RUDIMENTS, pt. 698
(possibilities are never endless)
Weatherstripping, insulation,
storm windows, fencing, curbs,
edging, hedges, a cellar entrance,
lawn-mowing, dogwood trees, more
hedges (rear), a huge clothes-pole,
a wooden shed, scrap lumber,
bicycles, a dog house, a black
hairy dog named Rinny (from
Rin-Tin-Tin), a small treehouse,
a swing-set from Dooley's, a
water spigot installed outside
on the back wall, for the long
green hose to reach the large
rear yard with spray water,
and - lastly for now - a
hand-made-by-Dad, (oversized)
picnic table with attached seats,
and redwood stain. Craziest!
-
Those are some of the enumerated
things I can recall from my first
year in Avenel, or at least in that
'new' house. The change of the
complete environment, and my
being 5, made everything new
anyway, but so many things
stand out. The road was still
rubble, and not macadamed
until 1963, maybe, Until then
it was loose pebble type stones
on a bed of tar that had been
sprayed down. The pebbles sort
of stayed in place; until they
didn't. Then they'd all begin a
slow shift over to the gutters on
each side, and eventually there'd
be town workers with a new
layer of tar, and a re-spreading
of new and older pebbles. It was
noisy, as a road surface too,
because each time a car sped
over it (and they did; nothing
cooler than seeing a '54 DeSoto
burning pebbles on a huff run up
to Rt. One) the pebbles would get
cooler than seeing a '54 DeSoto
burning pebbles on a huff run up
to Rt. One) the pebbles would get
all kicked up and spread about as
you'd hear them hitting metal,
and the rest of the underbodies.
A kid's flying football-tackle type
leap onto them, as well, could
really scrape up the bloodied
knees, and tear pants too. That
never stopped anyone - none of
my friends were ballet dancers.
-
Of course, there were the mosquito
spray trucks. They came all Summer
long, little jeeps with spray-cannons
at the rear pushing out a huge, heavy,
oily white cloud of, I guess, some
sort of DDT (back then). It was
pungent and probably deadly or
poisonous, though none of us
died nor became asthmatic from
wadding through it, riding behind
the jeep, slamming into the moist
cloud of white, and deep-breathing
our bicycle breaths with the dense
toxin of mosquito-kill. Rachel
Carson to the rescue! (She wrote
'Silent Spring,' an expose of this
death-to-Nature movement the
municipalities and governments
were underway with). [Years later
it dawned on me that we should,
by rights call them 'Covertments'
and not 'Governments' because
they DON'T govern, just secretly
control, and by covert means, never
tell us a thing, nor the truth]. As
it was, these deep-breathing
exercises ended up as great fun,
with the woods down at the end
of the block - on both sides then -
which led to the junkyards and the
trailer camp. I still have dreams
of that with the most reality ever,
way before it was paved. The
pebble street that I was just
writing about simply stopped
at the last house (Mulligan's
in one side, and Wolchansky's
on the other). After that, and
out to Rt. One, it was just a
muddied up dreckhole, potted
and jagged, with puddles and
deep gouges. The surprise for
cars and drivers was that you
needed to slow down almost
immediately once the pebbly
surface ended, or face then the
the bumpy consequences on the
car's suspension. In my dreams,
cars and drivers was that you
needed to slow down almost
immediately once the pebbly
surface ended, or face then the
the bumpy consequences on the
car's suspension. In my dreams,
everything is perfectly true to
life as it was then; I can place
and recall the large puddle spots,
and the visualization of cars
and people going slowly 'around'
those deeper pits still rings true.
In fact - and odd as any of this
may be - it one of those places
that consistently calls me back.
I want to be there. I want to
see again and sense and feel
every hole and rut, each out
of place rock and stone.
-
Possibilities like that are endless,
well, not really - more likely
endlessly impossible. I'll never
see that place again; ever.
-
It was Springtime, 1954, when
I arrived to live at Avenel,
(I never liked that name, by
the way; something about the
juxtaposed 'V' and 'A' never
set right, and neither did I
like the 'e's or the last, ending,
'l'). And as I think back on it all
now, lots of things from that
time remain in my mind. For
one thing, I can remember the
moving truck and the moving
crew guys, off-loading and
carrying things in. My parents
had ordered in, for them as a
lunch I guess, a large platter
of prepared deli-food, which
was delivered and laid out on
a countertop in the kitchen area.
It was impressive - sandwiches,
pickles, salads, drinks, etc., and
I can remember everything stopping
and everyone sitting around to eat.
What's a little kid know of what
he's seeing? I can remember the
pickles. Impressive? I can also
remember with awe the mounds
and piles of dirt and rubble to the
rear of the houses - they'd not yet
been grated, re-soiled, leveled, or
even cleared and cleaned rightly.
It was borderline, somehow,
between a strange moonscape
(unknown actually, then) and a
bomb-site still wrecked. And
then, even a bigger surprise, in
fact a surprise two-deep, behind
all that were railroad tracks, and
with great, heaving engines that
at first billowed more clouds of
smoke, which we'd chase until
they dispersed, and the particulate
matter that came down too. Until
about 1958 or '9, there were
complaints and wails from parents
and adults - claims that their car
finished were being ruined, pitted,
pockmarked and more, from whatever
was landing on them. It was true;
each passing train laid down a
great broil of smoke and cinder.
And the surprise behind even that
was - across the tracks - an actual,
working farm. The prison farm!
There were tractors, corn crops,
animals, paths, rows of crop walks
and plowing paths, harvesting sites,
and even a rail siding at which feed
and supply cars were uncoupled and
left. One Easter vacation week, I
well remember Jim Yacullo and
myself breaking into a boxcar or
two (snapping the security tags),
and entering cars fill with 50 or
100 pound bags of flour, mash,
oats and rice. We managed, with
our pen-knives and some stealth,
to slit open a hundred or so sacks,
grain bags, and canvas, and just
watch them all pour out onto
the ground and box-car spaces.
Crime of the century, I guess,
but we never got caught.
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