RUDIMENTS, pt. 701
(new and other, and real again)
I would have to think, as I do,
that the idea behind all things
new in Avenel - upon my own
arriving there - was 'railroad.'
Summed up in one word. I'd
never had an exposure to that
before. Back in Bayonne, the
very basic memories I carried
were water memories - the tugs,
the bridge, the waterway traffic,
ships and boats rolling in and
through. As a little kid, I watched
all that, understanding little,
and knowing nothing of the
commerce or the economics
involved. Children don't do
that stuff. Instead, I noted the
visceral - the sounds and smells,
water and tide, seaweeds, rocks,
and grasses. The honk of barge
horns and the toots of tugboats.
There was a certain gloom, like
an old, dark movie, as things
moved in shadows and the half
light : a different sort of pervasive
consciousness still sang of war,
perhaps, or the absurdity of, in
any case, survival. Were all these
waterside people just leftovers?
I never got to know.
-
One day it was all simply gone.
I can't remember how; there was
a moving truck, and a crew of
movers, but I can't remember any
car-ride there, on our own, as a
family. Maybe I slept through it.
Maybe it was deep night. I can
sort of remember getting there,
to a new, large and empty space.
With nothing at all there. And
then a daylight and movers. But
that's all too easy to imagine, so
maybe not. I just knew it was
different. For one thing, none of
it was 'shared' any longer. I was
told this was my yard, and it
seemed large enough - though
none of it was finished and the
dirt and ground were still rough
and piled up. The rear area was
all crazy - tree limbs, stumps,
large branches, lumber, concrete
blocks, metal things. It almost
looked treacherous and - of
course - as small as I was it
all seemed twice the size and
unproportioned to anything. If
it was Nature, and was to be
MY Nature, it was messy and
it was quiet. Birds and animals
seemed scarce. I guess everything
had been rousted and scared off.
Oh well. No one mentions things
like that to a kid. I do remember,
or can remember, the trill of
crickets; I guess the night crickets
were in the thousands, months
later, in that deep August, when
they were at work all night, making
their weird midnight sounds.
Yet, I never saw any.
-
I can't say I missed the boats and
the river and barge traffic, but
only because I never 'articulated'
missing it, though I did. This was
all different - it was dirt and rock
and land. Some woods, fields and
farmland; trees. Nothing of a watery
nature dwelt here. It was all solid.
It was the type of land railroad was
laid on - and out behind all that
rubble, accompanying its own
clickety-clack and metal sounds,
were trains! Passenger trains,
mostly, and running all through
the day. Whatever the schedules
were, I didn't know; but I could
see the ridership as it passed :
heads in windows, lit by
yellowish light, people looking
out, or reading, or staring or
sleeping. No tug, no barge, no
beefy stevedore or workman
throwing. I needed to redefine
what Reality was, and immediately.
-
And I did so, as only a child could
do. I was learning on the hoof, young
as I was. Farther out behind my house,
past the property line and right up
to the tracks, there was an oak tree,
maybe 80 years old (guessing). It
was a veteran, like a leading tree
in its own little clump of other oaks.
A track fire or brush fire some time
ago must have blazed past there
because parts of the tree-bark were
singed and burned and re-grown
oddly AND, miracle of all, the
large trunk was half hollowed
out, and blackened inside. BUT
that open trunk fit me. The tree
was still good, and growing (and
is still partially there today, 65 years
later as I write. I use to slip inside
that tree, just to see what it was
like to slip inside a tree. I'd stay
there for long periods of time. As
I looked up, higher above my head
it all became tree again, closed back
up. Loner that I often was, this
was fantastic to me, the tree-time,
and in later years, as I grew, in a
strangely, almost Druidic sense,
this oak tree became religious
for me. My own sacred spot -
I'd have dreams of what I
took as previous lives, existences
in deep forests, primitive, living
in trees. (And later, like the Keebler
Elves!). It was all too much for
me, I was engulfed and imbued
with something other, something
weird and natural. Mine. I'd
somehow forgotten all about
harbor and water and boats.
This was new and other, and
real again.
-
After a few years passed, maybe
I was 7 or 8, whatever Summer
it was, I (with a friend, Jim),
built a platform high up in the
tree. Same tree. We also nailed
boards as climb steps - footholds -
to ladder ourselves up. I'd go up
there (it was considered 'my' tree,
by its position at the end of my
house's property) whenever I
felt to. This was another miracle
spot for me. I'd gaze out, high
up, towards I guess what was
north and east. Down below,
(maybe 50 or 60 feet?), were the
tracks and trains and the stones
that lined it all. I could see far
along, out over the prison fields,
and the prison, and Carteret, with
the incinerator at the turnpike, and
on perfect days, if carefully looked
at, the NYC skyline. If I were to
recreate any of this now, I'm not
so sure what would be there or if
that same scene would rise up.
It was like gazing to Oz - strange,
enchanted, distant, powerful and
quiet. There were days when it
was so crystal clear I'd swear
to identify buildings - but unless
I'd retrieved some super-numerary
vision after the train wreck, that
couldn't be. Hey, you never know!
