles or so

away, to go over some idea I

had of a fence set-up for some

of the animals, and he said,

pointing to the ground,

(February), that we couldn't

dig anything there now, 'because

of the perma-frost.' Perma-frost?

That was like Yukon talk, where

the ground is solid Winter for

6-feet down. This was a simple

crust of cold-weather mud,

which would probably be

gone in six weeks anyway. I

thought it a bit over the top.

-

Language is funny  -  you can

tell a lot about a person as soon

as they open their mouth (I

guess that works for dentists too,

but in a different way)  -  the

manner by which they construct

their thoughts, process their ideas,

and than articulate the premises

they deal with  -  advisory words,

adjectives and other modifiers,

pauses, exclamations, and

general conclusions too, of

course. Each set of populations

here, Elmira versus Pennsylvania

farm folk, though living adjacent

to each other in so many ways,

went about these tasks completely

differently from each other.

It would seem to be that the

Elmira people were dark and

anxiety-ridden, filled with a

form of fate and sadness that

always seemed bad. Their words

and points of view reflected that.

A general sort of 'suspicion' was

always prevalent  -  in words and

language and acts and outlook.

There wasn't any of that in

Pennsylvania. Very difficult to

explain, but I did it thusly :

'there weren't any books in

Pennsylvania.' Just that! Quite

simply put, everything was of

home-grown quality, with little

of outside influences or worldly,

philosophical input. In Elmira,

there was a college, a wonderful

library  -  a system, not just

one  -  and an art museum too.

Now I'm not saying that every

poor person in Elmira took any

advantage of this  -  they too were

all too often as dumb as bricks  - 

but some form of an idea of

learning permeated the place.

It was in the air. The kids in

Pennsylvania would talk about

sex and and all that as if it was

nothing at all  -  'I've been

watching cows and barn

animals  going at it my

whole life. What of it? Let's

go.' Just another routine in

the hayloft. In Elmira, by

contrast  - leastways amongst

the crowd I lived  -  it was

connected to vibrational

frequencies, states of elation,

emotional freedom, and  -  in

one case  -  the caloric count

of energy expended. Little

things mean a lot, I used to

say, by way of self-deprecation.

-

I think people's blood in Elmira

just ran colder. It was almost

a difference between one of those

Florida versus New Jersey things.

One disposition was used to space

and not being fettered or negative

(though a farmer's life could be

miserable, let that be said), and the

other was confused and crimped.

Much like where I live right now:

it's difficult to operate clear-headedly

in a place where everything from

hour to hour, is under interdiction

and some constantly changing

form of alteration by crowds of

criminal interlopers tearing the

place down. I'm sure there's no

brains behind any of it. I'm sure,

if I went to the councilman's house,

the 14 books therein would all be

about Valdemort and Corrections

work. I'm sure if I went to the

local Mayor's house, the 16 books

there would be books on micro

economics, and perhaps a treatise

or two on how best to spend your

prison time. But, probably the

lawns and the grounds both, in

each case, are precise. As with

figures in a column, you have

to be really careful with that

stuff, lest something seem

amiss (and not just hit and

miss). Elmira, post-flood,

was underway with the same

dark forces  -  in  that case

it was all a flood of new

government funding for

salvage and reconstruction

with none but the most

cursory oversight being

given  -  and the projects

that got the most attention,

of course, were the most

porous ones, the ones most

apt to have plenty of holes

for money to slip through  - 

always first on that prideful

list are, of course, 'Arts' centers.

By people who know absolutely

nothing about what they mean.

Who wouldn't know 'Art' from

a wall socket. Elmira had an

entire undercurrent of that,

and it seems to have spread.

It too is a language all its own,

and I may once have known how

to translate it, but I've let it go.

Problem is, here, and there, when

you live in places like these, you're

supposed to, and you pay to, be

left alone to live your life. Not to

be dawdled at, coerced, perverted,

and entertained by morons at

your expense. That's all lost,

and we've not had a flood here.

Why they get it in their empty

heads that they can do all this TO

us, at out expense, and AT us,

baffles me. But that's what

stupidity is about. And why 
people like that should think 
that they can cavalierly use 
OUR money for it (go ahead, if 
that's your like, but do it with 
your owned damned money and 
insipid no-tastes, and leave our
lives alone  -  last thing I'd ever 
want is some dribble-dripping 
bureaucrat making aesthetic 
decisions for me, and then foisting
and forcing them on both me and
the community; at our expense.
Vanity, thy name is cheesy
government.
-

Ernie Davis was a football 

Heismann Trophy winner or 

something I never knew about,

but he was from Elmira and

they'd named the more ghetto

of the two or three high schools

for or after him. The one over 

by the prison crowd. The other 

one was proudly called 'Elmira 

Free Academy' and at least it 

sounded like something good. One

of my friends was the Art teacher

at one of these high schools,

I think it was just Elmira High

School, the third one I suppose,

and although he and his wife were

very cool (she's dead now) he

was always in trouble, through 

the school mostly, because every

late-arrived adolescent in rebellion 

seemed to end up running away

and ending up at his house, where

they'd stay after he took them in;

it was usually a week or two

before they caught up to the kid;

and he'd come away unscathed,

in fact, somehow 'heroisized'

for saving this poor kid's ass.

How he got away with it I never

knew. No names here  -  he was

a constant pot smoker, and, on

his in-house sound system it was

always either Fairport Convention,

or Steeleye Span, both of which,

to speak truthfully, I really grew

to like. Fairport Convention had

some amazing British/folkie type

songs, and Sandy Denny, before

she too died, was a grand singer

for the accompaniment given.

I took my father (oh Dad, poor

Dad) over to see my friend one

day, a Summer weekend when 

they'd come up for 4 or 5 days

to visit, and, yes, he walked

right into it. The pot smoke, the

kid hiding out, the music, and

the lovely wife  -  let me add  - 

she was a quite wonderful lass.

In the first landing of his house,

the Art teacher guy had a larger

than life, humanesque figure, 

made out of tree limbs, branches,

and a trunk. It was striking, and

the stairway sort of went up

around it (these were all large,

rambling, old-style homes). Of

course, that stopped Dad short,

as if a live grenade was before

him. 'What the Hell is this!!

This guy's your friend?' It was

funny; we always had our

sandpaper moments and this was

simply another of them  -  my

friend came out, with the usual

'I had too much to smoke, let

me try and focus' glazed look,

which my gather was quite

unsure of. Anyway, they both

got through it all and at least

the greeting went OK. Funny too,

this was the same corner where

The Branch Office (see previous

chapter) sign was, but unlike

my father-in-law, my own father

never even looked up or saw it.

Different strokes for different 

folks. Another friend who blew

into town, from Indiana, to teach,

music, had a nice Mercury Capri,

(a sports car back then). He had

taken his and his wife's Indiana 

possessions, had them all boxed 

up for the ride, drove the sports 

car into the moving truck (yeah, 

I know, why?), and filled boxes 

in all around it. When they arrived

to Elmira, at their new lodgings,

and rolled the car out, the paint

was rubbed off, right down to 

the bare metal, in at least 30

spots, each where a corrugated

box had had 1500 miles or 

whatever it was, to rub at, and

chafe off, the car's paint. 'How 

do you like my pock-marked

Mercury?' Pretty nice, but I

like your books better.