11,680. RUDIMENTS, pt. 652

RUDIMENTS, pt. 652

(some go away, others stay)

In these days I'm writing

about now, I was in a state

of flux. Everything I had just

pulled myself out of, a year

or three later now was pulling

me back in. By this time, frankly,

I'd had it too with a lot of that

'country' stuff. It became grueling,

like a bunch of simpletons out

on the town  -  all their covered

dish church socials (which I

avoided like the plaque but

which my wife, using the young

son idea as a crutch (sort of),

wanting to expose him to some

religious grounding, insisted

upon. If I had to, I'd go and

grab some food and scoot out

the back door; all the while

making sure I was smelly (cow

manure odors were in and on

all men's clothes there) and

unkempt enough so none of

those goofy ladies would want

me around. Most men didn't

go to those things anyway, by

choice; but Sunday afternoons

were often lazy, and those

farmer guys were often

pretty submissive to their

wives. They'd stand around,

looking all abashed, in their

silly and cheap ties and jackets,

holding out a lemonade and

trying to grin broadly. The

ladies jabbered on, their

ginghams and funny blouses

taking them over. The men

really weren't cut out for this,

and I surely think they knew it.

-

Being uncommunicative, as I

often was, I never got bothered

too much by any of it. When

people began asking too many

questions, I'd step back even

more, and I had this yokel way 

-  which I'd almost perfected  - 

of telling nothing really by

just stepping into some weird

L'il Abner role. It actually

suited me, and there was a

lot of fun in it too. About the

funniest thing I can remember

actually was the time at one

of these things when one of

ladies brought in a tray or two

of cruellers she'd made. And

they were good, like the real

way, made with orange rinds

in them  -  well, one of the

ladies (poor lady's dead now

too, up in that graveyard I

talk about atop the hill where

my place was) got a look at

the trays and, responding to

the nicely-baked, crusty, dark,

cruellers blurts out, 'Oh, long

and hard, just like I like 'em.'

Well, here tell, you could

heard the silence AND the

gasps all the way from their

to Topeka and back again.

One or two of the ladies took

especial offense (can't imagine

what they were thinking!) and

I don't think they ever spoke to

that woman again. Never

knowing if she did this consciously,

or not, or just to be ribald with

a crack (no pun) but she sure

did it that day. Anyway, the

cruellers were real good, and,

like I said, made the original

way. You try going into some

dump  now, a Dunkin' Donuts

or whatever, and  -  if they even

have them  - their version of a

crueller bears no relationship

to a crueller at all. It's just a

wad of the same gum-crap

dough they make their donuts

from, just, well, just long instead

of round  -  and forget the hard.

It ain't there.

-

I got real tired of that sort of

Sunday goodness stuff. The

itinerant Minister we had there

was an imbecile, a child, in fact,

mentally  -  way far already into

his dotage. Every damn story out

of his mouth, sermon or not,

purporting to advance or buttress

'religion' as he saw it, turned on

childish junk about some simple

combination of Jesus, a lamb,

and a child. Nothing against

any of that; just not for me.

-

Some of those people, on the

other hand, thrived on that stuff.

I often felt more as would, say,

a doctor, looking in on some

odd case out along the edges 

his coverage area : listeing to

people talking, watching their

mannerisms and expressions,

and geaning from any of that 

some inklinf og the person's 

own state and condition. It was

often completely fascinating and

yet, at some other level, I was

still sweating new York City 

and the rest of that out of myself,

through my own volition, until

what was leaving me befan to

seem more valuaed and useful

to me than the things I was taking

in. Fried chicken dinners? Big

meals, the big meal of the day,

on a farmer's schedule, called

'Dinner,' at one pm, for perhaps

a break of an hour aan a half in

the middle of the afternoon, so 

that by maybe 4 you'd be ready

for it all to begin again  -  the cows

slogging their muddy ways back

to the barn, lining themselves up,

gathering again, for their 5:30

milking; except this time instead

of a.m. it was p.m. - A rugged,

strapped way of life, 7 days a week

and 365 days a year. Cows don't

take a care-for-me vacation. The

farmers always were complaining.

I used to think, as grumbly as they

often were, they stayed moderately

nice to each other so that, once or

twice a year maybe they could ask

that neighbor guy to 'tend the herd

while we run of for a few days.'

Everyone reciprocated each other

like that; older boys, teen sons, and

neighboring farmers and wives too.

In between all that, you realize, you

still have to, as a farmer, clean the

chain drops (where the cow shit

drops into at their rears as they're 

in their milk stalls; spread the

collected manure out onto the 

fields as your fertilizer  -  the

shit-cart got towed by a tractor,

and it was called a 'honey-wagon,'

for that smell I mentioned before.

Fences had to be fixed, checked,

or replaced, dead timber cut away,

silage distributed and the silo(s)

taken care off, corn and hay crops,

alfalfa, oats, Timothy grasses, and

corn seeds, planted, grown and then

harvested and collected and the

late Summer of haying season, 

with its mowing, baling, collecting

and filling the hay-lofts atop the 

barn....I'll stop now, there were a

hundred other things too, daily, 

weekly, seasonal; plus the salesmen

coming around trying to sell you 

a better grade of Pioneer Seed Corn,

or pesticides, or machinery parts,

etc. The whole thing was carzy-nuts.

Out on  a tractor sometimes most 

of a hot day, bakng in the sun, 

sweating, with the hay and grass 

grits sticking to you, your ass 

chafing, cheeks sore, back hurting, 

hands and arms sunburned, fingers

sore from the hay wires and string

bales, barbed wire tips on the fences.

tripping in gopher holes, gassing

up (again!) the damned tractor, 

one or the other (nobody had just 

one, much). Mechaical work, 

plumbing, roofs, sheds, barns,

garages, corn-cribs, houses and

the porches on the houses  - 

everything always needed tending 

and there wasn't much of that 

'call the plumber' stuff. Each

farmer had a workshop shed, 

or a work section of the barn 

with tools and pumps and

 everything else for all that 

maintenance stuff; they knew 

how to weld, braize,  cut, bend, 

twist, and fabricate most of

whatever was needed. There 

were usually piles of crap 

everywhere, some things back

from 30 years ago  -  stuff would

just sit a decade, until it was all 

of a sudden needed again for 

something, and POOF! there 

it was, at the ready. It was

amazing. It was just about this

time too, seemed every damned

fool around started wanting, and

getting, a snowmobile  -  Arctic 

Cat, or Polaris, or Ski-Doo. At

first it was clever, and OK. Then

they just got to stupid and too

many. Some guys started hopping

them up  -  hot-rod snowmobiles,

quite the thing. People usually

found ways in the Winter to

fit these things in, and buy them

too. One time, this Vietnam Vet

guy who lived out towards my

neck of the lands  -  he was also

a local cop down in Troy, mostly

abusing Route 6 people travelling

east west, petty pullovers and

pretty girls, as he'd have it  -  he

came over to me one day to tell

me of his plans to erect and open

a snowmobile shop -  sales and

repairs and all that -  on a plot

'just over yonder' from where he 

lived. he had plans for a cinder

block showroom, big paved lot, 

signs and lights and all. I freaked.

I said, as a last resort, and in fear

for my life, that I thought it was

a terrible idea, nobody would ever

come out here, there'd be no floor 

traffic and no customers, etc. (I was

stream-talking real fast). He remained

unconvinced, and nothing happened.

Although, all these years later, going

back, I see he or someone apparently

with that idea opened a snowmobile

franchise, right down there on Rt. 6

where it belongs as part of a long

standing tractor and farm machinery

shop that had always been there.

Which is a good thing, even now.

I never wanted it, for sure, in my

own sight-line nor area. They have

since, in 30 years or more, I see, 

punched in a small road instead, 

and  at that spot there are now

two medium-sized houses. See,

these people out there, they usually

have 4 or 5 kids, and as they grow 

up and out, people need places to 

live. Some go away. Others stay.