11,542. RUDIMENTS, pt. 596

RUDIMENTS, pt. 596
(I should have been a stone-carver)
My first choice of property

when I got out that way - and

I've written of this before - 

was the larger spread of

some 25 acres that was lived

on by an old solitary guy who

was a gravestone-carver. (If

a simple typo is enacted here,

the old guy seeking death could

be a gravestone-craver). In

light of the fact that I had a

young family, and also in light

of the fact that I was maybe

dumb enough to be out there

shopping very-rural-real-estate

with my father, I was pretty

frankly told that I was 'forbidden'

to buy that parcel. He was always

fearing the worst, or calamity.

So was I, for that matter, but I

never let on about it. Keeping

cool about things and staying

close to the vest was my way.

I kept my nightmares secret.

Anyway, the thing about the

properties out that way was that

they all were uphill  -  if not

level, they had small winding

roads that slowly took you

up some meandering path to

a higher ground  -  a 'view' and

all that. This place far better fit

my idea of what I was seeking,

a hideaway, in that, to get to it,

the road you took went DOWN.

And I mean down. The trouble

I have right now, and it's been

this way, is that I can't recall

where this parcel was. It was

somewhere within my general

area, within 20 minutes, but

I guess over the years I've lost

the reference name. Had my

father not been with me, I'm sure

I would have bought it  -  with

all its problems. Too begin with,

it was, really, unfinished. This

old guy was living in perhaps

three rooms, out of what was

looking to be 6 or 8, if ever

finished. It was boarded off,

and you could get the general

pattern and all, but the guy

must have started it when he

was a young, strapping 1930's

young adult, and then over

the years lost his way, or kept

running out of money, or

whatever. His intentions it

seemed were admirable, though

that didn't help the present

situation. Of course, my wife

had not yet seen the location,

and she'd probably have vetoed

it anyway  -  though maybe not;

she sometimes got as crazy as

I was. The place, as I said, was

way down, geographically, in

a deep, dark (damp and wet)

hollow, with some really

short exposure to overhead

sunlight (another problem).

The passage of the sun over

the high ridges on either side

was probably shortened in the

course of a day by three hours.

(A guess). There was, it was

stated, a marketable grove of

black walnut trees, should you

know of a market for black

walnuts  -  which, outside of

I think, squirrels, I did not.

Also, by the way, out in the

far-country like all this was,

there were no squirrels, which

always baffled me  -  but as I

think of it now they're probably

scavenger animals that need

civilization, houses, gardens

and more urban confines. There

were plenty of other ground

critters, but few squirrels. I

wasn't about, anyway, to

become a walnut farmer. Nor

had I intentions of carving

gravestones  -  which were

strewn about, cast-offs, extras,

(samples?), and some mistakes.

If you screw up  a date or mis-spell

a name or something, there's not

too much, outside of some tricks,

to do with a carved piece of

stone-mason'd granite or stone

attesting to 'John Marlon

Macomber's' life and death.

The rest of things there were

totally basic and primitive  -  the

water service to the house was

plentiful  -  springs and water

seemed everywhere, with some

pipes and pumps bringing it

into the house. Heating seemed

like another problem  - open

grate fires, some sort of fireplace,

but I'm not sure about the actual

furnace service. Never got that

far. Lighting was OK, a few

flimsy wires running down

the whole entry-road, on some

flimsy, crooked poles. The house

glass seemed OK, the walls were

solid, not moldy, or not too bad

moldy. It was always damp and

Summer heat was scarce. I passed

on the place, even though I liked it a

lot. The old guy was about 75, and

alone and I wondered what was

in his plans. Does one even think

of carving one's own stone?

-

My father was happy. It was a

nicely-exaggerated story to

re-tell to the wife. But I felt as

if I'd missed a real opportunity.

I'd somehow grown tired of all

that sunlight and goodness stuff

and all these sudden 'damp and

darkness' atmospherics was right

where I wished to be. It was

funny, because in advertising

this, the acreage in reality was

a good portion vertical. That

amused me. It was pretty unique.

Ghosts and ghouls and all that

spirit stuff of the gravestones

and the carving wouldn't have

affected me, but the idea of the

switched version of real estate,

acreage being vertical and not

horizontal, really got me good.

-

We were staying in some Elmira

motel, called the Coachman. With

small kitchen-efficiencies, a tiny

stove and stuff. It was pretty cool,

down at one southwest end of

Elmira where Route 14 came in.

At that point, Elmira itself didn't

interest me at all, I showed no

interest in it, and simply was not

interested in such a crumbling,

aged and destitute old burg. I

was after space and isolation

and distance  -  as I've pointed

out. So at that point Elmira was

merely a name to me and a

crummy one at that. We'd set

out each morning and drive

some 30 or so miles, down

to Troy and Columbia Crossroads

and environs from East Smithfield

to Canton, and points in between.

I knew nothing really of the area

or the land; that all came later, and

with Elmira too, as I delved into

the local histories and lore of all

that was around me. There are

so many ways that Life and

Reality present themselves to

each of us, as individuals, but

in all truthfulness  I felt as if

I was being guided. I knew 

immediately, or some part of

me within knew, places and

spots I did not want  -  Canton

for instance, by that far southward

the entire complexion of 'place' 

was changed. The dirty and 

gritty aspects lessened, the

land itself was different, and 

it all got farther from any

intuitive 'storyline' basis felt

by me.  I just went with it 

all, and I ended up where I 

did and it fit fine. All else that 

developed in the later slow 

roll-out, and even the things 

that did finally propel me to 

and bring me to, Elmira, were 

fortuitous and just right for 

their moments. It was all 

very strange. It involved 

letting go, no longer fighting. 

I ceded my self to whatever

was about to happen. 

-

When you're out in the deep

country, you know it. The air

here smelled like maple  -  the

syrupy kind of maple in a

smell. Those October house

and property shopping days

were rainy. The 'Rainy 

Mountain Season' I called

it  -  even though a few of the

locals thought I was nuts. In

the deep and colorful Autumn

of wild hills and streams,

the trees and the fallen leaves

smell, or at the least throw 

off an odor  -   some rich 

and deeply primal animal 

thing, not necessarily human,

just animal  -  all things that

breath and have hearts and 

organs can partake of it. And

do. It was everywhere. There's

like a hundred different kinds

of rain too  -  I know that's

cliched to say, but there are,

and each one has different 

timbre and sound. They all 

change the atmosphere 
differently too; some have low, 
heavy clouds that come down.

to you, to greet the earth and,

up there, sometimes smother

it   -  there were times, between

the hills and such,  when thick 
white cloud-fog took over. There 
was no telling where you were. 

Landmarks were gone. Even
after the storm, it stayed around.

-

By January, once the really cold

air had set in, each evening, about

4pm, the air itself would crystallize.

There was always something in

the air, falling, hanging in place, 

blowing around. It wasn't snow,

it wasn't rain. It wasn't sleet or

ice either. It never accumulated,

except maybe as a strange 

hoar-frost-like dust on glass

and cars. It all just floated like 

that, most nights, right into 

the beginning of March. It

was never much spoken on, 

just accepted without comment.

Country people, I found, stayed

steady. Not like here, when two

inches of 'maybe' snow to come

has fearsome consequences. A

State of Emergency declared well

before anything even occurs  -  

and it most often never does 

anyway. Snow trucks and 

spreaders and salt and all 

that crap, panty-waisted people

phone-banking and palpitating.

Country people never get like 

that; first off no one ever pushes 

them around. It's not allowed, 

and they're men about weather, 

for sure; not shriekers.

-

I can understand it all though.

Everything's so crooked here 

in New Jersey, for instance :

the people in Vermont, when
I was up there, used to

laugh their butts off over 

New Jerseyans and their 

storm and political antics. 

Like one Pennsylvania guy 
told me once, an old crusty 
country guy, "Think of it this 
way. If a  politician wants  to

buy votes, which of course 

they all do, declaring states 

of emergency is a great way 

to do it. Municipal and

government workers still

gotta' work, road crews and

all, but the unions got it so

that anybody called in during 

a state of emergency, they get

double time and a half, at 

the least, sometimes triple 

time. Who's gonna' say no

to that? Doing what they'd be

doing anyway, but under better

circumstances! That's how

these local boys all buy votes.

They may be dumb a'holes,

but they get real smart when 

it comes to things like that."

(That was the same old guy 

I mentioned some time ago,

who would complain about 

TV's throwing heat and costing 

lots of money to run. A really
wise old codger, indeed.