RUDIMENTS, pt. 649
('at play in the fields of the lord')
Somehow I got through all
these things without a lot of
indecision. I don't always know
what was pushing me along,
but I pretty consistently went
with it. Between Columbia
Crossroads and Elmira, in
the earlier days when I'd
get there - not using Rt. 14,
which only began using later
on - I'd come out through
Big Pond, and then loop
over to Bentley Creek, and
then somewhere along there,
crossing the state line, into
New York. I remember an
Ashland Oil Company, and
coal too, set up, in towers
along the highway, and then
one or two really small towns
or villages, Wellsburg I
think was one, at the border
and Ashland, and then I'd
slowly entire Elmira. There
was a Chevron Gasoline
station I used to use along
there somewhere - .37 cents
a gallon I seem to recall, until
later when all that gas crap
started and it did eventually
near up past a dollar. Which
pretty much drove Elmira
people crazy. I remember
some guy out there, across
from St. Joseph's Hospital
where there was a then-newly
placed Dunkin' Donuts, railing
viciously against those who
would keep raising the price
until it got to a dollar, 'Then
and only then will they be
happy, the bastards, never
thinking abut us, me and
you, just their endless profits,
the sons a'bitches!' He had
it all down pat. That coffee
he was drinking was probably
12 cents, and it's now $2.35.
I hope he's still around to
see that.
-
It often seemed like the poorer
and more isolated a person was
the more things over which they
had no control were taken personal
and sent them reeling. There was
a lot of that back then. I never
got involved in the gas-lines of
those days, because I always
had a decent supply of gasoline
in farmers' tanks and such, and
within Elmira anyway, most of
my travel was on my Schwinn.
But there used to be line-ups of
old beat-to-crap clunkers heaving
and steaming in gas-lines attended
to by some really furious people.
One time I can remember coming
home for a visit, and my cousin
from Colonia began asking me
about the gas lines out there where
I was, mentioning some little
station on St. Georges Ave. by
the Stewart's in Colonia, where
he'd waited, he said, a few times
well over 2 hours in gas lines.
In the mood to bust some chops,
I played dumb, claiming no, we
had none of that, I hadn't heard
of it before, etc., etc. It was
funny, but my hillbilly antic
was possible because no one
knew anyway and I was that
far-off distant. By the time I
was done, I had him believing
I was living in an Edenic
neverland of farms, cows,
horses and never-ending
supplies of cheap gasoline.
-
When I first went to Pennsylvania,
Bentley Creek had been my
destination. The real estate guy
I'd contacted out there, from
Avenel, was some big, happy
guy named Jim Jankowsky.
He kept a little hut of a
building on the side of some
property, out of which he ran
a Strout Realty sales office,
as well as regular, local home
and property sales. In 1970,
the Strout catalogue was a big
deal, to me anyway. It was about
300 pages, maybe more, arranged
by state, and in each state the
nationwide listings, twice a
year, were shown, each with a
decent photo. They were of budget
priced (marginal wrecks too)
homes and remnants of farms
and farm properties. The prices,
back then ran from like $4000
(dollars) Utah cabins and things
to, as in my cases, old Pennsylvania
farm parcels in the $17-25,000
range. With a pocketful of
change you could pretty much
find a house anywhere. Nothing
of it was disreputable, but lots
of the places shown (as I learned),
were pretty marginal dumps. No
matter; I was cheap, I knew what
I was looking for, and my tastes
were cheap too. I went out there
(with my father, the first time)
and Jim threw us into his Olds
Vista-Cruiser wagon, 1968 model,
I think it was, and clean as a
hound's tooth. We drove all
through that area, probably 70
miles circular, and he had 15
or some places to show. Most
everything was about $20,000.
What was going on then was,
a lot of the old-timers have
died off, their farms were getting
broken up into parcels, and the
adjoining, neighboring farmers
still operating were each buying
the 30 or 50 acres on their sides
of things - to add to their farms,
and they'd then leave, at center,
a 12 or so acre parcel of what
was left - the original old
farmhouse, roads and drives,
barns and out-buildings. Which
is what I did end up buying one of.
These were, you need to remember,
old-farmer places, often as settled
and untouched from the 1940's,
and even before. A lot of these old
guys lived on, old and alone, and the
houses were worn out, as was mine.
Bad furnaces, worn out and busted
up linoleums, ancient sinks and
bathrooms, sagging porches, roofs
maybe that leaked, bad water supplies,
cesspools in need of treatment, etc.
Nothing was modernized. The
regular, modern-day farmers
would have none of that - all of
their homes I ever went in had
new kitchens, baths, and the rest
installed. They lived fairly in
comfort and in a modern way.
But not these old wizened guys,
or old farmers. Pure Americana
people from the backwoods files,
and whatever of their kids and
offspring, for whatever reason,
wanted no part of farm life,
lived off somewhere else afar,
or were professionals and all
with real jobs. Farm life was
desolate, and people disliked it.
The other thing that would
happen was that the first son,
as oldest, would get everything,
and the other siblings went away.
For instance in Troy, and Elmira
too, for that matter, you could
find plenty of the destitute or
marginal characters who had
fallen into alcohol or poverty
and were the 2nd or 3rd son
of the household farmer who'd
left them nothing, after the oldest
son got the old place. It was odd,
there were feuds and squabbles,
and there were also lawyers,
settlements, proportional
buy-outs, and challenges too.
-
You can be whatever you want,
I guess, but there are certain
basic resources everyone then
needs to make or break them.
If you play a basic game, I've
found, it's a heck of a lot easier
to get by then if you're constantly
over-stepping. I can't imagine
even keeping up with any of that.
Life is given to us freely, all we
need do is breath and use our
minds and imagination. All
the rest is just a goon's game :
chasing the ephemeral, wasting
away time and psychic energy
on things that just disappear
anyway. I'd rather eat dirt.
-
Which is of course a lead in to
dirt-eaters - those were people
who really existed. I could never
quite figure it out, but it involved
river-delta mud, various turns
of the year, a few rituals, and a
small snack of wet mud. Sort
of like a Hershey bar, but
melted, I guess. It mostly was
women too - seems as if the
old crazy stuff always got pinned
on women, country-folk women,
the primitive, magical kinds,
the spiritual earth-guides and
Earth-Mothers, rearing kids
and doing magical natural things.
The local Baptists, they'd have
river baptisms and services that
WERE almost magical - spiritual
magic, strange spirits, almost
voodoo. So strange, it all was,
that sometimes I thought it was
just a way, a different way, to
pass the time and, with the
mud-chomping and all,
partake of yet another form
of communion wafer; except
this time it was spirit-mud and
God's own kingdom up in the
hills. Like that old, 1960's
book had it, 'Are You Running
With Me Jesus?'
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