RUDIMENTS, pt. 757
(when worlds collide)
Square dancing at the round table,
being really hungry at The Eatery.
Juxtapositions like that always
bothered me. It was akin to the
same way as a fashion person
would be bothered by the wrong
scarf or shoes or color match.
Of course, adding to the woes
of that, I found there was no
room or need for that sort of
thinking in the 'country.' People
thought I was odd, and that
pretty much ended that story.
Abstract thinking of that
nature, I have found, is one
of the first things to go when
a person needs to live, by
necessity, downtrodden or
burdened. I'm not sure that's
clear, and I'm not saying only
the rich have the luxury of being
creative, but in certain respects,
when all else is drained from
you and life becomes burdensome,
it is the truth. I was never rich. I
was never destitute - so somewhere
in between was a middle-ground
for a sort of 'thought-nutcase' like
myself. I fit my own scenario well,
but that was about it. If you try
talking to a farmer about 'the
African-influence of tribal art
and figurines on Picasso's Cubist
work,' while milking a cow, you'll
most probably get hit in the head
with a milk-bucket.
-
Yeah, there's surely a distinction.
And a wise person learns to pick
that out right away - no sense
in mixing with a bunch of people
with whom you are totally foreign.
They just look at you funny and
wonder. My Pennsylvania people
were few but I got along with
them. Warren had a 1966 Ford,
the kind with the big, square
lights at the rear - which car
he often put at my disposal.
I was always thankful to him.
(See, fact is, I thought the car
was square-butt ugly and that
the 1967 Ford was a much
improved version of that same
design idea, but I couldn't tell
him that. Same issue as previous).
What he also had, and to which
I had rights and privileges as part
of the working together on his
farm, was a ratty, old 1952
Chevy pick-up, three speed,
Mighty Mouse stuff, which I
really loved. I'd tool around
in that sometimes, delivering
milk cans down to the creamery,
about 6 miles away, or transporting
hay bales or tools or machinery.
Most any excuse would do - it
was such a cool conveyance that
I'd go anywhere. The connection
that I made was that MY reality
existed WITH that '52 Chevy and
not with much else around me.
Yes, it was an odd and almost
clinical misappropriation of
consciousness, but I never cared.
This was New Home for me, and
if the old houses and fields all
around me ran from the 1880's
up, I could certainly, from my
1973 vantage point, easily live
it as if it was 1952, and who
was to care anyway? I was out
of bounds to all of them since
day one - and the new character
I'd been constructing was still
formative and could get away
with alterations. It was funny.
I managed to do all my farm
chores, spend hours on a tractor,
slopping through fields, spreading
manure, cutting corn - all those
automated, tractor-attachments
that had so greatly lessened the
work burden of farmers of old.
If a 1924 farmer had come over
one day and watched me I was
sure he'd saunter by and, scratching
his head, ask, 'Eh, so, when's
vacation over?' It was that
different. When worlds collide.
-
My tricks were legion : I stayed
humble, and I played stupid. Had
too. The less said the better. It
ended up seeming I had a knack
anyhow for getting on the right
side of all these people, fortunately.
It made things a lot easier, in a
way. At Warren's farm, for instance,
we were brought right in, like part
of the family - eating meals, open
entry to anything, including, as
I said, vehicles. They ran an old
fashioned kind of house, she did
anyway (Barbara) - lots of heavy
wooden counters and cutting blocks,
a real old fashioned kitchen set up,
a sort of plank table they all ate at,
almost mini-sized old rooms
everywhere, with rickety, twisting,
stairways here and there tucked
in to reach little dormers and
things where the kids slept.
There were 4 kids, and I think
they each had a room. I never
saw. I think the base of the house
was old and original, and as
things were needed the smaller
portions of erected or added or
bolted on' so to speak. A real
ad hoc feeling to the place, a
home of moment. When the
'moment' needed something,
it got it - new room, dormer,
window, whatever; probably
called 'quaint,' and held up as
an ideal by those history and
legacy types, but for an architect
an apparent nightmare. When
worlds collide (again).
-
As it went, the house was old
and interesting. There was also
an occasional grandfather who
stayed with them, an old, grumpy
guy, from the old days - Barbara's
father. He was often grumbling
about electric and energy use,
lights and TV on too much. But
for my purposes he was just
what the doctor ordered - his
recollections of the old days and
the Depression days in these local
hills were perfect for me and I
often drilled him for info. He
would go on and on - how in
1930's nothing around there had
been paved, it was all dirt roads
and tire track paths. The Gov.
relief came in, trying to pull
people out of the Depression
dangers, provide food and
income - people were losing
farms, livestock was dying, there
were no services for utilities and
all. They rounded up the men who
wanted to work, gave them day-wages,
axes, hatchets, shovels, etc., and
they walked behind and in front
of slow moving trucks, clearing
and opening up the roads and
lanes, and the guys behind, with
tar buckets and switch brooms,
would broadcast the hot tar, and
others would rake it around, over
the dirt, to make primitive yet
hard surfaces over the roads, and
keep dust down too. Guys were
always getting splattered and
burned; but they got paid and he
claimed stuff like that had been a
lifeline for many up there. He was
a tough old coot, full of opinions
and roaring with fury sometimes.
I guess his wife had died; he hated
medicines and 'quack' doctors
and all their expenses, and he
deplored poor old Rev. Wallace
McKnight, the congenial yet
childish local Baptist preacher,
always coming around with his
'child-like stories of lambs and
asses and Jesus.' I don't know
what ever happened to the old
guy, or where he even came from
or was when he wasn't there,
but when he was it was cool
-
I've got lots more to tell on
these counts - rural stuff,
Elmira and all; but that old
guy from Warren and Barbara's
house always set me to thinking
too : He was of another time,
like the truck, like the houses,
like me in my head. But we,
obviously, never broached any
of that matter - I was never
able to get inside his head,
even a little, to see what the
tickings and the mechanism
might have been, having
come up through all those
vivid years, there. I figured
to be real careful, since I
was sure he was stern and
archly traditional about
the ideas and customs
he lived by, and which he
most probably expected or
demanded everyone else
live by too. When worlds
collide (again)......(more
to come on this).
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