11,954. RUDIMENTS, pt. 764

RUDIMENTS, pt. 764

(in the night kitchen...) pt. One

When you gather up the

great highway that propels

us along, it just keeps on

going, no matter. One of

my first, late-at-night trips

out to Columbia Crossroads,

in fact the night I myself

moved up there alone, I

being yet totally unfamiliar

with the area, was constantly

getting disoriented and

surprised. I was alone; it

was like 2 or 3am. As dark

as real black can be, and

I was driving along on roads

I was unsure of. I had a '62 VW.

I was, maybe, doing 65 or 70

and just hoping the car wouldn't

blow-up until I got to where

I was going, or close. What

threw me off, first and foremost,

was when I sped past a roadside

sign, on the side of a long,

up-inclining hill with a twist,

was that the sign read, 'Welcome

to Wyoming County.' It was mid

January, freezing cold, the

car had marginal heat (apt for

old Beetles, nothing much you

could do about without a real

blower system and water/coils),

and that sign threw me! Wyoming

County? What the heck? Where

was I and how far afield had

I gone. The whole idea threw

me into a sot of Twilight Zone

fright, but I soon pulled out of

it. Another sign a little later said

'Road maintained by Wyoming

County, PA, Road Dept.' So,

whew, thought I, I must have

missed something along the

way  -  that whole 'Wyoming'

thing, for Pennsylvania. What

was equally strange, and which

only added to the confusion, was

that there was also a 'Lycoming

County.' These were all things

I'd need getting used to.

-

Whatever these places were,

they've stayed with me now a

long time - I still have these

enormously twisted dreams

of back-roads and short-cuts

to get me there, over some

strange hill, occasionally

lined with what amount to

out-of-place houses, manors,

shacks, estates, all hugging

some weird shoreline up and

down this route. It's all in a

crystal-clear daylight, and

through interesting high woods.

I these dreams I'm on some sort

of a time-schedule to get where,

I'm going, to, or from this place.

Essentially it's all Columbia

Crossroads to Avenel, and back

and forth, somehow. The whole

270 mile trip, still long and

formidable, but made bearable

by some sort of short-cut. It's

all odd, and just makes me wake

up and want to get rolling.

Wyoming or not.

-

Since those days, I've always

figured there to be duplicate

worlds, at least for me, because

I could not possibly have lasted

through all the changing

environments I've put myself

through. There's no other way

around it; these things all

occurred at once, and only

my slicing of the each bit of

the overall reality brought me

these smaller pieces, illusionary

as they may have been, presented

at 'one' at a time pacing. It's the

only explanation my knowing

soul has ever had  -  and it does

explain a lot of things  -  but it

still makes me out as nothing

but a failure. And now, this late

in a fading life (mine) I'm

suddenly at the mercy of this

wicked, Godless, unknowing

world that I have nothing to do

with. That's where the 'failure'

part comes in, because my

entire theory has always been

that I DO have something to

do with everything. So, you see,

I've even shot my own self

in the foot with all that.

-

I had a little puppy with me too,

one I'd picked up at the old

Kindness Kennels in Rahway

just before I left. I named him

Bill, which later became 'Super

Bill' because of the vigorous

ways he had of chasing cars

up and down out dirt road. I'll

probably start tearing up here,

because that's how he died too,

a few years later, out on the main

road. Country dogs just don't

have limits, and don't understand

bounds, and out-of. That nearly

killed me too. I felt I'd let him

down by not being around. All

my farm dogs just got used to

being free. Anyway, the whole,

cold, trip, Bill was in my coat,

cuddled and warm. When we

finally got to the farmhouse,

first light of morning he woke

up and acted like it had been

his home forever.

-

That was the complete opposite

of me  -  seeing the place, in the

cold, from the inside out. That

first night was strange. It was

cold, the darn house hardly

heated at all. That was to be

immediate problem #1. And then,

in the cold, morning, light of day,

looking around, I basically just

said to myself,  'Oh, shit; this

place is a wreck.' By that time

it was mine already, signed,

sealed and legal, and I had little

choice but to make a go of it.

Just as it was. Immediately,

there was a tone of Zen-like

acceptance of everything, as I

internalized my situation and

began  -  instead of griping and

worrying  -  accepting it. The

strife and the struggle of here

second-guessing myself would

cause nothing but more anxiety,

and the actual open-air beauty

of the world around me was able

to have me overcome everything.

I was stunned  -  by the silence,

the isolation, the cold, white and

crystal beauty of the Wintry

landscape. The long, wide vistas

were to me stunning; I'd never

seen (nor had) anything like

this before. All worries aside,

I was able to live in a glory I'd

never known.

-

I checked : The house had its

running water; the toilet flushed;

the chimney wasn't clogged, so

I'd not be asphyxiated; Billy

the dog had found, already, a

few favorite spots; The semblance

of an 'electric' stove worked.

Those red-coiled burners were

nasty looking when fired up,

and (fortunately) I found they

also threw off a bunch of heat,

if needed. Outside, the air

smelled like pine trees and

fresh purity. The quality of

the outdoor sound was amazing.

A massive, long silence, the kind

you experience when watching

a leaf fall from a tree, flipping

and twisting on its quiet way

down. The dirt road had no

traffic at all; nothing. A distant

ways off, the paved road (to

Warren's house), if there was

a car on it, could be heard

by a slight hum of tires on 

roadway. Everyone on it

drove nutso-fast. (Alas, as

Billy would learn far later).

Nutso-fast is the opposite of

not-so-fast. Dammit.

-

You know how daylight makes

everything look different; things

you saw in the darkn'ing glimmer

of dusk, looking alright, in the

bright definition of day are seen

for and with all their flaws  -  the

peeling, the scratches, the cracks.

The place had no real floor to

speak of in the kitchen  -  the 

1940's linoleum and tile was

cracked, curled, torn off, and,

at one section, yes, there was

an actual hole through to the

under the house part. That was

going to be immediate problem

#2. Behind the kitchen, and this

was pretty cool, was like a

whole other part of the house 

but not part of the house. It was

more like a pantry, or Summer

kitchen or something (old farms

had them). At the back of that

was also the door and stairway

for that part of the basement,

which was huge. There were,
in addition, two more levels of
'upstairs'  - nothing special, just
large square rooms, each with one
or two large windows looking out
over spreads of open land and trees.
It all made everything worthwhile.

(next...pt. TWO)..