12,027. RUDIMENTS, pt. 786

RUDIMENTS, pt. 786

(without any paddle too)

Mostly, I rambled  -  even

when I stayed in place my

mind was roving. Looking

out for the past  -  in ways

that were totally difficult to

explain to others  -  I also

kept an eye for the future,

or what the 'Future' at any

one time, seemed to be.

There are any number of

meanings to what the 'past'

is  -  you can find car-guys

along every Main Street

around, on their 'Cruise

Night' outings. To them

the past is old cars, or

trucks, or motorcycles.

To others it's old music,

or retro fashions and

costumes. To the pen

and paper person, maybe

it's just 'History'  -  the

wars and battles and

strategies that went into

the great surges of military

and social progress they'll

swear to. To me, the Past

was always rather just a

sound in my head  -  a pure,

ringing tone; something to

do with rightness (different

than righteousness)  -  much of

the time it was disharmonious

with the world around me, but

every so often something would

settle that tone down, harmonize

with it perfectly, smooth out

the ragged rhythm I heard.

It could be one old house, a

huge old tree, the stream where

the mill used to be. They all

came alive, each, to my eyes, as

I could see the original enclave

of space and time that had once

been around them. I could feel

that figure in the old doorway and,

amazingly, hear the old language

it spoke  -  the stranger utterances

and gutturals and word uses. It

was all pretty visual for me. What

I hated the most, always, were

the people who'd ruin all that

for everyone else. Politics.

Builders. Developers.

-

When I got into the guts of

Pennsylvania, that settled it for

me. The old farmhouse in Columbia

Crossroads was a songstress; tunes

and words came rolling out of it

from each angle. The first, strange

night I was there, alone, in my

'new' space was magical. Do you,

maybe, remember, as a kid, how

the dark and night and no lights

and being alone in a room scared

you a bit  -  noises, creaks and

scratches making you think things

were coming out of the walls to

get you, engulf you in some

weird vapor or cloth, to spirit

you away to some dark neverland

of the young mind. An outrageous

form of nightmare where the

things you touched came alive, to

bark or screech at you? It was

the middle of January, already

freezing cold, 10 degree levels,

and the paltry heat had just

betrayed itself to me, there,

new, by myself, just hoping for

better. It's the feeling of not

being alone, when you know

you are. I stayed there most of

the night, in my hat and coat,

and did finally fall asleep in some

old chair. I realized immediately

I didn't know the house at all.

I was undergoing again all and

any of those childhood dark-night

trials that I thought I'd never,

ever, see again.  I never needed

Halloween after that stuff hit.

There'd be a learning curve, and

I'd need to be ready. I touched

a lamp. I didn't know that lamp

at all. Nor the chair, nor the wall

and the frosted window before

me. Everything out before me

was totally strange, and 10 hours

previous I'd been someplace else

entire. From what I saw, this

could have been 1924.

-

The next morning, the neighboring

farmer guy  -  whom I'd get to know

real well in the next 6 months, rode

by on his tractor. Everything was

frozen hard, and my dirt road,

leading to the house, which by

March would become a torrent

of water and mud for me, day

after day, with all the snow-melt

and run-off, still looked long

and pleasant and serene. 12 acres

of serene, by the papers I had

on the shelf in the other room.

The tractor stopped, and I saw

he was walking over  -  we shared

fields, properties abutting at this

one corner. He knocked, and I

met him  -  I had no clue how to

appear, greet, or respond. He

could have been from Mars, at

the moment. He smiled, wanted

to see if I was all OK, made it

through OK -   he said he'd seen

the lights on and that was a novelty.

He was used to this old place being

dark. He said I could stop by later,

for dinner, if I cared, or if I got

hungry. Fact was, I had nothing,

and I wasn't even sure what worked.

Stove, maybe. What they claimed

was a refrigerator? Another story.

We had to change all that stuff

pretty quickly once the whole

family got here and started rolling,

or trying to. He said his name was

Warren; I'd briefly met him before,

when my father said hi and greeted

him. (That was back in late October,

when I bought all this. Everything

then was golden orange, russet,

yellow. Crazy Autumn stuff like

I'd never seen).  My father, who'd

come with me then, overseeing

what properties I looked at and

liked. He vetoed one or two as

two horrendous to live in, even

for the Devil. He greeted everyone

as if he knew them for years, and

he shortened everyone's name too,

immediately, Robert became Bobby,

Joseph or Joe became Joey. He

never cared, and no one ever

objected. I always pictured my

father going up to Josef Stalin,

about the pograms and peasant

deaths and all, and saying, 'Now

Joey, cut that shit out!' He was

guileless. Is that the word? He

was without guile! The first

two people we'd met up there,

when I was shopping places

to live, were Warren (this fellow)

and Willard Brown, the guy I

did eventually buy this leftover

house and pieces of property,

from. The two 'W's' I called

them. I never had W's before,

except maybe in grade school,

for some Walter Sobiesky kid,

I think it was, and maybe Walter

O'Malley, who owned a baseball

team and I'd heard of, one or

the other team I forget. And my

Uncle Walter, of course, from

Germany  -  who sort of defined

that name for me forever.

Willard, and Warren, those

kinds of names were all new

to me -  old, archaic; they too

seemed deep-rooted in time.

-

So, I told him things were OK,

I'd been cold, the house didn't really

heat very well (I've written about

all this in previous chapters; the

place here was a bit of a wreck,

yet I won't say 'mistake'). I then

said thank you for the food offer,

and since no one else would be

up here for 10 days or so, I might

stop by, starting with tonight! I

did go a few times, but I was in

no way wishing to make a habit

of that. He was fine, all things 

were good, and he went about 

his field work, even in the 

crispy-ice freeze. You might 

be wondering what that work 

would be, seeing  as it was the 

17th of January and everything 

was frozen solid, including

land, soil stream and puddle. 

What he did, twice daily  -  

and which actually became 

one of my jobs later on  -  

was spread the aromatic and

warm cow manure over his

adjoining acres down some

along the hill-bottom nearby.

From the wagon and spreader 

he towed  -  which farmers

euphemistically referred to 

as the 'Honey Wagon'  -  came

the spray and broadcast of cow

poop by the acre. They never

stop that stuff if fed right!

-

I had one free day to sort of

get my bearings, (I was due
in Elmira the next day about a
new, promised, job), figure out

the pickle I was in, get my stuff

together, and determine out how 
I was going to live. It wasn't me

so much  -  I could live out of

a box and a cot  -  but I had a

wife and a 6-month old kid

due in, in about 10 days, driven

directly by her father (her mother

being too distraught over losing

the 6-month grandkid's presence

and the daughter taking up with

a tramp like me in the ass-end of

nowhere). Her father, though a

generally jovial fellow, harbored

his own suspicions of me. The

least of them being, to him, as

he put it, that I was 'accident 

prone.' There's a whole comedy

routine here just a'waitin' to 

happen, but I haven't the

energy right now to do it.

-

I wanted things to look at least

half-sensible for when they arrived.

That never really happened, being

a guy and all, I just didn't have that

touch about towels and washcloths

and soaps and all that crap. If

anyone had addressed me as 'Mr.

Haphazard,' hell, I'd have answered.

And none too soon. I just wasn't

about any of that stuff, and there

was no sense anyway in being

fastidious about being on the

Titanic, and it about to go down.

The heck with neatness. Flee for

your life and self! (Except, at

this point, I was without a life-boat,

and without any paddle too).